by Derek Nelsen
“My hands are freezing,” Ragi complained. “Whose idea was this, anyway?”
“Your hands are freezing? I wish I had gloves as fine as yours,” replied Magnus. “Besides, it’s not even winter yet. It’s barely past harvest.” A snowball flew past Ragi’s head. “That Fjord horse is the only one of you two who should be complaining here.”
“Harvest?” asked Ragi. “What harvest? You mean from that potato field and goat pasture you call a farm?”
“Why are you here, Ragi?” Erik was sick of hearing about how hard winter was going to be this year. Runa had already pounded it into his head.
“Your two families together only put up half the stores we did.”
“Again, with the ‘we’.” Erik shook his head. “Ragi, have you ever pulled a weed?”
Another snowball sailed.
“Hey, cut it out,” Toren ordered. “There it is.”
The dragon lay sleeping, half drowned. Its hull leaned to one side from the push of a mass of ice trying to follow the tides out of the Hidden Fjord.
As Ragi dismounted, Toren, Erik, and Magnus took the harnesses off Kratr, Jakl, and Sterk. The three dogs lapped up icy water. Then as if on cue, they all raised their heads, keened their ears, and raced back into the woods.
Ragi fed his horse a treat and watched Erik use his hatchet to split and then quarter calf sized pieces of white birch he’d carried to the site on his sled.
“Next time you need wood let me know. I can help.”
Erik put down the wood, walked up to Ragi and held out his hatchet. “We could use some more wood.”
Magnus began to take off his layers of thick outer clothes and lay them on his sledge.
Ragi ignored the hatchet and changed the subject. “Would you strip down before going out there?” A small glacier steamed as it floated by.
“Ragi, too bad your father’s coin has made you an idiot. If I get my clothes wet, I’ll be a block of ice before we get past your father’s farm.” It warmed Magnus to have a chance to pick on Ragi—it was one of his favorite things to do.
Within six tries, Toren used a pair of stones and a pocket of dry tinder to turn some kindling and split birch into a nice little fire.
“One of these days I’m going to get you to teach me how you do that so quickly,” said Ragi.
“Nobody’s stopping you from trying it right now.” Toren didn’t even raise his head. “You won’t learn anything by standing there petting that old nag.”
“Hmmm.” Ragi stroked his horse’s nose. “Next time let me know before you start so I can see your trick.”
Magnus pulled off all his shirts at once. “I’ll show you a trick.” Dropping his pants around his ankles, he bent over to display his freezing, reddening backside to the jockey and asked, “Ever seen a faerie burp?”
Ragi covered his eyes, looked over at the half-frozen fjord, and shivered. “You’re insane.”
“It would be insane to stand around petting a horse and wishing it was warmer,” said Magnus. “While more silver and gold than I’ll see in a lifetime sink to the bottom of the fjord in the belly of that ship.”
“If that fat Viking didn’t think this was as crazy as feeding the nisse in the barn, he’d be out here doing this himself,” replied Ragi.
The smile left Magnus’s face when his naked toes first touched the water. “Aaaayyyy!” His jaw fell and stayed open as he concentrated on balancing along an exposed edge of the ship’s prow. Ice flowed around the ship in bands like a false floor. Balance began to fail as Magnus’s eyes shifted between floating ice biting his ankles and stone shore falling fathoms farther away with every outgoing step.
“My father wants us to be the ones to save the jarl’s son. That’s why he insisted Elsa care for him at our house. That’ll be worth more than anything you find in there.”
“That’s funny.” By now Erik was naked, except for his long shirt, turning like a pig on a spit in front of the fire. “The giant’s the one our father wanted to tie to the anchor of that ship before sinking it to the bottom of the fjord.”
“Shut up you two,” Toren growled. “Careful Magnus, do you see it?”
“I think so. Of course, it had to be all the way back near the tiller.” Magnus chattered. “I think that’s—” the ship lurched, legs stiffened, toes clung, but it was no use. Magnus sprawled face first across a remnant of cloth sail into stacked oars and chests of clothes half floating in a saltwater slush. Long seconds after the splash, he bobbed to the top again, gasping to catch his breath as if in shock from the icy plunge.
Erik ran past the dragon’s prow and down the rocky jetty before losing his footing and tripping into a dive. The breath knocked out of him when he hit the slurry. Forgetting to swim in his panic, he gagged on icy slush as he gulped for air. Frozen, time stood still, an eternity between breaths, his mind preoccupied with sinking. How far he would fall before reaching the bottom of the deep fjord?
“Erik!”
Toren! With a feeble kick, Erik followed his brother’s cries back to the surface. After what felt like an eternity, Erik emerged as far out as the belly of the ship.
“Whoah!” Magnus’s face was the color of death, but his voice was lively, as if he was trying to convince himself everything would be alright. “This water is freezing!” His pain echoed off the face of the stone as if the mountain itself was agreeing, having spent its eons also trying to climb up out of the cold North Sea.
Everything inside Erik called him back to shore, but he fought both the urge and the current, put his head down and swam toward his over-zealous friend.
“Ragi,” Toren commanded as he started tying the dog harnesses together. “Bring me your horse.”
Suddenly, a piece of white birch splashed Erik in the face as it landed in the belly of the ship. Erik was confused, but he pressed on. By the time he reached Magnus he had found his footing on the submerged ledge near the aft of the ship.
“Er-r-rik,” Magnus’s teeth chattered as he pulled him close.
“I’m alright,” Erik sputtered. “F-f-f-freezing, but alright.”
They were both splashed this time. A white piece of birch floated nearby.
“Swim to the float,” Ragi yelped.
Confused, Erik saw a rope from the float to the shore. Instinctively, he leaned for it, but Magnus caught him by the shoulder before he lunged.
“Wait!” Magnus yelled right in his ear. “The chest. It’s right there. I couldn’t manage. But togeth-th-ther—” his breaths were shallow, “we can get it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” yelled Ragi.
Erik started drifting, but Magnus pulled him back to upright.
“When will we ever have this ch-ch-chance again?” Magnus’s eyes looked wild.
“Forget it!” yelled Toren. He was knee deep, probably near the ledge where the land fell off into the depths. “A Viking’s favor is not worth dying over.”
“Not for you!” Erik yelled back. “You have an inheritance.” Then he looked wild-eyed into the water.
“Just wait.” Magnus’s skin was pale, his blue lips shivered. “Be still for a second, and look.” His finger shook violently as it pointed toward a submerged chest slid against the aft rail near the tiller. “That’s got to be it. It’s the only one not fl-fl-floating.” His eyebrows were white ice. “I tried but I can’t manage it. That’s got to be it.”
“Get out of there, Erik. Magnus, don’t be stupid.” Ragi’s words could be heard as echoes from the shore.
“What else have we got, Erik?” Magnus pleaded. “We may never have a chance like this again.”
Erik stopped his struggle. He craned his neck to the side with a shiver that ran the length of his body, his wool shirt weighed heavy on twitchy muscles and cold bones. “We are idiot’s, aren’t we?” Then he started to count. “On three.” He gasped as he mouthed One, two. Then both took a deep breath and dropped down under the icy slush. Erik’s eyes burned from the salt and cold, but he forced them open to find the chest. The
cold crippled his lungs and it felt like he was out of air the second his face hit the water.
Erik couldn’t believe how tough Magnus was, and refused to be the one to quit first. The chest was heavy, and the weight of it planted his feet firmly to the sunken deck. The ship lurched as they moved forward, and Magnus finally dropped the load, breaking Erik’s grip, allowing him to swim up to refill his aching lungs.
Immediately, Magnus started counting again. On three, they filled the air with a smoky exhale, gasped in another shallow breath, and back down they went.
With everything Erik had he stayed with Magnus. They had to climb the tilted wreck, sometimes falling to a knee, and pulling their way up, one foot at a time. This time Erik grabbed Magnus’s shoulder, and both swam the one foot to fresh air.
“Whoo, huhhh, whoo, huhhh.” They had made it to the belly of the dragon.
“Last time.” And Magnus skipped the counting, inhaled heavily, and pushed up with his hands to force himself back down. Erik followed. The two had a rhythm of sorts, moving the chest a foot then dropping it, a foot further then dropping it again. The chest was moving, but when Magnus’s grip failed on the third, Erik fell forward hard, then Magnus pulled on his shirt to drag him back up.
This time they could stand. After filling their lungs with ever shallower breaths, Erik led this time. He leaned his chest into the water, and craning his neck, he found his grip. “I’ve got it!” he cried out as if they’d already won.
Magnus was shorter, so he buried his face, then whipped Erik with his hair when he splashed back out again.
“Aaaghh!” He looked like he was going to cry. “I can’t lift it,” his voice was beaten. “My hands are dead.” He coughed white smoke and his body shivered uncontrollably. “I c-c-can’t hold on.” He held up his hands. They were bluer than before. His fingers were curled and lifeless.
“Magnus, Erik.” Toren was less than seven paces away, “you’ve got to get out of there. Grab the rope and I’ll pull you in.”
Erik coughed, “M-M-Magnus.” He shivered. “I’ll get the chest. You go back to the fire.” Not waiting for a response, Erik grabbed the rope and dropped back down into the water.
“If you drown, I’m not going to try to save you.” Ragi paced back and forth in front of the warm fire. “It’s only money. Stupid fools.”
Erik emerged from the slush. Magnus’s eyebrows had re-frozen back to white. “Pull.” he wheezed, not able to manage a shout.
Toren grabbed Ragi’s coat and pushed him up his mount. “Pull!”
Ragi complained as he mounted the horse and nudged her on.
“Father was right.” Toren stripped off layers of shirts and his waterlogged boots. “I wish Ran’s daughters had dragged this dragon down to the depths and presented it to Hella herself.” Toren grimaced as he watched the horse steadily edge away from the shore.
Erik grabbed Magnus by the waist with one numb arm and tried to hold the rope with the other, but his grip failed, and the lifeline sank below the surface.
Toren cursed every god he could think of as he splashed into the icy water. The ship teetered, then lurched, sinking them all down to their chins. He swam around behind and grabbed the birch floating at the end of the rope. “Grab onto me,” he choked. “Pull Ragi!” he chided. “Pull faster!” Toren was robbed of his commanding voice, but it was enough.
The boys fell face first into the snow next to the fire as the horse dragged all three ashore.
“Ragi, over here.” Toren’s hands shook violently as he held up fistfuls of clothes he’d left laying by the fire. Dry Magnus off and help him put on wh-wh-whatever’s dry.”
“T-T-Toren.” Erik could barely hear himself speak. “The chest. Get the chest.”
“Stupid fools. If you die over that box, I promise in the next life I’ll hunt you down and kill you again myself.”
Erik heard the crunch of his frozen shirt as Toren stripped it off his back, dried him as best he could, and put him back in dry clothes. Toren stoked the fire until it was so hot Erik began to itch all over.
“Ragi,” Toren said, sounding worried. “Rig up Magnus’s sledge to the back of the horse.”
“Why don’t you do it?” Ragi held his hands to the fire.
“I’m going to make sure these fools don’t die for nothing. Best you do as I say, or I’ll take you with me.”
The shock on Ragi’s face from the threat mirrored the look on Toren’s when he entered the water for a second time. Minutes later, Tor’s eldest son heaved a wooden chest, brass trimmed and leaking water, up over the bow and onto the safety of the shore.
Ragi left Erik and Magnus by the dwindling fire to look at the prize, but Toren’s scowl sent him back. Taking a minute to warm his hands, Toren said nothing as he pulled on his damp undershirt, wet pants, and soggy boots, grabbed two hatchets, and hustled into the forest.
As the fire started dwindling for a second time, Toren had decided they had to risk making the trip home or they’d lose the benefit of the waning sun.
If only for the use of his horse, it was good that Ragi had come. The old Fjord horse towed both sleds home, the first with Erik and the loot, the second with an unconscious Magnus strapped aboard and covered with anything left that could be considered warm and dry.
From his back, Erik watched his brother ski home with the help of the three dogs. Toren was as blue as the dwindling Hidden Fjord, clad only in his undershirt, icicle lined trousers, and frozen boots.
The Giant Awakes
“So, you’re finally waking up. They didn’t think you were going to make it for awhile, there. Master Pedar was right to leave you with me.” A tall, hunched, well-fed woman with bulging gray eyes lurched over and put a cold hand on Vidar’s forehead.
“Where am I?” Vidar grunted as he sat. He pushed away covers of reindeer skins and odd pelts and caught his breath as if drowning from heat and deep sleep. His legs were hanging over the end of the straw-filled mattress, his heels lay heavily on the floor.
“Take it slow now, don’t hurt yourself.” The woman smiled an awkward, flirtatious grin. “I am Elsa.” Her teeth were stained as yellow as a buttercup. “You’ve been asleep for a long time.” Her loose neck swung a little when she talked, hanging under her jowls like a sheep’s udder.
He winced at the sight of the old maid. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Magnus,” she sung in a sour note. A short stocky boy around sixteen lumbered into the room. “’Ats a boy. Bring me some of that broth, will you dear?”
Magnus grabbed a bowl, then stopped at the sight of Vidar. Elsa filled it with a chunky, foul smelling broth.
“Sorry, I don’t know your name,” she said.
The boy moved slowly, soup sloshing from a shaking hand. He stopped short. His face pale, he stared as if someone had been raised from the dead.
“Vidar.” He took the bowl before the boy made him wear it. “Relax. I’m not a draugr.” His voice was deep and gruff, even for him.
Elsa put her arm around the boy, beaming. “This is my son, Magnus.”
Lucky for the boy, he didn’t get his looks from his mother.
“Short as you are tall, Magnus is,” she feigned a whisper.
The boy stood up straighter, his pale cheeks flushed with color.
“Oh, don’t be so sensitive. Tell master Pedar the Viking, er, Vidar’s awake.”
“He’s not my master.” The rest of Magnus’s face turned red as a harvest beet.
“As long as he’s putting a roof over our heads, he is. Go on now. I’d better not hear you talking like that again, you hear me?”
Magnus slammed the door behind him before she could finish her sentence.
Someone needs to beat some humility into this boy, Vidar thought to himself.
Elsa looked apologetic. “Boys with their tempers. Best if you don’t mention that to the master, eh? Magnus’ll be getting his soul ring this year, and my lands he’s full of himself. He’s lucky to be alive, really.” It wa
s just the two of them, but the woman sidled up to Vidar as if she was telling some dark secret. “Just this week, he and some of his friends fell through the ice playing at the fjord. Nearly froze to death.”
For the first time since he woke, Vidar wanted this woman to keep talking. “What were they doing at the fjord?” he asked.
She shrugged her broad shoulders, blushed, then leaned in closer. “He needs a good role model. Poor boy never knew his father.” Her mouth curved into a sultry smile, then she winked awkwardly, like a horse blinking a fly out of its eye.
Pretending he didn’t follow where the troll was going with all her weak and unwelcome flirting, Vidar held up the bowl and nodded as if happy for something to eat. He was hungry. Despite the odor of onions, and whatever the color brown smelled like, he poured its contents into his empty stomach. His face went blank as he looked at the old maid in despair.
On unsure legs, he lurched to make his way to the door and slammed his head into a beam along the ceiling. He swallowed some of it, which was something he was trying to avoid.
His stomach wasn’t interested. Immediately he began to retch and hobbled to the door, flung it open, and stepped outside into the snow.
At first, he spit out anything still swirling, simultaneously sickening and burning every harshly awoken taste bud. Then he began to gag.
The contents of his stomach painted the white snow. After he was done, Vidar reached his thick fingers back into his mouth, and freed some type of organ from between his back teeth. What had she given him? He threw the thing down and it skidded, still smoking, across the top of the snow. It was something from a small animal, hopefully just a chicken. He gagged again just considering the alternatives.
Three ravens flew down from the roof and attacked the offering, fighting over the heart or stomach, or whatever it was, before it had a chance to freeze solid.
Eyes squinting in the bright morning light, his back cracked as he stood up straight. He was sweating from the retching, and the cold air felt good. At least I am alive, he thought.
As he watched the black birds fight, he turned to one side to relieve himself, adding dark yellow rings around the still smoking brown-colored snow.
