Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  Without another thought, I leaped, my eyes focused on the spot where Olaf had vanished beneath the ocean's surface in a fountain of white spray. My stomach lurched and my arms flailed as I flew downward, struggling to stay upright and to keep my feet beneath me. I could feel my clothes rippling and my dark ponytail flying up behind me. The water that moments before had looked so far away rushed at me with alarming speed. As I hit it, I felt first the sting of the ocean's surface as it smacked my open palm. The cold water then embraced me and my body shot downward through the grayness. My bare feet landed on something slick and slimy, and I imagined the giant sea monster Jormungand lurking in the depths. I recoiled and struggled to rise, kicking and floundering until my head broke the ocean's surface.

  Ten paces away, the water churned where Olaf had entered. He had yet to surface and I swam to the spot, then dove into the grayness, my eyes stinging from the salt and the chill as I scanned the murk. Nothing. Panicked, I dove deeper, craning my neck in every direction to locate my friend. It was then that I glimpsed something white far beneath me. I dove even deeper and grabbed for Olaf's body. My fingers clutched something — a tunic, mayhap — and I pulled and kicked for the surface. But I had not expected the weight of Olaf's body, which moved upward with my yanks, but not quickly enough. My lungs burned as I kicked and heaved. My limbs tingled.

  Above, beyond the ocean's surface, the sky beckoned like a portal to a different world. So close, and yet, with Olaf weighing me down, beyond my reach. I redoubled my efforts but made little progress. We would both perish if I did not release my grip. And yet, I could not. I would die with my charge before letting him go.

  More arms suddenly reached out for us. Other boys had come to our rescue and now pulled Olaf upward. To air. To safety. Relieved of my burden, I kicked violently to rise and gasped for breath as soon as my mouth broke the water's plane. It was a foolish thing to do, for no sooner had I opened my mouth than I swallowed a mouthful of seawater and coughed violently. Beside me, the other boys began pulling Olaf's unconscious body shoreward, his young face pointed toward the bleak sky. I did my best to follow with my tingling limbs and my racing heart.

  “Get him on his side,” said Ulf as soon as the boys had pulled his body beyond the crashing surf and laid him on the pebbled beach. Olaf moaned as the boys turned his body. Then, suddenly, he spewed his belly's contents onto the rocks. Ulf patted his back, and Olaf lurched again, his bile and recently chewed food mixing with the gray water on the stones.

  “He will live,” Ulf said with obvious relief.

  “Thank the gods,” replied another.

  I sat back with my rump on the pebbles and wiped the moisture from my face. It was then, in the aftermath of the leap, that my emotions washed over me. That Olaf had stolen my moment before the others, and come so close to death in doing so, infuriated me, and it took every fiber of my young body to keep from beating the little turd further. Beside me, the prince vomited again and all my angry mind could think was that it served him right. At that moment, I hoped he vomited a dozen times. I spat seawater from my mouth and turned my eyes to the sea, away from the boys fawning over the prince.

  And that is when I spied the ship.

  Chapter 2

  The ship sat low in the water, its sweeps dipping and pulling, propelling it through the undulating sea like a graceful serpent. A warship.

  Ulf rose.

  “Who are they?” I asked as I stood with the others. No sail hung from its mast, so the ship was hard to identify.

  “Holger Einarsson,” responded Ulf.

  Holger was a noble who lived to the south, on the border with the Danes who had recently overwhelmed the Swedes in that area. I knew little about him save that he was loyal to King Trygvi and that he had married a Danish woman in order to keep the peace in his lands. I supposed he had come at the request of the king, just as the others had, and so I thought little of his appearance save that he was a friend and not a foe.

  “Come,” said Ulf. “Let us go see what news he brings from the south.”

  I kicked my friend who still moaned on the ground. “Get up.”

  “Leave him be, Torgil,” Ulf spat, eyeing me malignantly. This was a king's son, his gaze said to me, and I had no business kicking him. His look only incensed me more. As is oft the case with me, even now, I was having trouble containing my ire and cared little for his thoughts. He pulled Olaf to his feet. “Come, Olaf. Before Torgil hurts you more.”

  The journey back to King Trygvi's hall was slow and unpleasant, at least for me. It was not far from the bluff to the hall, but it was uphill, and Olaf was weak and needed the support of the others. I too was weak, not to mention cold and wet, but I refused to have the others help me, which only magnified my torment. I was too proud, I suppose. And too angry. So instead of walking with the others and engaging in their excited banter about Olaf's exploits, I plodded along behind, my thoughts locked on the misadventure like a falcon's talons. I had known Olaf for much of my life, and I knew — I knew! — that he would rob me of my glory. That is why I had not wanted him there and why his near drowning, and now the attention the others gave him, angered me so.

  Funny, but I do not recall worrying at the time how close he — or I — had come to death. My father often talked with his comrades by the hearth about the blade-thin gap between life and death. How the lucky shift of a head in the shield wall, or the decision to go right rather than left meant life for one and death for another. And how the Norns, those weavers of a man's fate, wielded the blades that cut the threads of a man's life for simply taking a wrong step. None of those thoughts came to me then. I suppose they should have, but I was young, and my mind saw things more simply.

  “What happened today stays among us,” I grumbled as the group drew nearer to the walls surrounding our borg. “If any of our parents hear of it, it will be punishment for us all.”

  Ulf laughed. “A beating for you, mayhap. Not for me. And not for the others. You alone are Olaf's keeper, are you not? Yet it was we who pulled Olaf from the sea.”

  The others laughed at that, stoking my rage further. “Damn the lot of you,” I cursed them, but they only laughed louder.

  I have said this before: my father's borg stood on the crest of a hill from which one could see in every direction. It sloped down in the east to a large bay and, across it, the heavily forested mainland of Vingulmark. Holger's ship had arrived and was now tied to my father's dock, where my father, King Trygvi, and Queen Astrid, stood to welcome the newcomers. A larger group of onlookers stood on the strand, barely glancing in our direction as we descended through the fort to join them. As the greetings concluded, King Trygvi draped his burly arm over Holger's smaller shoulders and, with my father and Queen Astrid trailing, marched back through the palisades and up into the massive hall that lorded over the landscape.

  We boys waited until the other guests had departed, then headed for the doors of the now crowded hall. Inside, a fire crackled in the long hearth that ran down the center of the cavernous space, bathing the interior in a soft, warm light that danced on the guests and shield-bedecked walls. My father's thralls wove through the mingling crowd, doing their best to deliver drinks and platters of food to the eating boards where the guests were beginning to take their seats.

  “Please, sit,” boomed my father's voice. The hall was his. Therefore it was he — not the king — who presided.

  Olaf and I kept to the shadows near the hall's entrance. “Put on your hood,” I commanded him icily. “It will hide your swollen face.” Olaf nodded and followed my direction. “Come.” I made my way to a table where Ulf and some of the other boys huddled around two of my father's young hirdmen.

  The older of the two hirdmen was a newly sworn warrior named Ubbi, who was Ulf's older brother. Not long before, Ubbi had been like so many of us: just a son of a local bonder looking for adventure and awaiting his chance to prove himself. My father had honored him and his family the previous summer by elevating him to
his hird, for during those times, my father needed as many warriors as he could afford. Ubbi normally sat at the table with my father's other hirdmen, but this night, he was among the boys. Beside him Ingvar, his lifelong friend and another of the newly anointed hirdmen, sat nodding and grinning at something Ubbi was saying. Olaf and I slid onto the bench near them.

  “They are going a-viking and want us to join them,” Ubbi was saying in a hushed voice. It was clear he was speaking of Holger Einarsson and his men.

  “When?” asked Ulf with barely contained excitement.

  “Soon, little brother,” said Ubbi, scuffing Ulf's red hair.

  This response had us looking at each other, then back at Ubbi. I stole a piece of lamb from my neighbor's trencher and popped it into my mouth. “What did King Trygvi say to that?” I asked between chews.

  Ubbi shrugged. “He has not said anything yet.”

  “I would be surprised if King Trygvi decides to go,” offered Ingvar.

  “Why?” responded Olaf defensively. “My father loves to fight.”

  Ingvar smiled at the prince. “Aye, he does. But Erik's sons are not to be trusted, which is why he has not raided, the past two summers. They could come while Trygvi and his army are away and steal you,” Ingvar said with a wolfish grin before poking the lad in the ribs. Olaf jerked and giggled.

  “I am sure he is considering Holger's offer,” added Ubbi. “I, for one, yearn to go.”

  My gaze shifted to the dais at the far end of the hall, where King Trygvi was taking a seat behind the eating table. He was a bear of a man whose frame filled his chair and whose ruddy face was encircled by a mane of brown streaked with strands of gray. An elegant blue cloak draped over his broad shoulders, partially covering his white tunic. Silver bands encircled his wrists. Gold rings adorned his fingers. A thin gold band lay cockeyed around the crown of his head. To his left, the young Queen Astrid sat upright and alert, her curvaceous frame lost in the folds and shine of her finery. To King Trygvi's right, in the place of honor, sat an empty chair. It was intended for my father, but he usually preferred to move about the hall during a feast so that he could mingle with the guests.

  Holger Einarsson had settled with the local nobles at the table nearest the dais. He was not the largest of men, but size is not always an indicator of skill. Men oft spoke of his quickness and cunning. Like an adder with his sword, they said, though it was hard to say whether that was truth or merely the gushing words of a gold-starved skald. The adder part of the description was at least fitting, for he resembled a snake, with a tanned toughness to his skin and a serpentine darkness to his eyes. His black hair fell in greasy waves to his shoulders, framing a gaunt face that was half concealed by the long, black braids of his beard.

  I turned to the nearest serving girl, whose name was Turid. She was the daughter of Queen Astrid's favored maidservant, the widow Sigrunn. The two of them attended the queen wherever she went, though Turid liked it little, I could tell. When time permitted, she was oft out playing with the boys, a preoccupation that vexed her mother mightily. She was not much older than me, just as tall, as thin as a twig, and as graceful as a deer when she ran. Her braided hair was the color of the hearth fire, her eyes like a spring sky, and her pale skin was dotted with orange freckles. When our paths crossed — which was not as frequently as I would have liked — I wanted nothing more than to impress her, though I usually embarrassed myself miserably in my attempts.

  I grabbed a wooden cup from her tray as she passed.

  Her blue eyes widened. “It is ale, master Torgil.”

  I was about to reply when my father appeared behind the girl and my eyes shifted to his looming figure. He was a boulder of a man, with broad shoulders and a thick chest over which he wore a rich, woolen cloak fastened at his left shoulder by a copper brooch. His pronounced forehead fell like a stone wall to two bushy brows under which his dark eyes regarded me closely. A broken nose attested to a life that had seen its fair share of battles and struggles. Hair the color of sun-kissed wheat cascaded down his back in a neat braid, though he was mostly known for his bushy beard. In truth, he was a frightening figure to behold, which is why, upon seeing him, Turid ducked her head and moved on to the next table.

  I sat with my mouth agape. My father plucked the ale cup from my hand and sniffed at it. A crease formed between his brows. “You are too young to drink ale.”

  “I did not know it was ale when I grabbed the cup, Father. I seek only water and food.”

  He motioned to me with the cup. “You are wet.”

  “We were swimming, Father.” I motioned to my now silent comrades, who knew of his fiery temper and knew too that one misspoken word might ignite it.

  “Warm yourself by the hearth before the chill sets in.”

  I was about to thank him for his advice when King Trygvi's resonant voice silenced the crowd. “Ah,” he called. “My son has returned with his host.” At his words, all eyes turned to us boys, and my stomach lurched. “Come, Olaf. Pay your respects to Holger Einarsson.” King Trygvi gestured toward the newly arrived guest.

  Holger studied Olaf intently as the boy rose from our table and approached. Olaf nodded to the man from beneath his hood. “Welcome, Holger Einarsson,” he squeaked. “It is an honor to see you again.”

  Holger nodded his thanks and pointed with his knife at Olaf. “You grow quickly, Prince Olaf. Sooner than you think, you will be in the shield wall with us, eh? Your father should bring you along on the adventure I just presented to him.”

  King Trygvi smiled politely to acknowledge Holger's words but waved the guest silent. “In due time, Holger. In due time.” His brows suddenly bent over his eyes. “Why do you hide in your hood, Olaf? Show yourself to us.”

  Olaf hesitantly removed his hood. The conversation stilled.

  King Trygvi leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a bruise on your face?”

  My father glanced at me, and in that mere glance, I could see the storm clouds forming. I tensed.

  “Yes, Father,” Olaf answered. To his credit, he withstood the king's withering gaze. Olaf may have been a young fool, but he did not lack for courage.

  The king's eyes scanned the hall, then came to rest again on his son. “How came you by this bruise?” There was a growing edge in his tone. “Did someone do this to you?”

  Queen Astrid's blue eyes found me. My father noticed her look and placed a restraining hand on my shoulder.

  Olaf ran his hand over his cheek. “I jumped from the bluff, Father,” Olaf explained, his voice clear in the now hushed hall, “and landed poorly.”

  The king studied his son for a long time. I held my breath as my father's grip tightened on my shoulder. The other guests waited too. Only the crackle of the flames in the hearth could be heard. Then, suddenly, the king burst into laughter. “By the gods, Olaf, that is a long fall. It is no wonder you are bruised.”

  The guests chuckled hesitantly. All, that is, save my father and the queen. Queen Astrid's call pierced the laughter. “Torgil Torolvson. Come here.”

  I swallowed hard and stepped forward as the laughter died and the eyes of every guest turned upon me. Most looked concerned, though Holger seemed amused by my discomfiture. My former foster sister leaned forward in her chair as I bowed to her and to the king in turn. She had grown from an awkward, pimple-faced adolescent into a beautiful young woman, tall and fair, with golden hair that rested in waves on her buxom chest. As a youth, she had been a happy child, carefree in nature, but much of that temperament was gone now, lost to the pressures of her stature as a queen. As I stood before her now, her face took on a stony countenance, her freckles vanishing behind the heat in her cheeks. “Is it not your duty to protect my son? Why did you allow him to do this?”

  “I —”

  “He did not allow me,” Olaf blurted. “I went with Torgil and the other boys to see them jump. When I got to the bluff, my excitement took hold of me and I jumped before Torgil or the others could stop me. In truth, I tripped
as I jumped, which is why I landed so poorly. It was foolish.”

  I glanced up into the queen's narrowing blue eyes, then turned my own eyes to the rush-covered floor. My knees felt weak, my stomach sick. Olaf's intentions had been good. He had tried to put himself at fault, but my ears, like the queen's, had heard a different tale — a tale that pointed to my own failure to protect him. “I am sorry I did not do more to protect Olaf,” I mumbled.

  The king and queen sat back in their chairs. There was mirth in the king's eyes, and something else besides. Pride, perchance? But not so with Astrid, who was still frowning. “We will talk of this later, Torgil,” she said. “Now, both of you, leave us.” She excused us with a backhand wave. We dutifully turned away.

  “That went well.” Olaf grinned.

  I did not share his delight, for my father waited in the back of the hall, his powerful arms folded over his chest, his eyes boring into me. All I felt was a distinct sinking in the pit of my stomach. “You should have kept your lips tight,” I hissed.

  Olaf gawked at me. “I protected you.”

  “You made matters worse.”

  “Wiggled your way out of another one, eh, Olaf?” joked Ubbi as we returned to our table. The others grinned at Ubbi's words. A frown pulled my face downward, which did not escape Ubbi's keen eye. “Worry not, Torgil. A few good lashings and this whole matter will be behind you.” The group laughed. Olaf now frowned, though I was certain he still did not understand what he had done.

  I glanced at my father and swallowed hard at the thunder I saw in his features. I knew that look all too well, and knew too that I would need to avoid him this night. If the ale took hold of him and his eyes landed on me, I had no doubt he would beat me.

  That cruel thought had just settled on my mind when King Trygvi stood at the dais and hoisted his cup. “My warriors. My oath-sworn. Lend me an ear.” The hall fell silent. “In the coming days, Holger Einarsson will raid in the land of the Vends,” he announced with a sweep of his paw toward his guest. “He has invited us to partake in his adventure. I, for one, would like to feast my eyes on the open sea again. It has been too long.”