by Derek Nelsen
“All right,” said Orri. “You’ve proved you weren’t lying. Now give it ‘ere. Let us ‘ave a feel of it.” Orri was speaking in his friendly voice—the fake one he used when he told the others what he wanted for the next practice’s lunch. “That may be the only true sword in this entire village other than the ones you left to rust in the belly of our ship.” Getting the treasure seemed like it should have been enough, but as soon as Orri had the gold and silver, he asked about the iron.
“What do you mean you didn’t get the swords?” Orri’d acted as if they might as well have not gone into the ship at all. He didn’t even mention it until they handed him the treasure. Then he acted like he was doing them a favor when he paid them their two gold pieces, as if they may owe him just because they didn’t go back into the frigid water to rescue weapons they didn’t even know were in there. Had he wanted the sail, too? How ‘bout the oars? Having them would’ve been useful, come spring.
Ubbi stepped forward with an eye to take the sword. Erik reflexively raised it high, just as Ubbi had taught him. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad teacher, after all.
With an upward thrust of his stick, Ubbi cracked Erik across the break of his wrists. Before he even felt the pain, he saw the sword fumble out of his dead hands. Ubbi dropped his stick and picked the sword up off the ground the way a boy skipping stones might trade a roundish stone for a skippier one. Erik’s hands finally came back to life in a scream of agony that resonated from both wrists.
“Ehhhgh!” Erik groaned through clenched teeth. Sore muscles began to tense, elbows drew in, and a wave of pain climbed up his spine until it forced his eyes shut. His body had to process a reaction. By the time his legs gave way and he dropped to one knee, his eyes were ringing out tears like they were washcloths. For a second, he was embarrassed. Forgetting all else, he cursed himself for crying in front of the Vikings. And his friends.
“Come to me, son.” Erik turned to see his father walking towards him with an axe in each hand, and he didn’t look like he was there to fell trees. Behind him came Toren, then Kiara, almost hiding. Her eyes were trained on the Vikings, and she was crying as hard as he was, only hers were tears of fear.
Erik was getting the strength back in his fingers, and the pain gave way to a prickly burn. He sprang toward his father, trying to put some distance between himself and Ubbi, and that sword. He stumbled and fell. His mind raced through the hundreds of times someone had fallen while sparring and how Ubbi’s response was to pounce. He could almost hear Orri say it; he’d said it so often. “A man off his feet is as good as dead.” That would always be followed by a crack of the stick across exposed ribs, a painful lesson made worse by the fear of knowing the stick was coming back again. Expecting the worst, Erik scurried like a squirrel despite the pain in his wrists, falling toward his family until he slid face down at his father’s feet, burying his tears in the snow.
“I’m sorry papa. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”
Toren cut him off. “Yes, you did. That’s the problem. You always know exactly what you’re doing. You’re just lucky Kiara told us or who knows-”
“Toren, that’s enough.” Father put his hand on Toren’s chest to get his attention.
Erik couldn’t be mad at his older brother for hating him. Not now. He had left his pride with the tears he spilled at the Vikings feet. Toren was right. They shouldn’t be there. This could lead to real problems for his family. If things went wrong here, the rest of the village may be forced to choose sides—the same villagers who he and his friends and some of their fathers had secretly been trying to ally with the Vikings. But his father was not a convert. Not yet. This could mess up everything.
But Erik had needed help—and his father had come. No matter what he had done he had always been there for him, and always would be.
“Stand up, now.” His father lifted him to his feet, wiped the snow from his face, and hugged his son. “Are you alright?”
“Ja, papa.” Erik felt ten. But he felt safe. He hadn’t been hugged by his father in years. They didn’t do that anymore. The last time he had cried at his father’s feet was when the bear took his sister. And his father forgave him for that, too, even though he would never forgive himself.
Then, like a bear with her cubs, Tor put himself between his boys and the danger. This man had been a simple farmer as far back as Erik had memories. Still, he looked like he was ready to fight—probably for the first time in Erik’s lifetime—armed with two axes made for chopping wood.
Ubbi the berserker, the breaker of sticks and maimer of boys, was holding their family sword in one hand and had picked up his staff again with the other. Statement enough that he was willing to fight if Tor was. The boys had learned to fear him with stick and fist What could he do with a sword? He looked eerily confident.
The other boys scurried back to where Magnus was hiding, but Magnus stepped forward, like he was claiming Tor as his champion, hoping he’d show Ubbi how it feels to have to beg for mercy.
Erik started thinking this through. Ubbi and Orri were outnumbered. Toren was nearly as big as Father. Even though he had never been trained to fight, they didn’t know that. With Magnus, that made it four to two. But then there were the other boys, Ingjaldr and Ivar, and Lars and Ovid. They were friends, but one of the reasons they were chosen to be trained was that their fathers wanted to ally with the Vikings. Had it been their fathers who came out to rescue them from a beating, would Erik have taken their side? Risk his future for loyalty. To what? A farmer who couldn’t offer a future to his own sons, let alone him. No, they needed Orri as much as he did. He needed the Vikings, too. Suddenly, this felt like a big misunderstanding.
“Father, let’s just go. It’s not worth dying over. We’ll get Orri to get it back for us later, after things settle down.”
Orri put a hand on Ubbi’s chest to calm him. But Erik had seen that look in Ubbi’s eyes before. That was the look he gave when the berserker took over.
“Ubbi,” Tor spoke calmly. “That was my father’s sword before it was mine. And it will be my son’s sword after I’m gone. Now put it down and walk away. You’re done here.”
Ubbi didn’t put down the sword. He didn’t walk away. Orri wiped his mouth and smiled. “I don’t think he wants to give it back. There’s something odd about walking around with nothing to defend yourself with other than sticks. It’s not our way. You must remember how odd that felt, eh, Tor?”
Tor turned back to his sons. “I want you to go home.” He looked at the others. “Boys, you too. You’re done today.”
Erik hung his head and started to turn.
“Father, I’m not leaving.” Toren looked like he was trying too hard to look angry or mean or something. But really, he looked scared.
Tor put his hand on Toren’s shoulder. “Your heart is right, but I need you to trust me. They will never disarm as long as they’re outnumbered like this.” The last bit he directed at Erik. “Go on now, we’ll talk about this at supper.” Kiara took Toren’s arm and lead him back down the path. The others made their way down the trails that took them back to their houses, too, but it was a slow retreat. Erik looked to his older brother and thought about how he always managed to make him seem weak, or small. As he watched Kiara lead him down the path by his arm, Erik burned.
Alone with Vikings
“Ubbi, you know you don’t want to fight me,” Tor reasoned.
Ubbi swung the sword back and forth as if getting a feel for its balance, then leaned on the staff defiantly.
Orri broke the silent stare shared between the two men. “Do you think you are the same Tor we all revered so many years ago, old man?”
“Why don’t you stick to your chicken, Orri.” Tor didn’t take his eyes off Ubbi. “Save your snake tongue for farm boys and the villagers whose greed exceeds their intellect.”
Ubbi and Orri were young Vikings when Tor was Olaf’s second. He knew them before Orri had turned into a talking potato and Ubbi still had his to
ngue. Back then they were barely older than Erik, and their only value was pulling an oar. At that time, Tor would have been a god to them. They knew what he was capable of. Back then.
Tor took a step toward Ubbi, the mute raised the sword and stepped back. “Ubbi? You don’t believe this serpent now do you? What would one sword do for you, anyway? There are hundreds of people in or around this village. What did Orri tell you? That if you made an army of boys then the rest would fall in line?”
“Don’t mind him, Ubbi, his own son is on our side,” Orri said smugly. Ubbi glanced at Orri, then down at the chicken burning on the spit.
“Sure.” Tor kept trying to get into their heads. “Take comfort in knowing my fourteen-year-old son wanted to be a Viking. I’m sure that’s the first time that’s happened.” That seemed to have gotten to them, which was dangerous for these two. They were leaderless, alone, and unsure of themselves—used to being part of a bigger army. “What has happened to you, Ubbi? You lose your young captain and think Orri is going to get you home? Why? Because he has a working tongue and was stupid enough to use it to send boys into a sinking ship to steal your master’s treasure? You’d better hope that son of Olaf’s doesn’t wake up to see how you’re spending his father’s money.” Tor laughed. “You can’t even go home again. Not without him. I’d hate to see what Olaf would do to the two survivors who came back without his son. I think he’d make an ugly example out of you two for that.”
“Ubbi. Do you remember this man?” argued Orri.
Ubbi nodded in a frustrated way, as if to say, Of course.
“He’s the traitor, Tor Ovesen. Remember the cold nights we spent at the oar searching for this man? Don’t you let him get to you. Can you imagine if Olaf found out we found his general and let him live?”
“Which son of Olaf’s is that giant, anyway?” It was time for Tor to strike a bargain.
“Vidar,” Orri said. “His youngest.”
Tor couldn’t believe it. He knew Vidar when he was just a little boy. “I tell you what you should do. We’ve got a harvest festival coming up, it’s a big to-do in the hall. Everyone will be there. I’ll get Elsa out of the house—you grab poor Vidar and drag him into the woods and end him there. Steal a few horses while you’re at it, and all the food you can carry. The merchant’s so rich he won’t even notice. Cover him with stones, put a blade in his hand, a few coins on his eyes and send him on his way to Valhalla. Then take your money and go. Stay away from Jarl Olaf, and stay away from here. Everyone will assume Vidar woke up and you all ran off together. No charges, no outlawry, no nothing. Just the two of you with enough money to disappear and have a wonderful life. Let me tell you boys, the farming life ain’t too bad.”
Tor noticed Ubbi’s grip on the sword had loosened, his shoulders had dropped. He had calmed, and he was listening.
Tor took a slow step forward. Ubbi raised the sword again. Tor shook his head. In his mind he kept reminding himself there were two of them, and they were younger than he was. Other than that, he wanted to slap Ubbi for his lack of respect. Fifteen years ago, he’d have had the fat one digging two graves by now. There was something telling about Orri though. He hadn’t moved. No aggression, no nothing. Maybe he still saw the general of his youth.
Time to change tactics. “The next time you raise my father’s sword against me you’d better be ready to use it. Last warning.” Tor couldn’t risk letting Ubbi regain his confidence. Well, it was a fifty-fifty shot and Tor was all out of ideas.
Like the snap of a twig Ubbi turned. Tor remembered Ubbi was a little unstable when he was younger. That’s what caused him to lose his tongue.
It was his knuckles that gave him away. They turned white even before he threw his long black hair back over his shoulder. Those knuckles probably saved Tor’s life.
Tor blocked the first blow with the handle of the axe in his left, then slammed the head of the axe upward to break Ubbi’s jaw or cheek. That would be the quickest way to end the fight, confuse him with a blow to the face. The pain would confuse him enough to allow Tor to come back across with the oak handle and break his nose. If done properly, a broken nose would leave even an experienced warrior defenseless, too blinded with tears to see and choking on his own blood. It was amazing how quick a man goes down when he can’t breathe.
Tor had no plans on killing Ubbi or Orri, that choice he’d leave to them. His right hand came across after the block but just missed the bridge of Ubbi’s nose. He was quick, or Tor had gotten slow. Probably a little of both.
When Ubbi slipped the cross, he spun and caught Tor across his exposed side with his staff. Ribs cracked and Tor felt a stabbing pain as he gasped for his next breath. He shouldn’t have had to breathe that deep. Tor fell backward to get some space but Ubbi came back with another stroke. Iron clanked iron as Tor barely got his axes head up in time to deflect the sword’s downward stroke.
He grunted as he drove forward, shoulder first into Ubbi’s stomach. Much as it pained him, he had to close the gap, or the stick would come next.
Ubbi was surprised by the attack and did not dodge, and the full weight of Tor put him down on his back, burying him deep into the snow. Tor wasn’t sure if he cracked any of Ubbi’s ribs, but he definitely heard the mute gasp as he at least knocked the wind out of him. Anything to slow the Viking down was a small victory.
Before he could be thrown off, Tor slapped his left axe down to pin Ubbi’s sword hand to the ground, and jerked on the right axe’s handle to bring its head skidding across the snow until the bottom of the blade caught Ubbi on the head. It landed with a dull thud. Not a death blow but still Ubbi’s eyes looked dazed from the impact.
Tor smelled the rot of the Viking’s breath as he watched the snow around his head dye red with fresh blood.
Tor pushed up off Ubbi and began to raise his right axe overhead. He wasn’t sure if he was going to offer mercy or end him. He never got to make that choice.
Ubbi buried his sharp knee high up into Tor’s groin, pinching one of his balls on its way to shoving the other up into his stomach.
Tor choked, but managed to make his fall forward, an attempt to try to smother the ugly, tongueless Viking. He knew this wasn’t going to end him, but was hoping to buy himself enough time to find a way to breathe again. The knee had slowed his body but not his instincts, so as he buried his stomach into Ubbi’s face to smother the brute, he turned to make sure Orri was keeping his distance. Then a sharp pain bit into his stomach. “Aayy!” The sound he made was a reaction, not a war cry.
Tor pushed off Ubbi’s face with his hands, burying the man’s bloody head deeper into the snow. With a quick punch he relieved himself of the new source of pain, and Ubbi of at least one tooth. Even so, the mute still managed to tear the fabric of Tor’s outer coat as he jerked away.
A hard thump came across Tor’s back as Ubbi rained down a blind and ineffective blow with his stick. Tor’s attention immediately jumped to Ubbi’s other hand. He had lost sight of the sword. Ubbi threw a right cross, narrowly missing Tor’s jaw. Tor returned a right of his own. Dropping his full weight behind it he finally found Ubbi’s nose.
He heard the crack as cartilage smeared against bone, and a new source of blood smeared crimson across Ubbi’s face. Immediately, his eyes blackened, and he began to cough and spit out mouthfuls of pink and red froth.
Tor knew he felt like he was drowning and if he could hold Ubbi down like this it was possible he might die from choking on his own blood. But he did not need him dead, what he needed was to find that sword.
He rolled clear before another knee could find its way north. A man was never as dangerous as he was when he thought he might be facing death.
Tor fell away just in time to avoid a slow piercing thrust from the sword, which had made its way into Orri’s hand. Tor remembered Orri, too. All mouth. He liked to start fights and then watch others finish them. That was lucky or one of those staffs could have ended this fight long ago.
The second th
rust of the sword was faster but still slower than Ubbi’s worst, and Tor managed to deflect it with the head of the axe in his right. Sliding the head of the other behind the fat man’s heel, Tor planted his forehead into Orri’s soft, warm belly.
Orri tripped and fell as easy as a pine rotted from the inside, and without even trying to break his fall, landed on top of his champion. With only a whisper of a gasp, the last of the air was forced from Ubbi’s lungs as Orri helped him finally find the frozen earth buried deep under the snow.
Tor put his boot on Orri’s stomach as he picked up his father’s blade. Then he coughed and spit. His too was pink with blood. No doubt the next time he relieved himself he’d find his urine to be tinted red to match.
“Take your coin and go, and forget this place exists. I’ll even show you the way.” Tor knew he should’ve killed them both as soon as he said it. What a ridiculous notion. But it had been too long. He had lost the stomach for killing anything that wouldn’t help his family survive the winter. So, he continued with his warning.
“And if you come after me or my sons, I swear I’ll fill your boots full of stones and sink you to the bottom of the fjord, where you can spend your next life as play things for the daughters of Ran. If you try to stay, I’ll find you when you’re alone, even if it’s when your pants are down around your ankles.”
He started to limp away, the pain from his cracked ribs making each step a reminder he was not the man he used to be. Old man. He thought about what Orri had called him.
Swinging his sword like it was a pruning shear, Tor cleared any branch that might force him to change his course and prayed to a God he hadn’t spoken to since his wife died so many years ago. “Where is the freedom she promised, eh? Will I never have peace?”
Checking on the Neighbors
Tor slipped through the woods. He winced every time he lifted his axe, just to push the snow-heavy limbs out of the trail. Had it had been so little-traveled these past years? When the children were younger, the trail had been wide and clear from wear. Besides their constant back and forth between houses, he and Pedar would host dinners for each other at least once a month. Had it been so long? Of course, with the engagement of Anja to Toren the families still came together. But it was so formal now. And taking horses down the road was so much easier.
