Runestone

by Don Coldsmith

  He hurried on. Now that he knew more of the minds of the fugitives, he knew what he sought. Even so, it was probably only luck that caused him to spot the place where they left the little stream. They had reached the spring that was its source. Now, which way?

  It was with some degree of surprise that he realized that they had doubled back. Then, when he thought again, maybe it was no surprise at all. Because, by this time he had become familiar with the tracks of the three men, and was beginning to know them well. Two were men of the invaders, one a trifle heavier than the other, with a wider foot that made a deeper track in soft dirt. The third, however, was probably the one who had laid such a skillful and deceptive trail. From the tracks of that one’s moccasins, it was apparent that he was not one of the outsiders. This was one who knew the country, a native here. One of their traditional enemies, most likely. Special tortures should be reserved for that one!

  Wind Tracker hurried back to where the dozen others waited. He would report his findings and then wait for the moon to rise. Now that he knew the fugitives so well, he could practically track them in the dark. He knew their direction, and game trails were few. He felt confident enough that he could gain nearly a day’s time in the pursuit. And that would certainly present a surprise for the clever man, whoever he might be, who had caused all this trouble.

  16

  “Ah, their tracker is good! Much better than I thought,” Odin said sadly. “They are here!”

  He had returned hurriedly after an attempt to reconnoiter at daybreak.

  “Did they see you?” asked Svenson.

  “I did not think so, but…” he gave his characteristic little shrug. “Who knows? I did not think they should be here yet, either!”

  “But how?” Nils wondered aloud.

  “They had to find our tracks, where we doubled back, last night before dark. And then, travel all night. Their tracker is good. He saw what we were trying to do, and then followed us by moonlight!”

  “Can we get away?” asked Nils.

  “I think it is too late. I started on our back track, and heard them ahead of me. I hurried back here. Maybe they will pass us by.”

  The way that the Skraeling said it told plainly that he did not think so.

  “What is there to do, then?”

  “Hide here, be very quiet. Come, we will watch.”

  Odin led the way to the ledge, to an area where bushes screened the outer edge of the rocky shelf. He indicated that they should lie flat, unmoving, to watch.

  “The trail goes on past us.” He pointed. “Maybe they will follow it instead of looking for us. They know that we are trying to get back upriver, and following the ridge. Now let us be quiet. They will be here soon.”

  He had hardly finished speaking when a man stepped out of the woods where the trail opened onto the grassy slope below them. The man was moving rapidly, and he paused only to motion to those behind him as he trotted across the little meadow. Nils counted as more and more well-armed Skraelings crossed below them. By Thor’s hammer, he thought, a dozen…no, fourteen, counting the tracker! Why so many to find three hapless fugitives? No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he knew. These who had escaped must be made an example. The Skraelings could not do otherwise. Oddly, the thought occurred that this was not unlike Norse treatment of Britons and Welsh, and oddly this seemed to justify the action of the Skraelings.

  Now the man in the lead, who had passed below them by this time, stopped to lean over and examine the ground. He held up a hand to the others to indicate that they should wait a moment, and then took a cautious step or two ahead. He peered at the shadowy forest, and seemed unsure. Then the man, obviously a tracker, turned to look up the slope.

  For a moment it seemed that he looked straight into Nils’s eyes, and Nils dared not even blink. There was a space of some fifty paces between them, but it seemed closer. The other men relaxed a little as they waited, and the tracker began to circle carefully, trying to pick up the lost trail of the fugitives. Nils knew that it could not be found, because it was not there. None of the three fugitives had walked in that area. He could follow the thought processes of the Skraeling tracker: If there are no tracks this far, they have turned aside before this point.

  Yes, now the man was circling back toward the rest of the party. He called out something in his own tongue, and then, to Nils’s consternation, pointed directly at the shelf on which they lay. Nils gripped his sword with sweating palms, trying to decide when he should leap up with a Viking yell in challenge to their attackers.

  “Lie still, Thorsson!” whispered Odin, anticipating such a move. “Let us see. …”

  There was a discussion below, some pointing in various directions, and everyone settled back, squatting on his heels while the tracker made one more circuit. Almost back to the point where they had left the trees he circled, and then suddenly straightened, calling out to the others. It was easy to see that he had found the trail that led to the shelf. Two men jumped up and sprinted across the meadow toward the other end of the formation. They would want to make certain that there was no escape route there.

  Nils felt the trap closing around him. He glanced up at the rocky cliff above them. No, there was no escape there. Even if there had been handholds and places to step, any climber would quickly be riddled with arrows from below.

  “This is not good, Thorsson,” Odin observed. “They have said they will camp here. They know where we are.”

  “Yes, I saw that,” Nils whispered irritably.

  Now Odin stood up, in plain sight of their pursuers, and yelled something to the party below. There was a scramble of activity, and an arrow whistled past the Skraeling’s head to shatter against the rock wall behind him. Odin picked it up and tossed it derisively over the rim. He shouted something to the bowman that could have been nothing other than an invitation to try again.

  Now a man stepped forward who was obviously the leader of the party, by his manner and by the deference the others showed him. He and Odin exchanged shouts for a little while. Nils decided to stand up, since there seemed no point in doing otherwise. There was a flurry of noise from below, and now Svenson, too, rose from hiding, to another volley of shouting. Odin and the other leader continued to yell, and finally the man below simply turned angrily and walked down the slope, motioning the others to do the same. They moved to a flat area near the trees, and began to prepare their camp.

  “What was all that?” Nils asked.

  “He wanted us to surrender,” Odin explained. “He said we would not be harmed, but I have known them before.” He pointed to his blind eye socket.

  “What did you say to him?” asked Nils.

  Odin shrugged, and a trace of a wry smile curled his lip.

  “I told him that we do not yield to the sons of mangy dogs, and that their mothers eat dung.” He paused a moment. “We have to fight them anyway, Thorsson.”

  “Yes, I know. It is good.”

  Actually, he was thinking that such a confrontation, such exchange of insults, was not at all unlike what it would have been in a similar situation nearer home, somewhere in the Isles. He wished that he understood the tongue of the enemy, so that he, too, could participate.

  “When will they attack?” Nils asked.

  Odin shrugged. “Not soon. They will let us worry about it for a while. But they can wait until we weaken, when our water is gone.”

  It was a grim thought, one that Nils had not been able to face. The fugitives were safe here, but had no way to replenish food and water. Time was on the side of the enemy.

  “We should keep watch, of course,” Odin was saying. “They may try to sneak up a man or two, just to bother us.”

  Nils nodded. Some things would be the same everywhere.

  The first attempt came somewhat sooner than they expected. Svenson was on watch at the narrow point where they had gained access to the ledge. It was some time after dark, and the other two had retired for a needed rest after the stresses o
f the past days. The camp below was quiet, too. Sven could plainly see the recumbent forms around their fires. Yet the experienced old warrior knew better than to accept appearances. This would be an excellent time for the enemy to try a feint.

  It was quite dark, as the moon had not yet risen. He had thought a little while ago that he had seen some movement around the enemy fires as the light of the flames died down, but he could not be sure. This would be the time, though, after the campfires’ light dimmed but before the rising of the moon. And, since he could not see, he must listen.

  Unconsciously, he leaned toward the steep part of the path that led up to the ledge, cocking his ear for any sound that did not belong. He thought…Yes! There it was again. The clicking of a dislodged pebble on the stony path. Svenson pressed himself against the cliff’s face and gripped his ax. The sound was only a pace or two below him.

  He felt, rather than saw, the dark form rise before him, only an arm’s length away, and he started his swing. His adversary had obviously misjudged the position of the sentry. Well he might. Svenson had made himself quite visible before dark, but had shifted slightly after darkness concealed the move. The ax struck flesh and bone, and the first grunt of surprise changed to a mortal scream as the man fell, rolling down the steep slope. Judging from the sound, the Skraeling’s dying form bounced and rolled for some distance before it came to rest. There was a soft moan, and then a flurry of whispers.

  Someone below threw dry tinder on the fire, and light pushed the shadows into retreat as men came running.

  The fugitives, too, hurried to join their sentry.

  “Sven! Are you all right?” called Nils.

  “Of course! We have one less to worry us!” Svenson chortled.

  They could hear the voices below, as the other Skraelings tried to help the dead or dying man. There was an angry exchange of shouts between Odin and the attackers.

  “It is good,” Odin commented. “They know we are to be feared, now.”

  “But they can bring more and more,” Nils observed.

  “Of course, Thorsson. They know that, and we know that. But now, we have their respect.”

  By the time the moon rose to light the hillside, the Skraelings had carried their fallen warrior away. Nils was not certain whether the man was dead or not, but he knew of Svenson’s strength and skill. They would not have to worry about that opponent.

  One thing was becoming rapidly apparent to Nils Thorsson, however. It had taken only a little while to establish a relationship with the one-eyed Skraeling. There is a special bond between people who have fought together or suffered together. Or both. Add a common enemy, and an unorganized group becomes a team, a close-knit camaraderie. Already, the distrust that had surfaced in his suspicion of Odin was gone. The Skraeling had proven himself worthy of trust.

  From an ill-suited trio of hapless fugitives they had undergone a great change. Nils had first become aware of it when Odin said things like “we should keep watch.” Overnight the trio had become a unified force. There was now “we” and “they.”

  Nils knew that both he and Odin took pride in Svenson’s victory over the attacker. He wondered a bit yet, with some degree of concern, about the leadership of their little party. It had bothered him at first that Odin seemed to be making the decisions for them. Even that seemed less important now.

  For some reason or other, an old Norse legend popped into his thoughts as the moon rose and flooded the slope and the fjord below with its silvery light. A longship in new waters, it was told, had been hailed by strangers.

  “Let us talk to your leader,” the others had requested.

  “We have no leader,” the Norsemen had answered. “Among us, we are all equals.”

  17

  When will they try again?” asked Nils. Odin shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they will not.”

  “But surely they will,” Nils snapped irritably. “They cannot just leave us here!”

  Even as he said it, he realized the truth. They can. There was no urgency at all, and the Skraelings could wait. Wait, until the beleaguered trio on the ledge was starved into submission. He wondered how many days’ food there was in Odin’s pack. Then he realized. It would not be food that would become the problem, but water. A man could go for a long time without food, but he must have water. Three days, it was said, was about the limit without it. Before death intervened, that is.

  A stronger person might live a bit longer, a weak one a shorter variation. Water was as necessary as air to breathe, to continue living. Its absence would bring death just as surely as the absence of air. A little slower, that was all.

  It made him thirsty just to think about it, and he swallowed hard. It also called to his attention the fact that the dried meat and whatever else Odin might have salvaged for them to eat was likely to be just that—dry. That would result in more thirst. At least, so it seemed to Nils. Maybe it would be better to fast again. He could ask Odin about it. Surely the Skraeling…Damn! I’m doing it again! Nils fumed to himself. He was becoming far too dependent on this savage.

  On the other hand, what choice did they have? He and Svenson could possibly survive, living off the country, though it would be hard. Add in a dozen enemy Skraelings, maybe a hundred, and it would be valuable to have someone who knew both the land and the customs of the Skraelings. Someone like Odin. Each time he tried to think about it, he came back to that inescapable conclusion. They needed this man. He might even be essential to their survival.

  Nils had not yet reached a point where he was ready to consider seriously the thought that they might not survive. True, he had thought about it, but in a detached way. Were they not still alive? With the passing days, he had unconsciously settled into a pattern that would not admit failure. Just as success breeds success, survival feeds on itself, and where there is life, there is hope. It was not a matter of whether they would survive, but how.

  By the third day, such resolve was becoming shaky. They could sit or lie on the ledge, watching the Skraelings in their comfortable camp below. It was necessary to be somewhat careful. If they exposed themselves too openly, or became careless, an arrow would come searching, buzzing like an angry hornet over the rocky rim. It was enough of a threat to keep their heads down.

  Once Odin sent a shaft in answer, just as a gesture of defiance. It was not very effective, and one of his precious arrows was lost. Still, it was probably worthwhile. Their enemies had no way of knowing how many weapons the fugitives might have. Beyond one ax, of course. Sven’s stroke must have made quite an impression, because no one had tried to ascend to the ledge by the path again.

  Nils picked up an arrow that had been shot from below and examined its construction. The shaft had been broken when it struck the rocky wall behind them, but it might be repairable. The stone point, delicately chipped to shape, was bound into the split end of the shaft with a slender strip of rawhide. Feathers, spotted black and white, were similarly tied to the rear of the arrow. What sort of bird? At home it would have been the feathers of a goose. Possibly a heron. Then he recalled some birds that he had seen in a pen at Straumfjord. Large birds, standing as tall as a man’s waist. Their naked red heads had reminded him of the head and neck of a vulture, but the colonists had reassured him. These were no carrion eaters, but a valuable bird for food. Much like a large chicken, it was said. The meat was white, in contrast to that of ducks or geese. The colonists called the creature by its Skraeling name, which seemed to be an imitation of its own call, a sort of gobbling sound.

  “Are these the feathers of the gobble bird?” Nils asked Odin.

  The Skraeling nodded, but said nothing.

  “Our people use those of a goose,” Nils said.

  “We, too, sometimes,” agreed Odin. “You do not have this bird?”

  “No. I saw them at Straumfjord.”

  Odin nodded. “They are good to eat.” He looked at the broken shaft in Nils’s hands. “Is the point broken?” he asked.

  Nils handed the ar
row to him.

  “Did you want to shoot it back at them?” Nils inquired, half-amused.

  “No. Maybe, but I am made to think not. That would tell them that we have few arrows. But the point…Yes, it is chipped, but it can be reshaped. I will save it.”

  Odin drew his knife and cut the rawhide lashing to free the stone point. Then he held it up for Nils to see. It was a light amber in color, well shaped and sharp edged. The Skraeling tucked it into the pouch at his waist.

  It took a moment for the significance of this action to impress itself on Nils. Odin had gone to the trouble of saving the arrow point, to resharpen and use later. Therefore, he must think that there would be a “later.” Odin does not think this is hopeless! Nils told himself. If he had known what the Skraeling really thought, he might not have had the strength to go on.

  As it was, however, this ray of hope helped to distract him from the sticky dryness in his mouth. They were using only enough water to wet their tongues at dawn and dusk, and still the waterskin grew flat and slim. To add to that, the enemy below knew their plight, at least to some degree, and took advantage of it. At any time they could be sure that the fugitives were watching, they would go through an elaborate act, a big show of drinking from waterskins, splashing, throwing water on each other. Nils licked dry and cracking lips as he watched.

  One of those below held his waterskin aloft and shouted something. He was dripping wet, hair, body, and leather garments.

  Odin shouted back something, and the man appeared disgruntled for a moment. Only a moment. Then he gestured an obscene insult, and proceeded to slowly empty the waterskin on the ground. He yelled something, and then laughed uproariously, as if he had made a great joke.

  “What did he say?” asked Nils.

  “He said to come down and share the good fortune of their water,” Odin said grimly. “I told him we do not need as much to wash our mouths, because we do not eat dung.”