by Derek Nelsen
“The last thing Tor said was that he would kill us if we didn’t take the treasure and leave. But we stayed.” Time to remind him of our allegiance. “We would never leave you at the mercy of the man who betrayed your father. So instead of leaving as rich men, we came here for weapons—so we could protect you.” Orri couldn’t believe it himself, but somehow, he’d found a way to make his case. Stories were like that. Sometimes you just keep talking and out of nowhere you’ll make your point.
Well, now he had to remind Vidar that his life was still in his hands. Vidar would stop this—he was sure of it. Orri leaned down, got his grip, exhaled for the lift, and-
“There you are, Vidar,” someone else spoke.
It was Pedar and his beautiful wife, Skadi, with their young and possibly even more beautiful daughter, Anja. Well, by Vidar or any other, at least the game was over. And Orri won. He rubbed his back and stretched as he got back to his feet.
“Ja, you found me. Am I Elsa’s prisoner, that I cannot get some fresh air with my men who I haven’t even seen until today?” Vidar lifted Ubbi’s hair to get a better look at the ugly wound, then let it fall. Orri he ignored, leaving him on the fjord standing over a rock like an imbecile. In a twisted kind of way, it was too bad it ended like this. Orri was kind of curious how long Vidar would have let him go before telling him to stop on his own. And in a twisted way, he wondered if the ice would’ve stood against the last stone.
“Don’t say such a thing,” said Skadi, almost flirting. “We have treated you very well. My daughter waited on you every day while you were asleep, didn’t you Anja?”
Anja buried her head in her mother’s fur.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” said Pedar.
Vidar scanned his men, then up to Skadi’s pleading face. “Alright, we’re pretty much done here.” Then he started walking to the sleigh.
Orri hung his head and exhaled. Without a thought of thanking Thor, he started shuffling his feet back to shore.
“Actually, would you like to see something?” Vidar asked his host family.
Orri slid to a stop. He was involuntarily shaking, like the last leaf clinging to a branch in an autumn breeze.
Pedar just leaned forward.
“Orri is trying to see if the gods love him,” explained Vidar. “He’s left something on the ship and wanted to see if he could break through the ice to get it.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” whispered Pedar to Vidar. “He’s likely to fall through if he succeeds.”
“He thinks it’s important to try. Don’t you, Orri?” Vidar smiled. “Give it everything you’ve got this time; we’re all watching.”
Orri couldn’t believe his luck—or the extent of Vidar’s cruelty. Ubbi didn’t even mumble a protest to help him, either. The crack at his feet had just had time to freeze over with an icy glaze. With a deep inhale, Orri worked the stone up until it rested onto his shoulder. He remembered Thor again, and prayed until he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Well. This was it. Orri looked at the shattered glass floor, boosted the stone as high as he could manage, and slammed it down with everything he had left.
The only thing that last stone broke was Orri’s delusions of importance. Vidar rode off with the family, leaving his men behind to make their own way home.
Pedar told Orri later, that while he was struggling to raise that last rock, Vidar was telling Ubbi that he didn’t think a hundred rocks could’ve broken that ice, and that he expected to see them both at Elsa’s in the morning, with his treasure.
Orri’s wet feet froze to the ice with every step he made to shore. The gods had chosen his fate, or maybe it was luck, or maybe it was just that the ice was too thick in the first place. He was sure once Vidar had time to think about it, he’d realize Orri’d been doing the right thing for him all along. Maybe eventually he’d even reward him for it.
Orri’s feet were too cold for such reflection. It was going to be a long walk home.
Harvest Festival
Runa wanted to show off her new servant, Kiara, to her friends, so she made the whole family arrive early and help with the preparations of the hall.
Erik didn’t mind. He’d sampled every meat and dish that walked through the door. Even Tor was there. He made the boys fill the troughs with firewood from the shed, and he didn’t help at all, which was odd.
After the incident in the woods, he said he wasn’t going hunting again for a few weeks, and he didn’t. Instead, he stayed home and bossed Erik and Toren around—and caught up on his sleep.
The boys had never found out what happened that day. Their father had come home with the sword but refused to talk about how. When they asked about it, he said it was over. That meant it was not to come up again, unless he brought it up. It’s the kind of thing Tor said when a big fish got away, or if one of them missed an easy bow shot. Erik figured he’d hear the story that night from Orri after one or two drinks. He wasn’t the type to keep his mouth shut about anything.
The harvest festival was one of the few times the entire village, men and women, young and old, came together in the hall. There would be food and drink for everyone. Even the servants would join in.
It was a time for getting drunk with your neighbors, some of whom hadn’t been seen since the soil thawed. And for some, this would be the last time they’d be seen until the ring ceremony, which wasn’t for months, not until the winter solstice. The food for that was being delivered that night, too.
For everything brought in, half would be set aside for the solstice. Kind of a village tithe to ensure there would be something to look forward to, even when some families would already be rationing at home. Life was hard, and these celebrations were the only things most people had to look forward to all year long.
Erik was no exception. He loved seeing his father buy and sell and barter with the neighbors. He even liked to hear the women arranging marriages. It was a special time of music and songs and wonderful stories, stories of other times and worlds, of heroes and gods, and Elves and Dwarfs and Giants. And if they were lucky, Old Erik would tell one about dragons.
This was the last exciting thing before the gathering season, when the activities of the village moved indoors to wait out the long dark months ahead. Winter was difficult, even for the wealthy. It was a time of scarcity and darkness, when people hunkered down like animals in burrows until the sun’s warmth beckoned them to come out again in the spring. It was a time to reap not what had been sown, but what had survived to bear fruit.
But tonight, was a celebration.
Ragi’s family was late, as usual. Their servants had been there all day, of course. Elsa was pretty much running the kitchen. But Toren had been keeping an eye on the door for Anja, and Runa for Skadi, and for some reason Tor had been watching the door as well.
Erik hoped his father had worked out an arrangement with Orri since they’d had some time to talk. Orri said they’d be leaving in the spring, and Erik still planned to be with them. Ubbi could be a grouch, but the thought of staying one more year under Runa’s oppression was too much to bear. The only thing she and Erik seemed to agree on lately was that it was time for Erik to find his own way. And the Vikings were the only ship out of town.
Knowing this might be his last harvest festival here made the fifteen-year-old feel a little nostalgic. He hoped the Vikings would stay long enough for Toren’s wedding. Erik didn’t really care, but he thought he would like to be there for that. Kind of one last family party before he set off.
The doors creaked open and the hall filled with noise. More from outside than within. As soon as Ragi poked his head through the door, Erik waved him over. Then came Anja, beautiful as always, dressed like a princess. Toren immediately went to greet her, and Runa wasn’t far behind.
The excitement inside the hall grew with the new arrivals. It sounded like the entire village was right behind them, waiting impatiently outside. Finally, the party was about to begin.
; “What took you so long?” Erik punched Ragi on the arm. He squinched his eyes as if he was hurt. What a girl. Pedar held the door open. Then came the surprise.
The giant Viking, Vidar, ducked in under the doorway.
As if a stopper had been pulled, the rest of the village poured in right behind. They must have been following the giant through town to get a first look at him out in the daylight. He was a spectacle. Unlike any man Erik had ever seen before. Broader than fat Orri, and a head taller than his father, Tor.
The behemoth was followed close behind by Orri and Ubbi, then their host families, then it seemed like the entire rest of the village.
Everyone piling in after the Vikings seemed to be looking for Tor, like they wanted to see them side by side or something. Tor’s head shook and he scowled at the sight of the Vikings and the gawkers coming in behind.
Soon the hall was filled with the commotion of low talking families shuffling to their usual places between long benches and even longer tables.
Old Afi, the village gothi, or lawspeaker, rose from his unimpressive seat. His place was above everyone else's, on a raised platform at the head of the hall, next to the empty throne. He motioned for Vidar to come closer, his aged face uneasy, like a man who’d been offered a plate of rotten fish for breakfast.
Orri and Ubbi followed Vidar to the front of the hall. Vidar’s gaze seemed to lock with Old Erik’s mismatched eyes as he passed.
Old Erik was the gothi’s younger, but still very old, brother. The two were relics. Runa said they arrived about the time Tor did, and she swore they hadn’t changed in all those thirteen years.
Old Erik nodded slightly, like a teacher reassuring his pupil. Vidar glared back like he didn’t need anyone’s encouragement.
Erik was glad when a hush fell over the hall as Old Afi spoke quietly to the Viking.
“I am told you are Vidar, son of Olaf.”
“I am.” Vidar’s gaze flicked between the elder and the empty throne. “I will speak to the jarl.”
“They call me Old Afi. I am the gothi of this village. We are all farmers, save a few, and have no need for a jarl, here.”
“No jarl?” He looked surprised. “Are you the leader, then?”
“We are governed by the law,” said the gothi. “This is a village of free men.”
“Are we not in Norway?” Vidar asked. “Who do you pay tribute to?”
With a slow and shaky hand, the elder sipped from a plain, wooden cup. “We are bound by the same laws as your father, the jarl, and that is what makes us free—not by the permission of any man.”
Erik noticed Pedar raise his eyebrows to his father, Tor. As if to say, I told you so.
Vidar turned to Ubbi and Orri and his face began to turn red, the way Ubbi looked whenever he went berzerk during training. Erik couldn’t help but check to make sure none of the Vikings were carrying sticks. They weren’t. Then, just the way he cut in on Ubbi to stop him from killing one of the boys, Orri put his hand on Vidar’s shoulder.
“Then you lead these people?” Orri interjected. “An old man who wears the law for a crown? How convenient for the old man, wouldn’t you say?”
Vidar looked at Orri like he might kill him on his way to sit on the empty throne.
Orri winked at Vidar, as if he knew what his captain was thinking. “Jarl Olaf always says, the gods allow men to have thrones to find out which among us are willing to lead—men with ambition, men who can give you opportunity—like Jarl-”
Vidar slapped his big mitt over Orri’s face, one of his sausage fingers grazing along the fat man’s teeth.
“What?” asked Tor. The room burst into a low mutter. “What was your man going to say? It sounded like he was about to claim our village for your father.”
Vidar looked at Tor as if he was puzzled by the man.
Old Afi held up a hand toward Tor as if to ask him to stand down. Tor’s shoulders relaxed, and so did the tension in the room. Then Old Afi decided to forego his usual long speeches and surprised everyone when he got right to the point. “Why are you here, Vidar?”
“That is a question my people only ask of old men like you.” Vidar kept his eye on Tor as he spoke. “Men who live long, uneventful lives—who die in their beds rather than in the pursuit of glory.”
Vidar looked like a man destined for glory. Erik sat up straight to try to catch his eye as the giant surveyed the field of men.
“Why am I here? Blame the gods!” Vidar filled an empty cup from a pitcher of mead and took a long draught, then stepped around Tor—ignoring him. “Maybe Odin finally answered the prayers of your hungry sons, or your lonely daughters. I don’t know. Although this looks like a nice little village, I would prefer to be sitting at my father’s table, to be hearing stories of his great adventures beyond the sea and news of my brother Egil’s as well, not sitting here in this small hall that smells more of manure than mead, where men talk like slaves, mired in plans of growing crops and raising chickens and goats.”
Tor watched Afi for a signal that never came.
Instead, the old man smiled and signaled toward the kitchen. “Bring our guest food, and more to drink. He hungers. He thirsts. How can a man feel welcome when he has so many needs?” Then the elderleader turned his attention back to the Viking. “I want to hear more about your journey, and, more importantly, what we can do to help get you home to your father.”
Viking's Story
Erik loved feast days. He imagined he’d be eating like this every day, once he joined the Vikings. The smell of spit-fired venison, goat, chicken, and even beef permeated the hall. So much meat had been burned it had completely masked the scent of the fish. Dried fish, salted fish, fish stored in kegs and kept with lye—a food used in every meal in every kitchen and on every ship to flavor the water and to fill pots and pot bellies alike. And Erik was gorging himself on all of his favorites, and settling in for some good, Viking tales.
“Tell us, then,” said one of the farmers. “Tell us of your journey.”
“I’m no storyteller.” Vidar scowled at him as if he’d hurt men for less.
“Come on, don’t be modest. We don’t have any Skalds here,” said young Bjorn.
“We ain’t got no stories worth telling,” laughed his drunk father, Jan.
The hall fell silent, and all eyes were on Vidar. The Viking’s face turned red, at first from embarrassment, then resentment. Just as he looked like he was going to hit someone, Orri put his hand on Vidar’s shoulder and pushed himself to his feet.
“I’d be glad to tell the tale, Captain.” The snakes on his bald head slithered when the fat man raised his eyebrows.
Vidar shifted his angry look to Orri, then nodded a tentative approval.
Orri took a quick bite off a chicken leg and washed it down with his drink. A sea of faces stared in waiting. Then he smiled, as if he was finally in his element, and began to tell their tale.
“Ours was one of just ten ships.” Orri paused to fill his cup again. Erik leaned in, along with the rest of the hall. Orri smiled again. “Our captain’s father, Jarl Olaf, had led us across the North Sea to the west. We visited many lands, met some strange people with even stranger customs. We had a profitable journey.” He shrugged to Vidar, as if goading him for approval. Vidar nodded, as if he didn’t appreciate being drug into Orri’s show. Orri started nodding again, as if trying to remember where he left off. “Ja, that’s right. We had run into some stubborn hosts on our way home, while in Ireland.”
Erik watched as Kiara jumped up from their table and ran back into the kitchen. He must’ve been talking about her village.
“The trouble caused some of the ships, including ours, from returning home as early as we had planned. By the time we got our oars in the water, the early frost had already set in.” He looked directly at Vidar as if for approval. Vidar gave him a stone face look, as if he was curious how the story would turn out. The people were drinking in every word. “Vidar, our captain, considered staying over the
winter.” Then he made quick eye contact with Tor and nodded as if looking for affirmation from someone who’d understand. “That would have been the sensible thing to do, ja?”
“But I am not always sensible,” interrupted Vidar. He looked at Orri as if he would pay for telling this story. Vidar emptied his cup, then started to refill it. “I wanted to get home. The women were pretty enough, and the food was to my liking, but I just didn’t like the smell of the place. And unlike you fine people, I don’t think they liked me or my men being there very much, either.”
Vidar laughed. Orri nervously laughed with him. Then, like a wave, laughter rolled across the room until everyone was laughing nervously along.
The villagers all started filling cups, steins, and horns and settling in for the rest of the story, interested in what happened next.
Orri looked to Vidar, red-cheeked, as if for approval. Vidar motioned for him to continue. Everyone watched as Orri wiped sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. Erik was curious if the tattoos on his head would wipe off. They didn’t. Orri began walking around the room as he continued, “But it proved to be too late. We got caught in bad seas and even worse weather. And even with our fearless leader manning the rudder, our ship was separated from the rest.
Vidar stood. “I don’t know what happened to the others. My father, my brother, the ships that left before us, but we were out too long.” Vidar stared into the drink in his cup. Erik looked into his own cup, too, curious what the giant might be seeing. The light of one hundred fires reflected off its calm surface. It must have reminded Vidar of the many nights he’d spent at sea.
When Vidar sat back down, Orri picked up where he left off. “Having lost our way, our means of navigation, and most of our sail in a storm that seemed to go on and on...” Orri cleared his throat. “Our navigator did the best he could, using the sun and stars, but soon we ran low on food. Then we ran low on-” His voice faded, then he smiled and cleared his throat again, and held up his cup.
