Hallweig stepped into her shadow. “I thought you’d forgotten me. Let’s turn around and leave the glacier alone.” As soon as she had spoken, her face lost all color. “There! O Freya, help us!” She stared over her friend’s shoulder up the snowy slope. “There! Look!”
Thjodhild turned her head. A cloud drifted toward them from the height of the glacier. The sky above remained blue to their right and left, and the day continued to shine in the sunlight. No, this was no cloud. It was a massive, round, dense gray fog. Black threads emanated from inside of it, transforming into reaching arms. “The s-spirit . . .” she stammered, “. . . of Snow Rock! People were not lying.”
The formation approached them silently. Thjodhild thought of fleeing, running away, hiding. Immediately, the fog grew and filled the width of the snow slope. Too late. Although it had not yet reached them, they were already at his mercy. Hallweig trembled, grasping her heart with a groan, her lips turning blue.
“Stay calm!” Thjodhild supported her weight. “Let’s sit down!” In her arms, her friend went slack. Thjodhild struggled to hold her up, sinking slowly into the snow and resting her head on her lap. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“What . . . what?” Hallweig whispered, her eyes closed. She felt for the hand on her cheek and held it tight. “The glacier punishes us.”
“No, don’t be afraid! I’m with you.” Thjodhild looked up. She couldn’t scream. Directly above them, the fog billowed, contracting and expanding like a gray beating heart, the black tentacles oscillating around the two women and sinking down into the snow. Now, the rest of it sank down on them. Thjodhild leaned protectively over Hallweig. The haze enveloped them. Thjodhild felt no weight—only silence, painful silence.
Before Tyrkir had reached the three humpback hills below the bank road, he already heard the beating of iron against iron, the roar of the fighters. He ran faster—his companions couldn’t keep pace as the noise rose from the hollow in the middle of Sharpcliff.
Tyrkir rushed onto a ridge between the hills. His first objective was to locate Erik. His friend was fighting off two enemies’ shields and axes. Like bloodhounds, they jumped before the giant, stabbing him with their spears, and tried to break his cover. One of them was Odd.
At second glance, Tyrkir grasped the extent of the horror. The beaten ones lay scattered all over the place—here and there, a man rolled in his own blood. Our servants are all unfit to fight, or dead, he noted with horror. Four of the opponents were defeated, but the last two were pressing Erik hard. He evaded them again and again, their wild attacks pushing him backward step by step, farther into the middle of the valley.
Tyrkir looked around for his three men. They’d almost reached him. “Hurry up!” He looked down again. “Hold on, Erik. We’re coming!”
Then one of the injured picked himself up—Toke, the farmer’s second son, got back on his feet. A short sword flashed in his fist. He staggered around blindly, then found the fighters. With his blade outstretched, he moved toward the back of the Red.
There was no time left to wait for reinforcements. Tyrkir rushed off. Running, he reached for the ax on his belt. He jerked and pulled, but the weapon would not slip out of the leather loop. Toke had already come within two horse lengths of Erik.
I have to cut him off. That thought alone drove Tyrkir on. He left the ax and pulled out his dagger. Storming up from the side, he covered Erik’s back just as Toke reached out for the strike. Tyrkir managed another warning call for his friend, then saw the ax edge coming toward him. He saw nothing more but felt a hot burning in the left half of his face and then dropped to the ground. Knocked off balance by the force of his own blow, Toke fell over him and died with a deep sigh.
No matter how hard Tyrkir tried, he could not shake off the lifeless body. His mouth filled with blood and he choked. With immense force, he turned his head to the right until the blood drained out of the corner of his lips and he could breathe again.
The surrounding noise grew. The men have come, he thought. The beating, the pounding became more violent. Then he heard a marrow-shattering roar, and a second one rose immediately. Death cries, then silence reigned.
What’s happening? Again, Tyrkir tried to free himself from the corpse. He was too weak and only managed to move his legs helplessly.
“You’re alive!”
Erik’s voice—never before had Tyrkir found its sound so soothing. No, you are alive, he thought. Thank Thor, my Viking is alive! Valhalla had not fallen to the earth. Colors—red, yellow, blue, and green—flashed before him. He felt lifted by them as if on to a rainbow. He felt so light.
“Hey, Know-It-All?”
Almost regretfully, Tyrkir opened his eyes and looked into his friend’s sooty face. He wanted to ask, but only strange sounds came from his throat.
“Stop talking.” Erik grinned, but there was deep concern etched into his face. “The way you look, you won’t get a word out, anyway.”
What about me? Tyrkir groped for his left cheek. Immediately, Erik grabbed his hand. “Don’t! We must take care of you, but you are lucky. The blood is drying, and the bones still seem to be whole. That’s the main thing. A bit is missing from your ear, but nothing too bad. Somehow that flesh on the side will surely heal together again.”
My face! With the realization came a deep pain. Tyrkir groaned.
“I know, little one.” Awkwardly, Erik stroked his forehead. “I know.”
“Lord! There, over there!” One of the servants pointed to the southern saddle between the hilltops. Four horsemen, led by the farmer of Breida Farm, trotted down into the valley.
Erik whispered, “Stay like this. Play dead! I’ll come back for you later.” The giant jumped up with his ax in his fist. After a few steps, he bent down again, yanked the dead Odd up from the ground by his shaggy mane, and dragged him into the middle of the field.
“Thorgest! Your sons have fallen!” He waited. The news caused the troop to stall. “They attacked me and my men. For this, they received their reward.”
“You red bastard!” The father’s pain mingled with the curse. “You entered my yard. You are a thief. Arsonist! You miserable murderer!”
“I was in the right! You stole from me. This is not my fault. You alone are to blame for this bloody day.”
Thorgest raised his spear threateningly. “No one will listen to the word of an outlaw. I will rip your heart out of your chest and give it to my dogs to eat.”
With a jerk, Erik pulled the head of the deceased higher and set the ax edge to the face. “Don’t move, peasant! You’ll be gathering Odd and your Toke in tiny pieces. I have also lost men. Each of us should bury his dead in honor. Wait until I set sail with the ship, then you can fetch your sons and the others!”
Thorgest laughed, coughed, and spat on the ground. “Cowardly bastard, you think you can just get away with this?”
“Be assured, Erik the Red will not rest until he has shoved your insults back into your mouth so that you may choke on them.”
The lord of Breida Farm was silent. After a long pause, he shouted, “So it is war! We will let the weapons rest for today. We’ll each take our fallen and prepare them for the long journey to the realm of the dead. But then we will meet again.”
So it was war. As soon as Erik and Thorgest had agreed to it, the anger was gone. Like their own negotiators, they calmly settled the terms. Each party was given one month to gather enough men. Even before the Thorsnessthing in June, the fight was to be fought here at Sharpcliff.
“Give me proof,” Thorgest demanded at the end. “Show me that you want to keep the peace today!”
Slowly, Erik put his battle-ax back into his belt loop, let go of the dead man’s hair, and spread his unarmed hands. For a while, he stood like that, defenseless, in front of the spears of the people of Breida. “Now you,” he demanded. The farmer pushed the tip of his spear into the ground next to his horse. Even for an inexperienced archer, he offered an easy target. The proof had been provided
from both sides.
Obeying an inner drive, Erik grabbed Odd under his armpits and laid him down next to his brother. With a calm gesture, he closed both of his eyelids. “The sons are waiting for their father. Is that enough for you?”
Wordlessly, Thorgest gave his people a sign. They turned their horses and rode off over the southern saddle toward the shore road.
“Quick now!” Erik ordered the three surviving slaves to first bring the high seat beams, then the dead aboard. He kneeled next to Tyrkir. “Everything will be all right, little one. Everything must be all right!” He picked up his friend and carried him down the path to the beach. “Get a blanket,” he shouted to Katla.
When he reached the ship through the hip-deep water, the maids had already taken off their capes. They accepted the injured man and lay him down gently. Despite the flames in his face, Tyrkir felt their soft arms, looked into their worried eyes, then the colors washed over him again.
The gray surrounding the two women lifted. The fog moved away and broke into four equal parts. The tentacles also went slack, and each fog quarter stretched wide. Like pale cloths, they floated up to the four cardinal points and lost themselves in the distant blue. As if nothing had happened, the snow dazzled, the sun warmed them again.
Thjodhild dried the sweat from her friend’s forehead and cheeks. After some time, Hallweig regained her strength, and her breathing calmed. “I dreamed,” she whispered, “a carriage came out of the fog toward me. Cats were pulling it. Freya sat on the carriage bench and held the reins. I waved to my goddess to take me with her, but she did not stop. The wheels rolled over my heart.”
No luck, Thjodhild suspected. The glacier had decided against them. She told herself it was all a lie. No mountain possessed the power of the gods.
“Forget the dream!” She resolutely helped Hallweig up. “I don’t know what the fog means, but there is one thing I do know—we shouldn’t have come here. Let’s turn back.” She walked ahead, and Hallweig stayed close behind her. “We’ll make it, no matter how long it takes. The children are waiting for us.” They remained silent, and neither dared to look around at Snow Rock.
Down in the valley, the farms lay scattered all the way to the sea. Smoke stood above the roofs. The picture was so peaceful.
Tyrkir
“There’s been a fight. Over on the north side.” The news reached Warm Spring Slope after four days. A daredevil trader had ridden with heavily loaded baskets on horseback over the not-yet snow-free mountain road and was the first to offer his goods this year in the house of Thorbjörn Vifilsson. “Blood was shed.”
Thjodhild paid no attention to the seal teeth and whalebone, coveted by every household. “Where? Who fought?”
Hallweig also took little interest in the treasures spread out on the table. “Do you know more?”
“Not much.” The merchant shrugged. “I came from Thorsness, and before I went up into the mountains, I heard about the news. Must have been farther east at the fjord. Near Sharpcliff.”
“Think!” Thjodhild barked at him.
“Some stranger . . . Yes, now I remember. He attacked Breida Farm. That was it. But why are you so interested?”
Without a word, Thjodhild stood and hurried to her sleeping chamber.
Hallweig watched her go. “Were there any dead?”
“Name me a fight in which there is not at least one head cut off.” The merchant grinned. “I’ve often wondered if I should add human bones to my offerings.”
“Go!” But Hallweig gathered herself. “Wait! Do you know anything more?” She chose a large piece of bone—many needles and combs had been lost or broken over the long winter, and new ones had to be carved.
In the evening, both women badgered the gode—he had to send servants to the north side. They needed certainty, no matter what was discovered. The truth would be easier to bear than to have to wait, to hope, and then be disappointed.
They did not have to persuade Thorbjörn—he was deeply concerned and acted quickly. By morning, he had two of his men mounted, had given each a spare horse, and had ordered them to ride over the pass to Breidafjord without stopping. “Ask around. Listen. But be clever. I don’t want anyone to be suspicious or to know who hired you.”
As soon as the servants left, Hallweig confronted her husband. “Why the caution? Don’t you stand by Erik?”
“Silence. This is a man’s business.” With that, the judge turned to pass the women and go back into the house, but his gaze fell on Thjodhild, who was glaring at him, her lips pressed together. Thorbjörn rubbed his finger over the bridge of his nose. “If the worst has happened up there on the beach, I need time to prepare revenge for Erik’s death without his murderers seeing it coming. It’s precisely because I stand by my friend that I have ordered caution.”
Though the women still remained doubtful, he continued inside.
After a moment, Hallweig nodded. “Thorbjörn never breaks his word.”
“I trust him.” Thjodhild tugged at the knot of her headscarf. “Perhaps I’m unfair, because . . .” She sighed.
“No, we shouldn’t talk as if the worst has already happened.”
At lunch, the little son of a slave stormed into the hall, forgetting every rule. He ran to the lord’s table. Even Thorbjörn’s punishing gaze didn’t seem to bother him. The boy beamed up into the gode’s face, struggling to catch his breath. “There is . . . I have seen it. The ship. On the shore . . .”
The judge grabbed the boy’s shirt and shook him. “If you don’t talk sense right now, little fellow, I’ll cut out your tongue!”
That alone was enough to widen the boy’s eyes and shut his mouth.
“Now, from the beginning!” Thorbjörn put the boy down. “What did you see?”
No longer beaming, the boy stepped out of reach of his master and, close to crying, took a deep breath. “I just wanted to say the ship’s arrived. Lord Erik’s. Down at the shore. I recognized it by its sail. It’s all red. I was playing by the rocks, and I ran as soon as I saw it.”
Thjodhild’s hands crushed the flatbread she was holding, and the pieces flew across the table. Let it be true, she pleaded silently. I can’t stand tricks, not anymore. What a day this is. Ice and heat are poured over me almost at the same time.
Thorbjörn rose. “You’re a good boy. Come on, we’ll go see together.” As soon as he stretched out his hand, the little boy screamed and fled from the hall.
Thjodhild tried to pick up the scattered pieces of bread, but they kept slipping through her fingers. Hallweig saw her distress. “I won’t just sit here waiting. Let’s go see for ourselves.”
The ship’s crew had already made their way up the winding path from the shore through the plain and was in the last ascent to Warm Spring Slope. Thorbjörn and some of his men had run toward the small group.
Erik was glowing. “Your husband is alive,” Hallweig said. “Praised be Freya, nothing has happened to him. But most of your slaves are missing.”
Thjodhild nodded. Though relieved, a new wave of fear washed over her. Where is Tyrkir? I’m afraid for both men, even if I’m not allowed to admit it.
Her gaze was fixed on the wounded man being carried by the group—a small, slender figure. Tyrkir? Yes, it was him, he was alive, too. At least he was still alive. But his entire head, except his forehead and eyes, was wrapped in cloths. He was supported by men on either side. Because he had little strength to walk himself, they led and carried him up the steep path. Thjodhild’s heart urged her to run to his side immediately. Her mind commanded her to stay. You can’t betray yourself! Show sympathy but not concern!
Shortly before the group reached the courtyard by way of the house meadow, Hallweig grabbed her friend’s hand. “The poor man with the bandages must be your steward. He looks in rough shape.”
“Since Tyrkir is still on his feet, the injury can’t be life-threatening.” Thjodhild heard the words passing her lips and was amazed at the objectivity of her tone. “He is not stro
ng, but he is tough. I know him.”
The women did not take a step toward the arrivals. Erik embraced his wife with a longing look. Still, as was customary, he first stepped before the lady of the house, greeting her clumsily. “I return from the Breidafjord with only a few. Fortune did not follow us. Please grant us hospitality again under your roof, even if it brings more work. Because my friend . . . well, you can see, he’s wounded.”
“Welcome, Erik.” Hallweig smiled. “Get some rest. And don’t worry about your steward. He will not want for care.” She ordered the helpers to take Tyrkir to the sleeping chamber and hurried ahead.
Erik held his wife tightly in his arms. Thjodhild hid her face in his broad chest. “Your son is well,” she said. “Yesterday, he laughed, and when he sees you, he’ll surely laugh again.”
“We won’t build a house for Leif on our island.” He stroked her hair. “The ground there isn’t good enough for us.”
“Oh, Erik . . . Right now, I’m just glad you’re back.” She gently freed herself from his embrace. “What about Tyrkir?”
“It’s nothing serious, but his face got a slap. He saved my life.”
“I have to look after him.” Thjodhild kept her composure until she reached the door, but alone in the hall, she hurried to the sleeping chamber just as Hallweig carefully removed the dirty cloth wrappings from Tyrkir’s face.
He was crouched down on the bed. Now he saw the slender figure, and his gaze came alive. In the darkness of his eyes, joy and fear flickered in equal measure.
“Can I help?” Thjodhild asked.
Hallweig nodded. Tyrkir, on the other hand, shook his head weakly.
What are you afraid of? Thjodhild asked herself as she cut the bandage on his temples with scissors. No matter how battered you are, it won’t scare me. But as the last piece of cloth and the healing leaves were removed, her breath stopped for a moment. Then she was flooded with loving care and compassion. The left half of his face was massively swollen. A deep, blackish, crusted wound festering at the edges had split his face from the ear to the corner of his mouth. The upper part of the ear was missing, and the inflamed flesh had grown over the auditory canal.
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