Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  I could tell you that life's new rhythm fully replaced the nagging fear that tugged at me, but that would be a lie, and I am no liar. Anxiety was my constant companion. Battles and bloodshed and death filled my dreams, so much so that I feared to fall asleep. Wakefulness was no easier. I could not shake the thought that Holger and his men were coming for us. During our chores, my eyes drifted constantly to the woods, seeing shadows that appeared as men but were not. At night, strange noises filled the world beyond our walls — noises that my young mind morphed into murderous men coming to burn us in our sel.

  I did not tell these things to my father or to anyone else for fear he or they would think me weak, but he was a perceptive man and soon noticed my distress. On the afternoon of our third day on the seter, he and I were sharpening axe blades on a whetstone when a twig snapped in the woods off to our left. My head jerked at the sound and I peered into the shadows for a sign of the warrior I was certain was there.

  My father looked over at the woods. After a spell, he turned back to me. “There is a saying among men,” he said. “Mayhap you have heard it. The witless man is awake all night, thinking of many things, but when the morning comes, his cares are just as they were.” He sniffed and studied me, and I looked away, ashamed. “Set your worries aside, Torgil. Erik has men watching the approaches to our seter. When Holger and his men come, we will have warning.”

  “How much warning?” We had men posted on Jel too, and had barely escaped with our lives. I was not eager to repeat that.

  My father shrugged, nonplussed by my question. “Enough.”

  At that moment, a pig waddled out of the underbrush where the twig had cracked.

  “You see?” said my father. “It is only a swine.”

  I relaxed, though my mind had locked on my father's comment about Erik and his guards. “If we are certain Holger will come, then why do we stay here? Our tracks are easy to follow.”

  “Why should we run if Holger never appears? Traveling to the land of the Swedes is no trivial matter.”

  “And if we travel to the Swedes and Haakon is not willing to house us? What then?”

  “If Erik says that Haakon will house us, I have no fear of that. Nor should you. Erik is a man of his word.”

  I felt somewhat better, though I was still not completely convinced of our security. I had seen nothing of these men who were purportedly protecting us and knew not how dedicated they were to our welfare. And Erik had not impressed me with his friendship toward us, especially his own grandson. Still, I knew better than to press my father. So I turned my attention back to my stone and axe and forced myself to silence.

  On the sixth day after our arrival, Gunnar and Gunhild informed us that it was their rest day and that we would cease our work in the afternoon. “When you have finished your morning tasks, come to the sel,” Gunnar said to us. “It is a good day to go fishing.”

  I could barely conceal my excitement at the prospect of catching some fish, though I was not as verbal about it as Olaf. As we hiked over the hill and up the stream, there was no end to Olaf's questions and chatter. My father had long since stopped responding to his babble and I was growing tense, as much at Olaf's nonsensical comments as my father's exasperated silence. It was Gunnar who finally turned to Olaf and put his finger to his lips. “By the gods, boy, you will scare the fish with your noise. Silence now, and watch.”

  We reached a spot where the rocky banks pinched the stream so that it formed a natural flood flow. At the base of the flow, a rope traversed the stream just above the waterline. Gunnar untied the rope on our side of the stream and ran the end of it through the cone-shaped fishing baskets he had brought along. He then handed the end of the rope to my father and submerged the baskets in the stream's current. “Retie the rope,” he called to my father.

  Gunnar emerged from the stream and passed each of us a stick. “You three will enter the water there.” He pointed upstream beyond the weir. “Enter slowly, then in unison start slapping the water to scare the fish. As you do, move toward the funnel to scare the fish in my direction. Understand?”

  We nodded.

  “Come,” said my father, and led us upstream to the spot Gunnar had indicated. “Ready?” he asked when we reached the spot. We nodded again, silent now in our mounting excitement. He grinned and slowly moved into the stream. We followed, careful to avoid the mossy rocks below the stream's surface. It was not difficult, for the water here was clear and we could see the rocks as well as we could see the darting fish.

  Fish, I learned that day, do not swim backward. Only forward. So when our sticks hit the water, those fish facing downstream bolted in that direction, toward Gunnar and his baskets. We followed with our heavy footsteps and our slapping wands.

  “That's it!” Gunnar called. “Keep coming!”

  And so we came, driving the fish as a shepherd might drive his flock. Several silver streaks zipped past my feet, but I hoped more were swimming downstream, away from the churning water and the menace that was chasing them.

  “Hey, hey!” he called and stayed us with a hand. “That's enough now! Lord Torolv, come help me with the baskets. Lads, move to the shore.”

  But Olaf was having too much fun and continued slapping the water and whooping his delight. I grabbed his shoulder and repeated Gunnar's command: “Olaf. To the shore.”

  Lost in the moment, Olaf shrugged my hand away. I know not why, but that move infuriated me. I know now that Olaf was just having fun and he did not want the fun to stop, but in that moment, I saw that shrug as a deliberate refusal to heed my word — or Gunnar's, for that matter — and that lack of respect set my blood to boiling. My body reacted out of sheer frustration, and I pushed him hard toward the shore. A little too hard. The lad lost his footing and fell sidelong into the stream.

  He scrambled to his feet, drenched from head to toe, and rounded on me. “Why did you do that?” he sputtered, his face red with fury.

  His tone put me on the defensive. “Did you not hear Gunnar's instruction?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you should clean out your ears. He told us to move to the shore, but instead, you continued to smack the water.”

  “Do not do that again,” Olaf warned.

  “Or you will do what?” I asked and stepped closer to him.

  “Stop your bickering,” my father growled, “and come help.”

  We scowled at each other for a moment longer, then scrambled to the baskets. The baskets were constructed of woven willow and in the gaps between those willow branches flopped several brown trout. I smiled and Olaf whooped, our spat momentarily forgotten.

  Gunnar handed us one of the baskets. “Take it to the shore, lads. Carefully.” We took the basket from his hands and moved to the shore. One of the trout worked its way free and splashed into the stream. “Don't let them escape!” Gunnar called after us, though I could tell he was smiling.

  My father came after us with the second basket. Gunnar followed, carrying the third. “Set the baskets there,” Gunnar said and nodded his chin toward a spot near his satchel.

  “Look at them all!” Olaf exclaimed.

  “A good catch,” Gunnar acknowledged. “Though we cannot keep them all. Quick now, before they lose air, pull the little ones free and throw them back in the water. We keep only the big fish.”

  “Why?” asked Olaf.

  “The little ones don't have enough meat on their bones yet. We must wait for them to grow before they are worthy of our table, eh.”

  I knelt by the first basket. A small trout's golden, black-spotted body was lodged between two willow branches and it was struggling mightily to get free. I pried the branches apart with my fingers and the fish flopped to the earth. Picking it up carefully, I tossed the slimy body back into the stream and watched it dart away.

  Beside me, Olaf shrieked as he tried to dislodge another young trout from the willows and managed only to pull its head from its body. “Careful,” I snarled.

  “Bo
ys!” my father warned.

  I skewered Olaf with my eyes as Gunnar stepped in. “Do not pull the fish. Pry the branches apart and let the fish fall out. Like this.” He demonstrated, using two to separate the willow. “Now you try.”

  Olaf concentrated on the next fish, his tongue visible between his lips as he delicately pulled the willow away from the fish's body. It flipped free and he smiled.

  “Good,” Gunnar said. “Now throw it back.”

  In all, we returned seven fish to the stream but kept twelve larger trout. These Gunnar knocked on the head with the blunt side of his knife blade to kill them, then placed them carefully in his satchel. “Come,” he said when the last fish was in the bag. “We will give these to the women to clean and cook.”

  I assumed that we would take these back to the seter, but Gunnar led us past the trail that wound up to the cottage and followed the stream farther south. And then, quite suddenly, we emerged from the trees into an open area where a scattering of boulders split the stream into a patchwork of smaller streams and pools.

  I froze at the sight ahead of us, not knowing quite what to do. Gunhild had just emerged from a pool where she had been bathing and was walking toward her clothing, which lay on a nearby rock. Near her, in a pool, Sigrunn combed Turid's red hair, their backs to us. In another pool, Astrid was scrubbing her face with her hands, her ample breasts visible for all to see.

  My father who turned away first. Gunnar, then I, followed his lead. Olaf, of course, continued to stare. That is until I smacked his shoulder. At the same time, Astrid saw us and with a gasp, quickly moved her hand to cover herself. Gunhild scrambled to the rock on which her clothes lay and covered herself with them. I thank the gods that we had our backs turned when they finally saw us, for had they caught us gaping, there would have been no end to the awkwardness in the cottage that night. Still, the image of those women in their various stages of repose and nudity was seared into my brain and it would be weeks before I could clear my mind of it.

  “March right back the way you came, husband,” called Gunhild. “We will be done soon enough. And then you men can be about your business here.”

  “We caught some fish,” Gunnar called back and held up the satchel. “We will leave them here for you. Once you are done, come find us at the fork. There we will be waiting.”

  He led us back down the trail to the place where the trail forked off to climb the hill back to the seter. We waited in silence, none of us quite sure what to say. When the women appeared at last, they carried the satchel and a separate sack filled with our newly washed clothes.

  “You were faster than we expected with your fishing,” was all Gunhild said to her husband as she set the sack on the turf. She ignored the rest of us. I tried to look at Turid, but she looked away.

  “Fishing is easier with more hands,” he responded. Which, in hindsight, I can now appreciate for its brilliance. It was a plausible excuse and a sad one, and it left Gunhild with no retort. Instead, she snorted angrily and marched off with the other women in tow. My father and Gunnar grinned at their backs, though I knew not why.

  When the women had gone, we walked back to the watering holes to bathe. I wasted no time in stripping my soiled clothes from my body and jumping into one of the pools. Though I had no soap, it did not matter. Just the feeling of cool water on my skin was enough to make me feel clean. But the peace ended abruptly, for no sooner had I begun to relax when Olaf asked Gunnar how he had lost his arm. It was an innocent enough question, but my father, who sat in a nearby pool, did not like it and glowered. “Gunnar will tell us when and if he is ready, Olaf. It is not for you to ask a question like that.”

  Gunnar's marred face twisted with his grin, and he stayed my father with his meaty hand. “It is fine, lord. Olaf is young and curious. If he would like to know, I will tell him.”

  “It is up to you,” my father said as he splashed some water on his face and rubbed at the grime on his hairy cheeks.

  “Long ago, Olaf, I served Erik as one of his hirdmen. King Hakon had just taken the throne, but his reign was young and his hold on the land, tenuous. The Danes and Swedes had heard of his youth and came to test him. They came mainly to the Vik, for the lands on either side are fertile and the farms richer, and Hakon was then mostly in the west and too far away from the fighting to lend any help.

  “One summer, we received a message from King Hakon that he was coming to end the Danish scourge and that we were to gather with King Trygvi in the Vestfold, at Kaupang, and wait for him and his men there. This we did and a mighty host we gathered, too. But we were also overconfident,” Gunnar added with a sad shake of his head as his eyes traveled from Olaf to me. “It is one of the dangers of thinking yourself too strong, lads. Never forget that.”

  “What happened?” Olaf asked, his young face rapt.

  “The Danes attacked before King Hakon arrived. We knew they were close, but never suspected they would attack such a host as ours. They came at us head on and hit us hard. In that first push, we were driven back, but with each step we gave, we tightened our ranks and held a bit firmer. By the gods, it was a fight.” He clenched his fist. “The yelling. The cursing. The sword strikes and axe blows and spear play. The gods love their chaos and we men delivered it that day.” He sighed. “I loved it. Every horrifying moment of it.” He looked at us and must have seen the confusion on our faces. “It is hard to understand until you experience it, lads.”

  He went silent for a time, then started up again. “We were strong, but a shield wall, like a byrnie, is only as good as its weakest link. And when a second Danish force appeared on our left, that weak link was revealed. The bastards on that end were the local levy — farmers for the most part — and no match for the warriors charging at them. They broke and ran, scampering for the protection of the hill behind the town. And when they ran, they doomed us.”

  Gunnar turned his eyes to Olaf. “And that is when I was wounded, lad. When those bastards on our left ran, it distracted me and I turned my gaze from my attacker. Just for an eye blink, mind, but it was enough. Never, lads, never let yourself be distracted in a fight. Even for a moment. Because this is what happens.” He held up his stump. “The first blade cut across my face and I reeled from the pain of it. And in that instant, I felt something hit my arm. I thought I had been smacked by a shield rim, but a quick glance revealed the truth of what had happened. My forearm had been cut clean through and lay on the ground with my shield. I did not feel pain, only confusion at seeing my arm where it should not be, and then fury at that Danish bastard who took it. I took his life for taking my arm, which gave me some solace. But more importantly, it gave me time to run.”

  “You ran?” Olaf was wide-eyed.

  Gunnar laughed. “Before you think me the coward, lad, let me explain that most of my comrades had regrouped about twenty paces behind me to close their dwindling ranks. I was gravely wounded, but I was not about to let those Danish bastards take me out there in the open as my friends looked on. I wanted to keep fighting, see? To get to my comrades and take the fight back to the Danes.” He smirked. “The battle frenzy can do that to a man. Make him think he's impervious to death.”

  My father grunted and nodded. I marveled at Gunnar, for I could not imagine having my arm severed from my body and still thinking that there was a chance to live. I could not imagine what he had gone through to survive, and it kindled within me a newfound appreciation for this farmer.

  Olaf's mouth was agape. “So you ran back to them and kept fighting?”

  “I made it back to my friends, but they would not let me fight. I was bleeding too badly. It was smearing their shining armor, see, and they could not have that.” Gunnar grinned, and I knew he was fooling now. “So they ordered me back to the rear to find some help. I lost track of things then and blacked out. When I awoke, I was up in King Bjorn's hall in Kaupang with the other wounded lads. Someone had bound my stump and burned it to stop the bleeding. It throbbed horribly and took months to hea
l, but I survived.”

  “Who fixed you?” Olaf asked.

  Gunnar shrugged. “I know not who. Come now. It is getting late, and I think I can smell the trout cooking. Let us finish our bathing and return to the seter.”

  We dressed quickly in our fresh clothes and hiked back to the seter. Olaf fought imaginary foes all the way up the hill, while I envisioned a steaming trout resting in my trencher. But reality soon interrupted our dreams. For there, at the door of the cottage, stood a strange man conversing with the women. With him were a hound, an ox, and a cart partially filled with goods. Astrid turned to us when we appeared, and in her eyes, I saw the hard truth.

  It was time to leave.

  Part II

  To his thoughts the sacred name

  Of his mother Astrid came,

  And the tale she oft had told

  Of her flight by secret passes

  Through the mountains and morasses,

  To the home of Haakon old.

  The Saga of King Olaf

  Chapter 8

  The guide was a young man named Lodin who was as white as the snow that fell on our lands each winter. White skin. White hair. White brows. Only his eyes were blue — piercing, icy blue. An uncanny blue that set me on edge when he looked at me. A modest traveling cloak of coarse wool hung from his wide shoulders and a short, blotchy beard of white fell like ragged icicles from his jaw. He held in his hand a thick, well-polished spear that he used as a walking stick and wore two belts. The one at his waist held a small leather pouch and a seax. The other wrapped over his shoulder and supported a sword. Only a man of means or skill possessed a sword, and I hoped it was the latter.

  The hunting hound seated by his leg was a beautiful dog, with a dark nose and a curled tail in the manner of our Northern hounds. It looked friendly enough, but when Olaf went to pet it, it bared its teeth and started to growl. “Careful,” Lodin warned, placing a hand before the hound's face, which calmed it. “She is very protective of me. Would you like to know her name?”