There was a flash of motion at the boats. A man scrambled out from under one of the upturned vessels and sprinted away.
“Shoot him!” shouted Helge.
A swarm of arrows buzzed after the fleeing savage, and he fell, face forward, and lay still. Why, Nils thought, why would he have the man killed?
There was more activity at the boats. Men came swarming out, perhaps two or three from under each boat, where they had been hiding, and a short but decisive skirmish ensued. The savages were cut down quickly, by arrows, then by swords and axes, before they had time to ready their own bows. It appeared to Nils that they had been completely unprepared for an instant attack at first contact, unready to do battle. Helge Landsverk was in the thick of the fight, savagely wielding a battle-ax.
One survivor, who had crept out under the far side of a boat, now jumped and fled. There was a shout, and men fitted arrows to bowstrings as the Skraeling ran, dodging and zigzaging across the meadow.
“Let him go!” laughed Landsverk. “He can tell the others what sort of men the Norsemen are.”
The landing party picked up some of the stone weapons of the Skraelings, and a bow or two as curiosities. Helge ordered one of the boats carried aboard while he methodically destroyed the others with his battle-ax. He came back up the plank, his face shining with excitement and his eyes glittering.
“A fine engagement,” he chortled. “Seven enemy dead, a boat that we can use, two more destroyed, and only a few scratches to us,”
“Helge, is this wise?” Nils blurted.
“What? Of course. We have established our reputation as conquerors.”
Nils’s heart sank. A phrase from a generation ago, used as a prayer in the north of Britain, flashed through his memory.
“Lord, save us from the fury of the Northmen.”
It was retold as a matter of historical interest now, a memory of a savage time. But, somehow, for Helge Landsverk, it had become a thing of the present. He saw himself as a leader of raiding and pillaging. This was no exploring expedition, setting up contacts for trade, Nils now realized. Landsverk was leading a raiding party.
But for what purpose? The old Norse raids along the coast and the isles netted plunder. Property, gold, foodstuffs. What could the plunder of these savage Skraelings yield? There was only one conclusion. It was the killing itself that appealed to Helge Landsverk.
Nils watched his friend as they drew in the plank and cast off. Helge paced up and down the Norsemaiden like a caged animal, his excitement not satisfied. What would he do next, Nils wondered. Was he really going mad?
He looked around for Odin. The Skraeling was standing at the rail, numbly staring at the, carnage. Nils went to stand beside him. Contrary to his usual habit, Odin spoke first.
“This is very bad,” he said quietly.
“Are these your people?”
The Skraeling looked up in surprise.
“No.”
He seemed puzzled for a moment, and then a light seemed to dawn in the dark eye.
“Oh. No, not bad for them, Thorsson. Bad for us,”
The council was short and decisive at the village. The survivor related how his companions had been hacked to pieces, and the elders looked from one to the other around the circle.
“We still do not understand their purpose,” one said.
“True, but they are vicious and cruel,” another pointed out. “Blackbird saw one cut off the hand of his own warrior.”
“The hand?” inquired the scout, who had been out of touch with the village.
“Yes, Blackbird saw them bury it.”
There was much shaking of heads.
“It makes no difference what they want, now,” Crow Wing observed. “They are too dangerous to ignore.”
There were nods of agreement.
“Then we are all agreed?” asked the chief elder.
There was no dissenting vote, only more nods of approval.
“So be it,” announced the elder, knocking the dottle from his pipe. “They must be killed.”
10
They traveled some distance upstream after the skirmish, and then stopped for the night. Helge spotted a good landing site and wished to allow time to relax after the fray.
There was much amusement as the sailors attempted to learn the use of the captured boat. A thrust of the paddle had a tendency to result in a spinning motion of the craft, without any marked progress. Laughing, cavorting, intentionally falling into the water in mock helplessness, they were ready to abandon the boat and destroy it like the others.
“Odin!” someone shouted. “Here, Skraeling! Show us how to row the damned thing!”
Odin glanced at Nils as if for approval, then took a paddle and stepped into the boat. Without words, he dipped his paddle and took a curved, semicircular stroke, counteracting the spin of the vessel. He continued to stroke, demonstrating his skill, utilizing the momentum of the spin itself to change direction. His performance was so impressive that a half-mocking cheer rose from the onlookers. Nils was startled at the agility of the man.
Now those who had failed before must try again. Like children with a new toy, they cavorted and played until darkness prevented further activity. Some of the Norsemen were becoming quite proficient in handling the new craft.
Odin, as soon as attention turned from him, seemed to withdraw again, and became hardly noticeable outside the circle of firelight on the shore. Finally the camp quieted, with everyone exhausted from the excitement of the day. Nils rolled in his blankets, but lay awake for a long time. He was still quite disturbed over Helge’s actions. This was not the purpose of the expedition, as he understood it, the killing of Skraelings. It made no sense at all. Even if plunder was the purpose, what did Skraelings have to plunder? Some dried meat, a few vegetables, some skin boats that were slow and hard to steer? He would talk to Helge in the morning. Maybe his friend could explain to him why this was not madness.
He turned to thoughts of the sensuous Ingrid. He lay there cold and frustrated until finally he fell asleep, to dream of wide blue eyes and a sad, alluring smile as she pleaded for his help.
He woke with a sudden start. Someone was touching his shoulder and urgently speaking in his ear.
“Wake up, Thorsson,” Odin hissed. ’They come!”
“What?” he mumbled. “Who?…”
He was confused, his mind fogged by sleep. He fought to clear his head.
The world was gray with the dim light of the false dawn. He looked first to the ship. She rocked gently on the water, her mast and proud dragon’s head outlined against the gray of the sky. He turned to look at the sleeping forms of his companions, scattered around the now dead fire. Odin was still trying to get his attention.
“Thorsson,” he pleaded, “wake up. They come!”
Nils sat up.
“Who comes?”
“The Skraelings!”
Odin had hardly spoken the word when there was a yell of alarm from a sentry, a cry that was choked off short. It was growing lighter, and as he scrambled to his feet Nils saw others doing the same, grasping for weapons, fumbling sleep out of their eyes. He heard the twanging of bowstrings and the soft buzz of arrows around him. Not until then did he begin to notice dark forms moving at the edge of the clearing, crouching close to the ground, encircling the camp of the Norsemen. Now the quiet of the dawn burst into sound. The shrieks of the wounded and dying mingled with the war cries of the attackers and the yells of the defenders.
Nils felt something pluck at his right ear, but ignored it as he grasped his sword and turned to face the rush of the Skraelings. Most of those closing in seemed to be wielding battle-axes, of the stone type carried by the men killed at the boats. One rushed at him with weapon upraised. He thrust upward into the man’s soft underbelly, and jerked his sword free to swing at another who came at him from the right.
“Push them back!” Landsverk was shouting. “Attack!”
Nils was too busy defending to think of att
acking. He stepped backward to avoid a swinging ax, and tripped over something to fall flat. The ax whistled through space occupied by his head a moment ago, and someone else struck the warrior down from behind. The dying Skraeling fell almost directly on top of him, and he struggled to free himself, pinioned by the weight of the man’s body. The smell of the other’s sweat was in his nostrils. He kicked free and scrambled to his feet, sword ready.
But now, suddenly, it was quiet. A few of the wounded Skraelings were dragging themselves away. Some lay dead, but the main force of the attackers had withdrawn, as suddenly as they came.
“They will be back,” said Odin solemnly.
Nils wondered where Odin had been during the fight. It would have been quite risky for him. Either side might take him for an enemy, especially the Norsemen. Nils did not question Odin’s bravery, but was a bit concerned as to where his allegiance lay. However, if the man had wished, the opportunity would never have been better to slip away during the battle. And he was still here.
“They will attack again?” Nils asked.
“Yes,” Odin nodded.
Helge seemed inclined to pursue the retreating Skraelings, but soon gave it up. There were dead and wounded to care for.
“We will bury the dead,” Landsverk announced.
Nils approached and drew him aside.
“Helge,” he began cautiously, “Odin says they will attack again. Should we not bring the dead aboard ship and move on?”
Helge whirled on him, furious.
“Thorsson, I will not base my decisions on the advice of a one-eyed savage.”
He turned and stalked away. In a short while, however, Nils was pleased to see that his friend’s judgment had not entirely departed.
“Everyone on board,” Helge shouted, changing orders. “Bring the dead and wounded.”
They were in the midst of this task when a lookout pointed upstream.
“Look!” he called. “Boats!”
Around a shoulder of the shoreline, from out of sight, came two of the Skraelings’ skin boats, each with three or four warriors. As they watched, there appeared a third, then another, and more and more.
“Hurry up,” called Helge. “Prepare to cast off!”
Men stumbled up the plank, helping wounded, carrying dead.
“Bowmen!” Landsverk barked, “Be ready!”
Archers scrambled to the rail to be ready for the boats as they drifted past. Just as the first of the boats drew within range, there was a yell from shore. In a new attack, warriors pressed forward, pausing to loose arrows as they advanced. Then came a shower of arrows from the advancing boats. The last men were straggling up the plank now. Landsverk stood at the rail, watching the Skraelings run across the clearing, oblivious to the arrows buzzing past him.
“Come on, come on,” he kept saying to the stragglers.
“For God’s sake, Helge, get down,” Nils yelled at him.
Just then Helge Landsverk straightened to his full height, spread his arms wide, and fell backward into the belly of the ship. Nils scrambled to look down. His friend stared back at him with a startled look of openmouthed wonder, through eyes that would never see again. An arrow’s feathered end protruded from the base of his throat.
Nils’s first impulse was to go to him, but he quickly realized that it would be useless. It took a moment longer to realize that he, Nils Thorsson, was now in command.
“Cast off!” he yelled. “To the oars!”
Slowly and clumsily, the ship began to swing into the open, as the few remaining oarsmen bent to the task. A handful of bowmen continued to return the hail of arrows that fell on the Norsemaiden, both from the boats and the shore. Nils saw one bowman drop his weapon and turn, grasping at his face, where the shaft of an arrow protruded between his clutching fingers. The man spun half around, and fell backward over the ship’s side into the water.
He looked upstream again. More boats were still coming. Dozens, maybe hundreds, he thought. They must get the ship moving.
“Raise the sail!”
While sailors were trying to release the ties on the furled sail amid a swarm of arrows, a new danger threatened. An arrow thudded into the short foredeck, burning fiercely. Some sort of pitch or other inflammable material had been used to create a firebrand. It blazed and sputtered, melting and spreading on the planks of the deck, flames creeping outward. Nils yanked the shaft loose and threw it overboard, stamping out the blazing pitch. Another firebrand arched through the air and landed on the deck, and another in the hold. An oarsman jumped down to beat out the flames.
There were more thuds on the outside of the Norse-maiden’s hull. Curls of dark smoke indicated that the outside of the ship was in danger of burning, too.
“Get the sail up!” Nils yelled.
The oarsmen were beginning to fall into cadence now, but they needed the greater speed that the sail would afford to escape the swarm of boats that circled them. With agonizing slowness, the great sail rose and filled. The Norsemaiden creaked as she leaped forward in response. The steersman pulled her around toward the open water. Her prow sheared through the clutter of Skraeling boats that snapped at her flanks, and she broke free, still burning at a dozen places.
“Ropes and buckets!” called Nils as the Skraelings fell behind. “Stop the fires!”
They had headed downstream and across the lakelike body of water. This had allowed the most favorable wind for use of the sail. The steersmen kept their course down the middle of the channel, but there seemed to be no further pursuit. The oarsmen, now no longer needed, scrambled to help with the buckets. One by one the fires were drenched. The last one, below the curve of the stern, had burned nearly through the planking before it was discovered. The Norsemaiden would never be seaworthy again without major repair, even if they could get her back over the rapids.
At least, Nils thought, we have the Snowbird. He could bring the survivors home, perhaps less than half those who had sailed from Stadt so confidently, many months before. He must take stock of casualties now, and assume the duties of commander.
One thing was certain. The expedition was over, and they were going home. They had failed.
11
Nils gathered the survivors on the shore beside the scorched and blistered Norsemaiden. There had been time, on the voyage back down the lake, to think about their predicament. He had begun to formulate a plan.
Now he paused to take a final count. Including the three men now left to guard the Snowbird, there were twenty-three, plus the crippled Rafn and the one-eyed Skraeling, who were of no practical use on the ship. There were not enough to man the oars in a thoroughly efficient manner, but they could get by. And of course, it might be possible, once they had managed to reach Straumfjord, to recruit a few crewmen.
He had mourned the loss of his friend Helge, silently, deeply, and personally. Even though in recent days Helge Landsverk had exhibited symptoms of irrational behavior, he was a friend. Nils kept thinking of him, not as he led the raid against the Skraeling boatmen, but as his childhood playmate. In his mind’s eye, he could see the wide boyish grin, the mischief in the eager dark blue eyes. Eager, yes, that was it. Helge was a man who had always been eager for adventure, for new experience. He had been so until the last day of his life, when he had died directing the battle to save his crew and his ship.
What a responsibility, to fill the shoes of such a man. Nils was appalled by the enormity of the task. First, a decent burial for his friend. Then somehow, he must take the survivors home.
One thing was certain. They did not have the manpower left, at only a third of their original strength, to move the Norsemaiden around the rapids again. That thought had led him to the other part of his plan. They actually were ill prepared to bury their dead, even with many of the bodies missing. To dig decent graves for just the bodies on board the Norsemaiden would be a huge task for the two dozen men available.
There seemed a logical answer, then, for a useless ship and the burial probl
em that faced them. Why not combine these given factors to their advantage? They could stage a ceremonial honor for the dead, burning the ship as a funeral pyre. It had been a common thing a generation ago, to honor a dead chieftain in this way. As he thought about it, Nils came to the conclusion that Helge Landsverk would have relished this sort of departure. Yes, it was good.
“Tomorrow,” he told his assembled crew, “we will burn the Norsemaiden as a funeral pyre to honor Viking dead. Then we will sail home on the Snowbird,”
There were nods of approval.
“Then let us move all the cargo we can down to the other ship. And, on the return, carry brush and dead wood back to the Norsemaiden,”
The crews turned to. Bodies of the dead were arranged properly on the foredeck. Everything useful that could be moved from the hold was brought out and taken ashore. There, the sacks, barrels, and bales were picked up by others and carried down the trail to stow in the belly of the other ship. As the Norsemaiden was emptied of cargo, her hold was filled with inflammable material, sticks, brush, and branches.
Odin joined the others at the task of carrying cargo. He seemed uncertain as to the purpose of all this, but willing to help. Once, as he passed Nils, he paused a moment.
“Why do we do this, Thorsson?”
“The supplies?”
“No, the dead.”
“When we burn the ship with the dead on board, it is a way to honor them.”
Odin’s one eye widened. He still appeared puzzled.
“This is your way?”
“Yes, an old way of our people.”
“It must take many ships, to carry your dead to the Other Side.”
“It is not always done, Odin. Usually just for chiefs.”
Odin nodded, understanding.
“So now, you honor your chief.”
“Yes.”
Odin nodded.
“He was a brave man,” he observed. “A little crazy, but a brave man. I will honor him.”
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