It may not have been the making of peace, but it was at least a truce, and it was as close to an understanding as the two rivals would come under the circumstances.
Not long after, the longships were off. The two red-and-gold snekkjas followed the two larger drekars of Einarr’s fleet, rowed out to sea from Fara’s harbour by the powerful men within. The winds were with them, and once they reached the open water they were able to sail most of the way to the Norwegian mainland.
Less than two days later, Einarr’s fleet was within sight of Hvaleyrr’s shores.
“It is quiet,” Freyr noted to the men in his drekar. Unnecessarily, for each man was as worried as the one next to him by the eerie calm which they encountered.
From his post at the head of the last snekkja, Garrett watched Einarr’s drekar longship dock. The Viking leader’s golden hair, braided on both sides and tied with a leather thong at the nape, glinted in the afternoon sun as he stepped onto the wooden planks and waved the rest of the ships into shore. The second drekar commanded by Freyr docked beside Einarr. The two snekkja longships, being lighter and more versatile, slid up onto the rocky beach adjacent the docks.
Einarr had been right: his men did not require Garrett’s command. With an expertise that could only come from being raised on the seas, they manoeuvred the longship easily between the first beached snekkja and a jutting section of rock, a space which was only marginally larger than the ship’s width.
The Gallach warriors worked alongside their Norse counterparts, helping them to drag the vessel further onto shore so that it would not slip back out to sea. No one said a word. They knew all too well what the Norse were feeling: that unbearable fear of finding that the worst had come to pass, tainted with the even more unbearable sliver of hope that it had not.
They wore peculiar expressions, the Fara men. Not quite of sympathy; they could not forget, after all, that most of these Vikings were the same ones who had raided their island and murdered their people. But neither did they take satisfaction in what might be considered divine justice ... though they would have been well within their rights to do so.
In truth, none of the Gallachs knew how to feel just then.
The carnage that had been delivered upon Hvaleyrr was evidenced by the dead who littered the town. The bodies which Einarr’s men first encountered were of those men who had met their attackers to repel them upon landing. Though many of their faces were recognized, their loss was, to some degree, bearable to their Viking kin and friends. These men had fought to protect their own; theirs was an honourable death.
The mood swiftly changed when Einarr’s forces began making their way farther inland through the streets of the town.
The first anguished cry to shatter the silence came from a younger Viking from Garrett’s ship. He stopped abruptly when he spied a small, still figure in a blue woollen tunic, lying in the middle of a narrow road. A wail of despair curled from the man’s chest, and he rushed to the little girl’s side. Sinking to his knees, he gathered his daughter into his arms and howled at the sky.
None offered him comfort. What comfort could they possibly hope to give?
More howls and cries erupted as more of the dead were found to be helpless citizens, among them women and children.
The Gallach warriors glanced uneasily at one another, shaken by what they saw. By God, the children had been murdered, too?
“Check the houses,” Einarr bellowed, his own panic poorly disguised. “Every last structure. If any of the dyrjar are still here, we’ll find them and kill them.”
Torsten followed closely on Einarr’s heels, the brothers frantically checking the dead for three faces in particular: Ingrid; Siri; their young nephew.
Ignoring Einarr’s order, Freyr charged through the streets, making straight for his own two-room home. Reaching it, he burst through the door, which had been torn from its frame and lay askew across the entrance.
“Ergrid,” he roared into the silence. “Children, Ergrid, are you here?”
Passing through the first empty room which the family used, he peered into the second, rear room where the animals were kept. They had been slaughtered. Freyr hardly reacted to the unfortunate beasts’ demise. Tearing back out he began calling into the air.
“Ergrid, where are you vif?”
“Freyr,” shrieked a voice from the distance.
Panting like an excited pup, Freyr scampered after the voice. Though he passed more bodies as he went, he did not stop to look at them; oblivious was he to anything but his target. Einarr and Torsten followed, with Garrett and the others at their heels.
Reaching a plateau in the middle of the town where it merged with the surrounding forest, they came upon the first survivors. The wretched group was led by Freyr’s wife, Ergrid, whose eight children followed close on her skirts.
“By the mercy of Tree, you are alive,” Freyr exalted. He nearly knocked his wife to the ground when he bound for her, enveloping her in one arm and encircling as many of his children as he could with his other.
Behind Ergrid streamed a handful of townspeople from the trees. The looks on their faces ranged from bewilderment to devastation. Upon seeing them, several of the Viking men rushed to their loved ones, overjoyed that they were safe. Several more peered anxiously at the faces, growing distraught when they did not find who they were looking for.
“Ergrid, do you know where my mother is? And Siri—are they with you?” Einarr demanded.
Ergrid shook her head, her wide eyes brimming with tears. “No, Einarr, they are not with us. I know nothing of Ingrid. And Siri ... ”
“You can’t mean—” Torsten uttered when she paused for the strength to tell what she knew.
“I am sorry, Torsten,” she responded, openly crying now. “She was trying to fetch Alfie from the castle when last I saw her. I know nothing more than that.”
“Einarr,” interrupted one of his men, trotting towards the gathering in the plateau. “We’ve found something.”
Proceeding at a run, Einarr, Torsten and some of the others followed the man back into the town to a laneway outside what had been the tavern. There, scattered in front of the entrance, were more bodies.
“Rulfudd,” Torsten muttered. “And his man, Ulfr.”
The men had been killed in battle. Their weapons were still clutched in their hands and their wounds marred the front of their bodies, taken while facing their adversaries rather than running from them.
The one in the middle, the one whom Torsten had identified as Rulfudd, had received the worst of it. His body had been sliced and stabbed far more than was necessary to kill him. Whether these wounds had actually caused his death or not was unclear, for his head had also been hacked from his neck, and lay a short distance away.
“Who is he?” Garrett inquired, staring down at the headless body at Einarr’s feet.
“Rulfudd Martinsson,” Torsten answered. “Our sister’s husband. He has been ruling Hvaleyrr in Einarr’s stead since our father died.”
Einarr did not remove his eyes from the dead man. He stared down at the bloody stump of Rulfudd Martinsson’s neck, his face granite, his eyes shards of ice.
“This is a message,” he declared. “Hvaleyrr was not raided for riches, nor strategy. Whoever did this was making a statement.”
“Hadn’t we better check the castle before we declare this a statement?” one of the Norse said warily.
Both Einarr and Torsten’s eyes snapped to one another’s.
“Mother,” Einarr uttered.
“Siri,” Torsten whispered.
They took off together, hurtling towards the castle as fast as they could go. Garrett and a few of the Norse followed, and when they passed a handful of his own men, Garrett ordered them along.
“Siri,” Einarr shouted as he tore through the empty town. “Mother, where are you?”
Rounding the last of the structures, they came into view of the main gate of the castle—and got their first glimpse of one of the atta
ckers.
By the size of him it was obvious that he was no warrior; he was hardly a grown man. His axe was raised, prepared to defend himself, but he handled the weapon awkwardly. And though he tried to maintain a ferocious scowl, his arms began to quake at the sight of the enraged Viking that closed in on him.
“I would move if I were you, boy,” Torsten warned before his brother had reached him. “You’ll not win a fight with Einarr Alfradsson.”
“Do me the favour,” the boy replied, finding a hint of a sneer despite his trembling. “I long for the warrior’s death that will take me to Valhalla. But before I go, perhaps the mighty Einarr Alfradsson wants to hear the message I’ve been left here to deliv—”
The boy’s words were cut short when, with an earth-shattering roar, Einarr grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and threw him backwards through the air. The axe was knocked from the boy’s hands as he landed, and before he could pick it up again, Einarr’s knee was jammed into his tender, young throat, and the blade of his sword pressed to the bone between the boy’s eyes.
“If death is what you want, then you shall have it,” Einarr snarled.
“Einarr, for the love of Thor, let him speak his message,” Torsten shouted.
“He has no message, you heimskr,” Einarr spat back. “Why would they leave one of their own to be slaughtered just to deliver a message?” His barrel chest heaved as he spoke, barely containing the rage which roiled within.
“I speak the truth,” the boy insisted defiantly. “I have proven myself a loyal servant to Olaf Gunnarsson and he is granting me a glorious death in return.”
Torsten shook his head. “You are a fool, boy. The beast has done nothing but left you for dead.”
The boy glared at Torsten from the corners of his eyes, being unable to turn his head and look directly at him because of Einarr’s blade pressed between them. Doubt flickered across his brow as he considered Torsten’s claim. But as soon as it had come, it was gone.
“You are wrong,” he sneered. Then shouting to all the men present he said, “You are all wrong, and your time has come. Harald Fairhair, king of all Norway, will rid himself of the plague which you bring upon his lands. All of you, the pirates that hide in the southern islands and attack his realm. He will tolerate your treason no longer.”
His message delivered and prepared for his death, the boy spat in Einarr’s face. Howling, Einarr lifted his sword, ready to drive it through the boy’s skull.
“Einarr, no,” Torsten cried.
Einarr paused, turned his head, and glared at his brother. The desire to kill raged in his eyes, the need to avenge his people overwhelming. Torsten pleaded silently with Einarr, begging him not to kill unnecessarily. They both knew this boy had not been the one to murder, he could barely hold an axe, for pity’s sake.
Indecision warred within the fearsome Viking leader. His own men watched on, incredulous. Why did he not just kill the wretch and be done with it? Einarr turned back to the boy, raised his sword higher, and ...
Nothing.
The men’s confusion turned to shock as their leader lowered his weapon, and instead of cleaving the boy’s skull in two, punched him instead. A mighty punch, to be sure, one that broke the boy’s nose and sent a spray of blood flying through the air. But the boy had been allowed to live.
Torsten offered a prayer of thanks to the gods.
There was no time to dwell on Einarr’s surprising turn of character. Leaving the Fara men to guard the lone messenger outside, the Norsemen, with Einarr leading the charge, streamed through the open gate into the quiet grounds beyond.
They did not need to search long; the great hall contained all the evidence of Olaf Gunnarsson’s message that they needed. Bodies were strewn about, saturated in their own blood. Prominent citizens of Hvaleyrr, servants of the castle. Their rank made no difference now. They lay mingled together, an equality that only the likes of death could bring.
And among the dead were the remaining kin of the great Alfrad Greybeard. Ingrid lay on her back, her eyes open and staring. Her throat had been slit.
It had been a swift death at least.
A short distance away from her mother lay Siri. She had not been as lucky as Ingrid. She’d been beaten severely and stabbed many times. By the state of her hands—bloodied, scratched, the fingernails ripped to shreds—it was clear that she’d fought viciously to the last.
Of course she had, Torsten thought, a suffocating pressure constricting his chest. She was protecting her son; she would fight to the death to protect her son.
Had fought to the death.
It had been for naught in the end. The boy lay entwined in his mother’s arms, as silent and still as she.
* * *
Einarr was not the same man after that. In a daze, he staggered away from the castle, his eyes staring at something invisible to the rest of the men. When Torsten went after him, Garrett stopped him.
“Leave him be,” he said. “He’ll want to be alone.”
“Since when do you know my brother so well?” Torsten bit back.
Garrett shrugged. “In some things, I think he and I are more alike than I’d care to admit.”
Torsten glowered at him, chewing on whether or not to tell him to mind his own affair. In the end he said nothing. The man was right, after all. Something had broken in Einarr, and he needed time to put whatever it was back together.
It worried Torsten, though. Until now, Einarr had been impervious to breaking; his soul had been as cold and hard as the hilt of his sword. How long would it take for him to recover from this?
Conceding, he instead busied the men with collecting the dead and building a funeral pyre as was their custom. Not one among them had escaped a loss of some kind. Some of them could not bear to part with their loved ones, and had to be reminded that they could not take their place among the gods if their bodies were not turned to ash and released to the sky.
It was nearing sunset when the pyres were lit and the bodies burned. Still Einarr stayed away, even as Siri, Ingrid and Alfie were turned to ash. As the Vikings bid farewell to their dead, it was Garrett who sought their leader out.
He found him near the rear of the castle just as the sun slipped below the horizon. A dusky hue had settled over the silent town, bathing the land in shadow. Einarr sat on the edge of a small vegetable garden, perched on a felled log that had been worn smooth from years of use as a seat. His head was bent, and his forearms rested upon his knees.
Garrett would not have thought it possible before now, but the man looked smaller. Diminished in his grief. He said nothing as he approached, just took a seat on the stump as far from Einarr as he could. Einarr was the first to speak.
“Well then, sveinn,” he said hoarsely, “you have your retribution. An eye for an eye, as they say.”
Garrett breathed deeply, surveying the stalks and debris of the vegetables which had recently been harvested from the garden. All that wasted effort, all that wasted hope. Those vegetables would nourish no one now, would see no one through the coming winter.
“I dinna take pleasure in the deaths of innocents, no matter who they are.”
“My mother never had much of ... of—what is it, beliefs? Thoughts?”
“Opinions?”
“Ja, she never had much of an opinion on this war one way or another. She never had much of an opinion on anything; in fact, she simply followed my father’s lead and supported my cause. But Siri, my sister, she never understood it. Oh, she understood that Harald Fairhair was taking land that did not belong to him, but she did not understand what I did to oppose him. I do not believe it was that she did not want to know. I think it just never occurred to her to wonder.
“She adored me, you know. Torsten too, of course, but then Torsten had never been a part of the raiding. Not truly, not like me. Here I was bringing death and grief to innocent people, convincing myself that there were no innocents in this war ... and she continued to adore me through it all. Had she known
, had she had some idea of what I was doing ... I do not think she would have respected me the way she did.”
Garrett made no comment. He was not about to sympathize with the Viking who had murdered his clan, but nor did he have the energy to antagonize him any further. He was tired, had not the will to fight anymore.
Releasing a heavy sigh, Einarr continued. “I did not think the war would touch them here. I don’t know why—I should have known. Even if I had not made myself notorious, Hvaleyrr was still a valuable port; twofold was it vulnerable. But I didn’t consider it. I suppose that I thought if my men and I were not here, Hvaleyrr would be left alone. My people would be safe.”
Turning his head towards Garrett, he looked intently into his eyes. “I will not insult you by apologizing for killing your people. But ... but I know now what it is to feel that kind of loss. It is painful.”
Garrett nodded, digested his words before speaking. “And I willna insult ye by pretending that I can forgive ye.”
“I would think less of you if you did.”
They both lapsed into silence. After a time, Garrett stood. Surprising himself and Einarr, he clapped a hand on his shoulder. It was not a gesture of sympathy, nor forgiveness, nor understanding. But it was a gesture, perhaps an acknowledgement of their shared sadness. Of being united in that at least.
Then he left the Viking to his grief.
Eighteen
Only the Gallach men returned to Fara, the Norse choosing instead to remain on Rysa Beag to settle the handful of surviving kin they’d brought with them, and to grieve their loss as a people.
No one asked about the voyage; the faces of the returning islanders told the tale well enough. Like their warriors, the clansmen and women could not find satisfaction in the vindication of their loved ones.
Not even Cinead took pleasure in the slaughter of Hvaleyrr. When the party of voyagers returned, he slipped silently away to be by himself. Norah considered following him, but decided against it. The cliff which overlooked the harbour was where Cinead felt his father’s presence the strongest. He would find the comfort he needed there.
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