Viking Lost

by Derek Nelsen

  Title Page

  VIKING LOST

  SAGA OF SOULS

  BOOK ONE

  Derek Nelsen

  Summit Pen

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Derek Nelsen

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Amanda Ashby

  Copy Edited by Will Clifton

  Cover Design by Dan Van Oss

  Published by Summit Pen

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7351240-0-1

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7351240-1-8

  Dedication

  My father taught me that any good sailor dedicates his first boat to the woman he loves.

  Lisa, this book is for you.

  Thank you for giving me your heart to love, a home to return to, and three wonderful children to give us something to talk about on date night.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Strangers Arrive

  Tor and Vigi: The Last Hunt

  Welcome Home

  Another Bear

  Bears and Vikings

  Rehabilitating Vikings

  The Girl

  Runa

  Pedar’s Offer

  A Girl in the House

  Fat Orri

  Race to the Hidden Fjord

  Robbing the Dragon

  The Giant Awakes

  The Trader

  Viking Slave

  Training Vikings

  Alone with Vikings

  Checking on the Neighbors

  Sticks and Stones

  Harvest Festival

  Viking's Story

  Mud in the Eye

  Old Erik

  Who Do You Think You Are?

  The Flask and the Flagon

  A Walk in the Woods

  Question of Faith

  Grow Up, the Truth Hurts

  The Great Pretenders

  Sins of the Fathers

  Peace Offering

  Property Dispute

  The Many Cuts of a Sharp Tongue

  How to Retire a Gothi

  The Challenge

  Training Tor

  Real Friends

  Collecting Spices

  The Butcher

  Sacrifice for the Gods

  Choosing Sides

  Blood and Souls

  Getting Some Rest

  Weight of the Soul

  Leg Breaker

  Field of Play

  The Holmgang

  Racing the Wolf

  Speaking of Marriage

  Sincere Insincerity

  Warm House, Cold Goodbye

  Weapons Check

  Duplicity

  Confession

  Valhalla’s Toll

  Bitter

  Blood Weeds

  Enter Darkness

  Enemy of My Enemies

  Thirst

  Cold Revenge

  Svindl and Svikar

  Candle Stick

  Snake Tongue

  Infection

  Harnessing the Troll

  Viking Lost

  Leaving a Mark

  Petting the Puppy

  Trust Issues

  Facing the Abyss

  Gateway to the Fallen

  The Goddess

  The Offer

  Sacrifice to the Goddess

  Runa

  Weight of the Soul

  Hella's Defense

  Departed, Exposed, Allowed, Doomed

  Draugr Wife

  The Hammer and the Sword

  Dwarf Fishing

  Hell Fire

  To Trust Dwarfs or Trolls?

  Hel's Back Door

  The Fall

  Welcome Home

  To Wounds That Never Heal

  Dwarf Funeral

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  Strangers Arrive

  Icy fog hung so thick in the air it blocked both sun and fjord the day the strangers arrived. Too late in the season to be out in open sea, the dragon-headed ship, filled with water and regret, looked like it had lost a great battle with wind and wave. No oars touched the water; only remnants of a tattered and sun-bleached sail urged the craft along amid churning currents.

  The dragon slipped silently past chunks of floating ice. The few boys still fishing ran home to be the first to tell their fathers.

  Three large ravens soared above a broken mast. Their black wings cut the gray as if the sky were being torn open from the other side. The largest raven lit onto the dragonhead before croaking a deep kraaa, kraaa, kraaa from its shaggy throat, announcing the ship’s arrival. The cold sucked the sound from the air before it had a chance to echo off the surrounding cliffs.

  As if steered by a ghost, the dragon found safe harbor. Quietly it bumped against a jetty that reached out into the fjord like the stone arm of some great giant. Its failing hull scrubbed against the rocks with each passing wave like a dog scratching at the door to come in from the cold.

  Tor and Vigi: The Last Hunt

  Something was out there.

  Tor held his breath as he scanned the dark forest to spot whatever had snapped the branch.

  He was a great thick man, over six and half feet tall. His reddish blonde hair and red beard were highlighted with gray, the color of a stag half into its winter coat.

  Snow blanketed the ground, dampening the sound of movement. Nocking an arrow on a string of cured bear gut, Tor leaned against the oak to break up his outline. Senses heightened. He peered around the white birch, careful not to scratch his bow against its bark.

  Come on. Be a moose or a fat doe. Odin, you owe me that much. Tor exhaled into his heavy coat to conceal the fog of his breath.

  Vigi raised his head. Tor took his hand away from the string and scratched his old friend behind the ear.

  “Easy, boy. Let’s see what we've got here," Tor dared to whisper. He ran his fingers up the old dog’s ears. They were alert as ever but colder than he remembered. “Better to die doing what you love than to live doing anything else. Eh, boy?” He breathed heat across numbing fingers before returning them to the taut string.

  The dog pedalled his front paws in a silent rhythm, his head bobbing ever so slightly.

  “Here it comes.” He slowly raised his bow to expose a sharpened iron tip toward whatever may come.

  Although not five leagues from home, Tor was alone. He and Vigi were farther up the mountain than any man dared or cared to go. Any man from his village, anyway. Goats had led him to this spot.

  The one part of farming Tor could do right, it seemed, was to breed goats. But his tended to escape—and disappear. Although he was gifted at carving wood, he wasn’t so talented at maintaining fences. And fences, it turned out, were important if you wanted to keep goats.

  Tor’s goats did not suffer from superstition. Other than occasionally raiding a neighbor’s turnips, they rarely stuck to the main roads, often wandering where farmers did not want to go. Luckily for Tor, he had lost his tolerance for superstition long ago.

  As long as they stayed away from the ledges and the cliff’s, Tor would eventually find them. But right now, goats weren’t what he was after.

  Vigi furrowed his brow as
he crouched, barely an inch, but it was enough to set Tor on edge. Another branch snapped. Probably just another bird or a squirrel. Hard to tell. It was dry powder this time of year, when the snow first began to fall, and the world rolled into its white blanket like an old man with cold feet.

  "There she is," Tor whispered, wiping sweat off onto his bear hide cloak.

  Even when it was cold enough to freeze rivers, when playing games of hide and seek, any sign of movement would make even an experienced predator’s heart race. For a hunter, it was a feeling that couldn’t be matched by drink or horn in house or hall.

  He raised his bow but did not draw the string. He knew from where it would come, but how long would it make them wait?

  A large red deer eased her head into the clearing. Something wasn't right. The deer took another step and stopped again.

  Tor’s stomach growled.

  Vigi turned his head up as if his master had broken some solemn code. Tor cast his eyes in apology to his old friend. The deer stopped. An ear cocked left, then right. Then two yearlings passed their mother and loped into the clearing.

  Tor did not move. The light tension he had on the string numbed his fingers. He began to draw back the bow, then eased it to. Vigi stamped his front feet, then lowered his entire body into a full-on crouch. Tor looked down angrily, and Vigi's sharp ears drooped like a scolded puppy. The old dog wasn't used to being corrected.

  The big doe eyed the woods. Tor held his breath, every muscle tensed. She stared at him, turned to look back, then eased into the clearing. Tor looked behind her but saw nothing but dark wood.

  Vigi held steady except for licking his pink nose. Tor did not draw the bow. Vigi looked up to his master, as if not sure what to make of his hesitation. The large red deer snapped her head backward and coughed, then darted through the opening, her two yearlings bolting off close behind.

  Tor stared after them, not sure what he had become. The man he used to be would’ve taken the doe, then killed the confused yearlings while they hopelessly urged their mother to get back to her feet.

  All was quiet. Then something moved. Vigi panted. That always made the old Elkhound look like he was smiling. Tor's fingers tensed around the string. His breathing slowed as he raised his bow again. The dog stared intently at the hole in the dark forest not twenty paces from where they hid.

  Without a sound, the opening filled with dark brown. The bear was big—fifty, maybe even sixty stone. The old bear had been stocking up for winter, the same as every farm in the village. He was, by any stretch, one of the largest bears Tor had ever seen.

  Could this be the one? The same bear that Erik saw years ago, running off into the forest after raiding their house? For years his little boy swore it had been a troll wearing a bearskin suit. Could this be the brute that stole his little Gefn? She would’ve been about fourteen herself now. Tor allowed himself to think about his beautiful baby girl, all big now. Had it been seven years since the bear had turned their happy life upside down?

  Tor didn’t need to be reminded that he, or his dog, could easily be mauled before even a perfect shot could drop such an animal.

  Something between revenge and regret spread from the ache in his heart, and despite the cold his body began to burn. Old Vigi’s lip curled and he bared his teeth, but he made no noise.

  The old bear put his nose up into the small dry branches at shoulder height. Then he stretched up on his back legs as if he wanted a better look around. He sniffed the trunk of a heavy tree before giving his left eye a good scratch. Claws as long as kitchen knives hung off the massive paw. Truly, this was the king of the forest.

  Tor froze. Did the bear know they were there? There must've been something off about their setup. Vigi had done his part, rolling in two types of scat on the way out. Even frozen, that would be enough to cover his scent. Maybe it was from when Tor stoked the fire or fed the horse. Or maybe it was the smell of goat. They had found twelve meandering around the mountain this trip.

  The bear raised his nose and sniffed again, and just like the deer, seemed to stare right into Tor's eyes. Finally, he dropped his nose to the ground and sniffed his way out into the clearing, his large lumbering gate dredging the fresh powder, leaving pigeon toed tracks in his wake.

  Tor’s ice blue eyes caught fire as he drew back the string.

  The bear crouched when the string snapped. All game does. Even the king of the forest walks warily. Tor expected it to duck, so he aimed low, something he’d learned from his father—something he’d taught his sons. But there was something off about the shot. The bear broke too hard. No arrow was perfect. Maybe one of the fletchings came loose, or the shaft bowed as it cured. That happened sometimes. Or maybe he just blew the shot. Vigi stared up whimpering, waiting to be released.

  “Too early boy. Give it a chance to bleed out a little.” Vigi’s ears were tweaking left and right, audibly following the bear. Tor rubbed the dog’s thick coat, grabbing handfuls of skin and fur along the back of his neck.

  Tor thought about the shot. The arrow veered right and met its target low. Instead of hitting the heart and lungs, it looked like a gut shot. As soon as it passed through, the bear tore a new path into the woods, away from where it came, and away from Tor. That’s what injured prey did. They went away from everything, and they did it fast. But still, Tor knew he got lucky.

  He’d never been hit with an arrow, but he knew men who had. The ones that survived said it felt like getting punched, then it burned like a bee sting. The shock of it stifled the pain, like the brain hadn’t had time to figure out just how bad things were. With a heart-shot the bear would’ve just ran and ran, not realizing it was already dead. It probably never had a chance to feel what came next.

  After the bee sting comes the burn. Like a thousand wasps stinging both places where the arrow broke skin. With a good shot death would probably come too fast for that. With a good shot, every beat of the bear’s dying heart would paint the snow red with blood. Until the crash, where its legs would give out mid-stride, its heart pumping nothing to power its legs but red froth as it drowned in its own blood. Every time he took a life Tor thought of it. Not because of what happened on the hunt, but because he’d held the heads of his own men up out of the mud and watched the life leave their eyes—and add weight to their departing souls.

  A good shot meant a quick death. That was the best scenario for the one who got the arrow and the one still holding the bow.

  But Tor didn’t make a good shot.

  “Vigi.” The dog was as excited as a pup. He’d pawed the ground down to wet leaves while waiting for what came next. “Go get ‘im.”

  Vigi knew where the bear had gone. He’d watched it run off, but he stopped in the clearing anyway, putting his nose to the ground and circling the spot until he took in the full scent of it.

  Tor checked the area. There was very little blood. The arrow’s shaft was coated in a smelly grease and tufts of brown coarse hair. Just as Tor thought. Gut shot.

  There are many things that could go wrong when hunting, but one of the most dangerous was stalking an injured animal. Even reindeer had been known to impale a careless hunter who went in too close, too soon. Moose that can barely stand still find a way to run down grown men. And bears are different animals altogether. They can outrun horses in a short sprint and can climb up or drop down out of a fifty-foot tree as easily as a man can mount a horse. Once, Tor heard a story of a sow attacking a group of armed warriors just for happening upon her cubs. She killed one and injured two more before escaping into the woods without losing so much as a clump of fur. The same sow will teach her cubs to hunt by turning them against moose three times their size.

  The bear Tor shot was a full-grown male in its prime. It was out there hiding. It would be confused and aggressive. It would kill for a chance to lick its wounds and die alone, in peace.

  Vigi had always been a good tracker. He’d been bred for this. He moved silently, the black curtain over his high arched tail w
agged in excitement, like a flag leading Tor farther up the mountain. Every now and again Tor would find blood or tufts of fur making the tracking easy, only to suddenly stop, the wound likely clogged from the gut or something the bear ate. That’s how it worked with this kind of wound.

  Tor had to hustle to keep up. He loosed his coat to keep from overheating. He could already feel the sweat and his shirt clinging to his chest. He still had to get back, and the cold could kill him just as easily as the bear. Vigi barked. Tor dried his palms, then regripped. He was holding a seax in one hand and a two-handed axe in the other. He would’ve preferred a spear. Something he’d wished he had with him at least once per trip, but still never carried in. Too long for the woods. Heavy too. There also wasn’t a trip he hadn’t wished, at least once, he’d had more clothes, or more food, or just one piece of dry wood.

  The thick brush finally opened up. They were back on the trail. He’d been walking head down to follow the tracks, arms up to keep the raking limbs out of his face. He didn’t realize they’d circled so close to camp. Wouldn’t it be lucky if it’d crawled up onto the sledge to take its final nap?

  Tor was glad to be able to stand up straight again. Vigi was staring into a thicket of briars and stunted trees.

  Vigi broke his crouch, the standing hair settling back down the length of his back. Maybe it’s dead.

  “Where is he boy?” It was snowing again. “I wish we had more light.” A little chunk of snow plopped onto Tor’s shoulder. He couldn’t believe they might not find that bear. There was nothing worse than waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of wolves running down an animal you stuck with an arrow. If they didn’t claim that bear tonight, by morning there wouldn’t be enough left for the ravens.

  Tor looked at old Vigi, nose down to the ground again. Could he have lost the scent? Maybe it was time to start bringing Jakl or Sterkr on these trips. He’d known it was coming, but it would kill Vigi to be left at home. He was old, but he lived for these hunting trips.