We began a search for some sort of track or trail despite knowing if it was skraelings and they had traveled by their narrow boats we would, of course, find none.
But we did find tracks at the north end of the valley where a hill-stream flowed into the river and the ground was soft and damp.
Tracks. Not the pawprints of a bear or wolf, not the hoofprints of a horse or deer, but foot-tracks, long and five-toed, unshod, tracks like any of us might have made going barefoot through the mud.
Except…
“They must grow some big skraelings,” Thorkild said after a few moments had passed, unease lending a tremor to his voice.
“Some very big skraelings,” Fenthris said.
“Or giants,” Fenbjorn said, and this time nobody laughed.
How could we laugh, when the tracks here measured more than twice the size of any of our feet, even Guthdar’s? They sank deep, too, drawing puddles from the wet earth.
I turned to my friends and once again they all looked to me, and for that, in that instant, I hated them.
If I chose to abandon this and huddle in wait for the next visiting ship, they could do so, even with relief, and tell themselves they had only been following my lead. Any shame or cowardice or reluctance would be mine. The failure to avenge my father and mother and sister, ignoring my blood-duty, would be mine. Men might excuse it and say I could hardly be blamed—I was a mere boy, no warrior yet—but it would hang over me for the rest of my days, a stain on my reputation.
Fear crawled over me, like a host of living vermin between my skin and clothes. I shut my eyes, saw in the darkness behind them my father’s dead, gray flesh, and opened them again.
“We go on,” I said, touching Ice-Wind’s hilt.
So we went on. The tracks led us up the hill-stream and into rougher country, where the brush was dense with brambles and the soil choked with stones. We found places where the bushes had been bent aside or forced apart. We found scraps of dark, coarse hair clinging to the thorns. There was a lingering stink to the air, a musky bestial reek that wrinkled our noses and churned our stomachs.
Then we found a skraeling.
A dead skraeling.
He was a boy even younger than Thorkild, ten or eleven at the most, and he had been broken like a child’s doll made of twigs and twine. His body lay half in the stream, headfirst and facedown, so that his raven-black hair rippled in the water and his lifeless arms moved as if waving to us. He wore just a leather breechclout and wrappings around his feet. The splintered remains of fish-traps littered the stream’s bank.
We found the skraeling camp next, or what was left of it. Their shelters of animal hides and long poles had been flattened, racks of drying meat smashed, baskets of nuts and berries overturned. More bodies, brown-skinned and half-naked, sprawled upon the dirt. Most of them had fought, but it had not saved them. Some wore head-bands of cloth they had gotten from us, woven cloth dyed in bright colors, for which the skraelings had a great fascination.
“Do you still think it was them?” I asked Fenbjorn in a harsh whisper.
He held his axe and shook his head, then pointed at more of the huge tracks stamped deep.
“Do you remember the story old Njalthan used to sing?” Thorkild spoke suddenly, louder than he might have meant to, and startled us. “The one of the king and the hall, and the monster and its mother?”
Fenthris, kneeling beside a skraeling girl of her own age, nodded. She had picked up the girl’s knife, a chipped flake of stone with a handle made of antler, tested its edge, and discovered it sharp enough to bring a bead of blood to the pad of her thumb. “And the hero—”
A shrill cry and a rustle interrupted her before she could finish. We all spun as something came crashing through the brush. Fenbjorn was quick to bring up his axe, quicker than I expected, but I was quicker still in staying his hand, for I saw it was a woman. A skraeling woman with a baby on her back. She wore a doeskin dress, fringed and beaded. Her black hair hung in braids over her shoulders. She was unarmed, and frightened.
Sobbing and babbling, she rushed at us. She threw herself against Guthdar, who was closest and biggest. He twitched with shock but embraced her, as he blushed—she was wide-hipped and very buxom—and stared pleadingly at us for help.
We calmed her, or Guthdar and Thorkild calmed her, Guthdar patting her shoulder uncertainly while Thorkild attempted to speak to her in what few words of their tongue he had learned while helping his father in trading. The rest of us stayed on our guard.
“She ran when it happened,” Fenthris said. “Ran and hid and got away.”
“How do you know?” Ingolf asked. “You can understand her?”
“No, but she must have done so. She ran to protect her baby.”
We looked at the baby, which looked back at us, nothing to be seen but dark owl’s eyes in a dark face framed by the rabbit fur that made up its carrying sling.
“What is she saying?” I called to Thorkild. “What did this?”
“Was it giants?” asked Fenbjorn.
He hushed us with an irritable flap of his hand and continued talking with the woman. Finally, he urged her to sit on a stump and she did so, rocking her baby.
“I think her name is Nittawowsew,” he said.
We blinked at him.
“Nittawowsew,” said the woman, touching her palm to her chest.
“And it was a hunt-camp,” he went on. “They came to fish and hunt and gather food to take back to their settlement, but then they were attacked.”
“So who attacked them?” I asked.
“She just kept saying the same thing,” Thorkild said. “Saeaskewatta.”
“What?” Fenthris furrowed her brow.
“Saeaskewatta.” He uttered it slowly, clearly, but it still made no sense.
“Saeaskewatta,” said the woman, bobbing her head.
“But what’s that?” Fenbjorn asked. “A person? A name?”
None of us knew.
“Saeaskewatta.” Nittawowsew pointed at the dead and at the tracks. Then she snatched up a clump of coarse hair like the kind we had found stuck to a thorn bush, and shook it in our faces. “Saeaskewatta!”
A terrible roar shook the forest. Birds took flight, shrieking. We felt the ground shudder as if many horsemen were charging, and heard the snapping of branches. Again, we spun toward the noise, and this time it was no frightened skraeling woman.
This time it could only be the saeaskewatta, for they were like no other creature I’d ever seen or imagined.
I counted four of them as they thundered toward us, but there were more than that. Eight, or even ten of them came bursting through the trees.
My body seemed to turn to ice, as if the whole world froze in that instant, one I knew would be forever in my memory… if I lived to have a memory.
Each of the great brutes stood far taller than the tallest men in our village, and thick-slabbed with muscle. They ran upright, but not in the way that some animals reared up on their stubby hind legs. The saeaskewatta ran upright on long legs like ours, ran with a lumbering, loping stride. They had long arms as well, with enormous long-fingered hands. They were covered head to foot in pelts of coarse hair, dark and shaggy, matted, filthy and snagged with burrs. Their faces were lumpy and hideous, as if half-formed out of dung and mud and moldy bread dough. Their eyes were yellowish, wild with fury.
I thought of war-stories my father had told of the berserkers, men swallowed up by a battle-frenzy. I thought of legends of cursed men who became bears by moonlight. I thought of the tale Thorkild and Fenthris had mentioned.
Then I thought no more, because the nearest of the saeaskewatta was upon me. There were ugly, clotted wounds upon its body, and I knew with no doubt this was the very one who’d slaughtered my family.
I thought no more, because Ice-Wind thought for me.
Ice-Wind leaped and slashed, and my arm went with the sword.
A blow rang my head like a smith’s hammer. If not for my fa
ther’s bright helm, my skull might have split open from the force of it. I ducked and dodged, danced and darted, while Ice-Wind stabbed and cut and stabbed again. Blood sprayed. My foe roared his hatred at me, roared it into my face on a hot and rancid gust of breath.
I drove Ice-Wind straight into its stinking, gaping mouth. The blade scraped along teeth and sank into the back of the monstrous throat. More blood gushed out, a torrent of red, a flood, soaking me. I shouted with triumph as the giant toppled. It thudded to the ground, gurgling and choking.
I looked to see how the others fared and my triumph turned to dust.
Ingolf struggled in the grip of one of the saeaskewatta. I saw him slam his own forehead into the monster’s face, its thick arms bunch and squeeze. I did not hear the crack of his spine but I imagined it, then Ingolf went limp and the beast shook him like a dog with a rag and flung his corpse aside.
Thorkild… I did not want to accept what my mind told me it was seeing. Thorkild lay on the ground; he should have been facing away from me, but his head had been twisted around on his shoulders so his wide eyes stared surprised into mine.
Nittawowsew wailed, cowering, clutching her baby to her bosom. A beast swept its gigantic hand but Guthdar was there, protecting her. I saw his mother’s silver bracelet flash in the hazy sunshine. The skraeling woman ran away into the forest. Guthdar rammed up with his spear. The sharp bronze point gouged through hair and flesh, and the saeaskewatta bellowed. It caught him by his silver-braceleted wrist, and gave such a wrench that Guthdar’s arm tore off at the shoulder, just as the hero in that old tale had done to the monster that raided the king’s hall.
I saw Fenbjorn with his back against a tree trunk, two of the saeaskewatta trying to get at him, but he chopped hard with his axe each time they reached near. Chunks of their severed fingers plopped into the dirt. He was bleeding from a split scalp, turning his fair hair to a sodden scarlet mess. I gave a loud shout and raced to help him.
Fenthris leaped upon a beast as if she meant to ride it, clenching its shaggy sides between her knees. From each of her fists sprouted a knife, her own leaf-bladed one and the chipped-stone dagger she’d taken from the dead skraeling girl. She plunged both into the sides of the beast’s neck, screaming with rage. It reached up and over, snared her by the tunic, and with its last ebbing strength hurled her headlong into the same tree her brother stood against.
I heard the crunch, and saw how the life fled from her, scattering, like a flock of startled sparrows. Fenbjorn howled her name. He became like a berserker then, his axe madly hacking at the saeaskewatta, his injuries ignored. I joined him and we fought them together in a red fury until suddenly there was nothing left to fight.
Four of them lay dead around us. The rest had retreated to the cover of the trees and waited there, hunkered low, wounded, watching to see if we were done for.
I went to my knees and on one hand. My head was down, hair hanging sweat-tangled in my face, my breath hotly heaving in and out of my lungs. I felt the painful jab of broken ribs and could not even remember being hit. My helm was gone and I could not remember losing it. I still held Ice-Wind, as if my fingers might never unclench from the hilt.
Fenbjorn collapsed near me. He looked at me, began to speak, vomited up a river of blood. A moment later, he died, his eyes still on mine.
The saeskewatta stirred, and crept closer.
I sank to the ground, kissed Ice-Wind’s sticky blade, and closed my eyes. I mourned for my friends, but it was a grief mingled with pride. We had proven ourselves. We had avenged our families. They had died as warriors, and I—
I would not be following them just yet, because I heard another noise and rustle from the woods, and knew even before I turned my head and opened my eyes what it was I would see.
The skraelings had come. A fierce band of them, men armed with bows and stone axes, their brown skin painted with marks of red, yellow, and black.
Stone-tipped arrows sang from bowstrings. The shriek and screech of their war-cries filled the air as they brought battle to the saeaskewatta.
There were women and wise elders with them as well, led by Nittawowsew. They lifted me on a length of hide stretched between poles, and carried me away to their village. They tended me and healed me.
My friends had died as warriors.
But I, I would live among the skraelings a while longer.
NJORD’S DAUGHTER
The longship rests at anchor in the sheltered cove, sail furled, oars stowed. Water laps in gentle wavelets against its hull. Clouds scud across the dark sky, obscuring the moon, smelling of rain. A single oil-lamp flickers with thin light.
The men finish their cold meals of hard bread and herring, then go about the business of preparing to sleep. They wrap themselves in furs and cloaks, bedding down in the spaces beneath or between the oar-benches.
One plucks at a harp. His voice drifts with sweet melody as he sings an old mournful song of Njord the sea-god, and the mountain-giantess Skadi.
He sings of how Skadi went to Asgard seeking compensation for the death of her father… how the gods offered her one of their own as a husband, but bade her choose him by only the sight of his feet while the rest was hidden by a drape… how Skadi had chosen those she thought must be Baldr’s, but they belonged to Njord instead…
He sings it well.
And oh, he is lovely, that one, handsome of feature, fine-built of frame. Red hair hangs thick to his shoulders. His beard is lush and full.
How she adores him! How she has adored him since first her gaze fell upon him!
She floats closer.
So close now… if she reached up a hand she might almost touch him…
***
Farald’s fingers paused on the harp-strings. The skin at the nape of his neck seemed to crawl.
He looked around but beheld nothing to account for his sudden unease.
The Wind-Chaser had put in here for the night, along this rocky stretch of coast far from any village or hall. They had encountered no other ships since making trade with a fat little knarr two days ago. The weather was mild and these were friendly lands.
Yet the nape of his neck still did prickle.
An omen? Some foreboding?
The sound of a soft splashing drew his attention down toward the sea. An otter diving, he thought, or the quick leap of a fish. But he saw only a tangle of slick, ropy kelp adrift on the current.
A few of the men, his ship-mates and oar-brothers, glanced over, curious that he had stopped in his song.
Farald smiled, shaking his head as if to shake off the sensation. He resumed singing of how Njord could not stand to forsake his deep realm, while Skadi yearned for her home in the high rocky peaks, dooming their marriage to unhappy uncompromise and they had parted their sad ways.
***
She submerges just in time, hiding her face from his sight. Her large eyes peer up through the floating strands of her hair.
Distorted by sea-water, she still finds his visage handsome.
Yes, how she adores him… how she loves and craves him!
He must be hers, will be hers!
When he turns away, smiling his beautiful smile, she surfaces again to listen.
It is a story she knows well, and always has known.
But she will never tire of hearing it from this man’s lips, her beloved.
To her woe, it is over too soon. He covers the harp with a case of leather and settles into his sleeping-place with his wool cloak pulled snug around his shoulders.
She slips lower, trailing her hands along the hull by where he lies. Only this curved layer of planking separates them.
The thudding of many mens’ heartbeats vibrates through the timbers. She ignores the rest, concentrating only on one.
She flattens her body against the ship’s underside as if pressing herself to a lover and fancies she can feel the heat of his flesh through that thin wooden shell.
Soon, she’ll know the embrace of his arms, the taste
of his breath, the touch of his skin. Soon, he will be with her, he will be hers, and they’ll be together.
Always.
***
The Wind-Chaser made favorable speed to the next settlement, which was large enough to offer good opportunities for trade—reindeer hides and antler for pottery and fleeces—and to replenish their provisions with grain, dried vegetables and cheese.
Most of the men squandered what little money they had on the usual pastimes of drinking, gambling and whoring. Others purchased trinkets or oddities, spices and treats.
Farald bought a necklace of flameworked glass beads of many colors; he saved the rest of his wages to put with his share of the journey’s profits. Which was not to say that he went without enjoying himself. He took his harp and sat on a stump near a brewer’s hut, where in exchange for his music he was offered barley-ale and seed-cakes.
He soon enough noticed a girl lingering about, a plain creature whose movements were slow and limp-hampered. Though she troubled no one, folk sometimes sneered as they passed her.
She wore a shabby kirtle with no apron-dress over it, the cloth perhaps once dyed green but faded almost to grey. Her face was pale, her hair and eyes darkish, and if he thought anything further of her at all it was just that she must be some unfortunate cripple. He was glad if his harp-playing and singing gave her day a bright spot of joy.
***
Her legs ache. Her feet hurt. She is clumsy and she hates it. She was never clumsy before.
The heaviness and weight… the tottering for balance… the hard pull of the hard earth, waiting for her to fall…
Each dragging step is painful. Muscles cramp and clench.
They make it seem so easy, so natural. They are graceful. They stand. They dance. They run.
She forces herself to walk. She has to. She does it for him.
She does not dare yet to approach him, but the pain of being parted from him is a pain greater even than that in her sore legs and feet.
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