Forged by Iron

by Eric Schumacher

  “Is there not another way?” my father asked. I could tell he did not like the idea of passing a borg with the prying eyes and silver-hunger of its guards.

  Lodin shook his head. “There are no trails wide enough for our cart. We would need to leave it behind. Besides, Ulf's men guard all of the trails, so we might as well just pass through. Come. Help me hide our goods.”

  “Hide?” Astrid asked as my father moved to Lodin's side.

  “Aye, my lady. Hide. The guards there have sticky fingers and usually take their cut before counting their lord's share.”

  “I do not like the sound of that, Lodin,” said Astrid. “What if their 'cut' involves me or Turid?”

  Lodin glanced at Astrid. “You look more like a thrall now than you did several days ago. To them, we are just traders and cargo. Worry not.” He pulled up a plank from the bed of the cart to reveal a hidden compartment. “Place coins, swords, and anything of wealth in here.”

  “And if it does not fit?” asked my father.

  “Then wear it or discard it. But if you wear it, you do so at your peril.”

  Lodin then motioned for Astrid, Turid, and Olaf to sit on the right side of the cart bed. There, he tied them by their wrists to metal rings.

  “You are hurting me,” Astrid complained.

  “You are a thrall,” Lodin responded mildly. “You need to act like one until we are past Ormsbro.”

  My father cursed and scowled. It pained him, as it did me, to see his foster daughter tied like livestock to a cart. Not a fortnight ago, we had been lords of vast lands and a favored family of a powerful king. We feared no man. Now we were just traders and cargo, hiding ourselves, our hard-won wealth, and our status from the greed of some tar lord. Whether he knew it or not, Lodin had just taken an axe to our pride and the blade had bitten deeply. I vowed to myself right then that I would kill the people who had driven us so far from our home and brought us so low. Under my breath, I swore to Thor that I would be his man forever if he helped me see my vengeance through.

  “Come,” Lodin commanded when he had secured the thralls.

  What I had believed — and indeed, hoped — to be a small fortress was actually large enough for a small army. As we approached Ormsbro, the walls rose to thrice my height and encircled at least several halls, judging from the rooftops I could see within. Outside the walls, on the roadside, traders and farmers shouted and haggled as they hawked their goods beside their makeshift stalls. A small river flowed north to south on the west side of the fort, then curved around the front of the borg to head east. There, a small dock jutted into the river. Tied to the dock were several small vessels and a barge loaded with barrels. I could smell the rank odor of tar from where I stood.

  To reach the borg, we needed to cross the bridge, which was guarded by two thick-chested warriors with spears. Several more warriors stood atop the walls, looking down on the bridge and the traders below. Even more warriors milled about the traders, ostensibly to keep the peace, though I suspected they were probably helping themselves to a little extra cut of the trade.

  “What goods have you brought with you this time, Lodin?” asked one of the guards as we neared. He motioned with his spear to Astrid. “I have not seen you with thralls before. Are they for sale?”

  Lodin turned and looked at the girls, then back at the warriors. “They are not for sale.”

  The warrior who had spoken had a runny nose, and this he now blew onto the ground. Only the snot did not quite dislodge itself from his nostril and hung in a long string. He grabbed the string between his index finger and thumb and flung it away into the tall grass beside the trail. Then he sleeved his nose with his forearm and eyed us one by one. Seeing nothing unusual, he approached the cart with his comrade and moved to the cart bed.

  Using his spear, he moved our blankets and cloaks aside to reveal several stacks of pelts and a pile of ivory tusks. He opened jars and sacks, inspecting items he deemed of value. One such bag contained opaque amber. He lifted one of the stones and held it to the sunlight, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Three pelts and three amber stones and we shall let you pass.”

  Lodin looked unsettled. “That is a rich price.”

  The man blew another load of snot onto the turf. “It is a small price to pay if you are not willing to part with your thralls. Those two,” he motioned vaguely to the women, “will fetch you a high price at Westra Aros. That is where you are headed, eh? Westra Aros?”

  Lodin made a show of chewing on his lip and tapping the side of the cart. He eyed Astrid and Turid, then my father and me. “Will you not take three pelts and one amber stone?”

  “No. Three pelts and three amber stones, or we take the thralls.”

  Lodin sighed. “Very well. Take it.”

  Snot Nose grinned cruelly and reached for a pelt. As he did, Feilan began to growl and bare her teeth at the guard. The man looked at the hound and went still. His comrade lowered his spear and pointed it at the wolf dog, though his fear was plain to see. “Call off your hound, Lodin,” said Snot Nose.

  Lodin silenced Feilan with a casual motion of his hand. As he did, he moved closer to the guards and said, “They say that hounds do not have memory, but I do not believe it. I think they remember with their noses and sense trouble that way. The next time I come through here, my hound may just remember you for your scent and the threat of your spears. I cannot be sure, of course, so the decision is yours.”

  In the end, the guards took only two pelts and no amber, and I learned a valuable lesson: men fear the attack of an animal far more than the blade of a man. To be killed by man is noble. If done heroically, it is worthy of Valhall. To be food for a beast is wretched and no way to die in the eyes of the gods, and so men feared it.

  We left Ormsbro behind having paid barely our due, and walked on to what I hoped was our final destination, at least for a time. Through the day and into the evening we trudged, stopping only once for food and water and a short rest. Our path followed the black river until it reached a vast lake, at which point we turned northeast and followed a cart track along the shoreline. At some point in the night, we turned more northward and began to ascend low-lying hills until at last, Lodin called for us to halt.

  “We are close now,” he said as he sleeved sweat from his brow. He pointed east. “Just past that line of trees, our path will descend to Haakon's farm.”

  “What will you do once we reach it?” asked Astrid.

  “I will stay the night and then complete the task that Erik has set for me.”

  “Which is?” This query came from my father, who was still waiting for an answer to the question he had asked at the beginning of our journey.

  Lodin looked at him and smiled. “Let us rest here for the remainder of the night. Tomorrow I will take you to meet Haakon.”

  Chapter 11

  Haakon was indeed old. He was a tall, thickset man who walked with a well-polished stick to support a noticeable limp in his left leg. Strands of white hair hung like cobwebs from his chin, which he scratched upon hearing Lodin's words. He looked at us with his rheumy cerulean eyes. They were kind eyes, I decided, with crow's-feet at the corners. “You say Eric Bjodaskalli sent you?” He spoke with a slight lisp that seemed at odds with the power in his frame. I ascribed that lisp to the two crooked and yellowed teeth that interfered with his lips when he spoke.

  “Aye,” responded Lodin. “This is his daughter, Astrid, and his grandson, Olaf.” Lodin motioned to the two with his chin.

  The old man laughed. It was a warm laugh that made me smile. “These? Erik's kin? He is a rich man. I mean no offense, but these look like thralls.”

  “It is a disguise, Haakon,” explained Lodin patiently.

  The old man scratched his chin again. He had met us several paces from the front door of his hall. An elderly woman stood at the threshold, peering out at us, her body half concealed by the doorframe. Several more people stood at a distance, watching the scene unfold. From their clo
thing, I guessed they were Haakon's thralls. Mayhap a family member or two.

  “And them? Who are they?” He motioned to my father and me with his crooked index finger.

  “My name is Torolv Torgilsson. My friends call me Loose-beard.”

  He glanced at my father. “Loose lipped, more like,” the old man said, though there was no malice in his tone. “My question was for Lodin, not you.”

  I did not dare look at my father for fear of seeing his embarrassment or his ire. Near me, Olaf sniggered. Had he been closer, I would have smacked him.

  Lodin chimed in then. “He is who he says, though you should also know he was one of the most trusted lords of King Trygvi of Vingulmark. He is also Astrid's foster father and one of Erik Bjodaskalli's closest friends. The boy next to him is his son, Torgil.” He then motioned to Turid. “And that young woman is Astrid's maidservant, Turid.”

  Haakon regarded my father briefly before letting his eyes travel to the rest of the group. “You are well met,” he said to us. He turned back to Lodin. “So, why are they here, exactly?”

  Lodin explained the circumstances of our arrival. As he did, I noticed the others on Haakon's farm moving closer to hear his tale.

  “So Erik is in need of my help,” Haakon concluded.

  “Aye. They need a place to stay until things have settled in their homeland.”

  “To stay or to hide?” asked Haakon. It was clear that Haakon did not mince words. He attacked matters directly, if not abruptly. At his age, I suppose he had that right.

  “Both,” said Lodin flatly.

  Haakon scratched his jaw again and turned his eyes to the ground. At last he lifted his gaze and turned to my father. “I do not have much. As you can see, it is a humble hall and a humble farm. It will be a hard winter with so many mouths to feed.”

  I did not know why he said that. It seemed a rich farm to me. The hall was large and well kept. There was a separate storehouse made of stone, a barn, a privy, a work hut, and a pen for pigs and sheep, though that livestock grazed now in the fields to the north of the farm. Beyond the hall were three small fields for crops, and beyond that, a wide river. To my eyes, it was a beautiful piece of land, lush and for the most part, well kept.

  “You will be paid well to have them here,” offered Lodin.

  “And we can help on the farm,” added Astrid.

  My father was not used to begging, especially with a man whose measure he did not yet have, and so he held his tongue.

  Haakon raked his eyes over us. “Very well. But for this winter only. Then you must move on. If you are hiding, then someone is searching for you. I am too old for trouble, especially if it is the trouble that comes from kings and queens and heirs. Grab your things and bring them into the barn.” He pointed to a structure off to our right. “We will make space for you there until we can add some beds to the hall.”

  We slept on the hay in the barn that night, and for the first time in many days, I slept the entire night.

  Lodin left as the sky blushed with the dawn. I, for one, was sad to see him go. He had been a good guide to us and had seen us safely to our destination. He had also taught me much in our time together. But above all, he was an attachment to the world I had known and left behind. As he disappeared down the track with Feilan by his side and the ox cart behind him, I felt as if my old life was walking away from me, leaving me with a strange, lonely feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  There was little time for melancholy, though. No sooner had Lodin left than a thin, aging man who introduced himself as Bursti beckoned us into Haakon's hall. The portly woman who I'd seen at the doorway the day before ushered Turid and Astrid into the kitchen. I would soon learn that her name was Tala.

  “Haakon would like your beds to be situated here,” Bursti announced. “The platforms already exist, as you can see, but we will need feather and wool and skins for your beds. I will show you where the feathers and furs can be found. It will be up to you to collect them. How good are you with a bow?”

  My father grinned.

  That very afternoon we hunted. Bursti led us downriver from the hall to a place where the reeds grew thick. We sat among them, still as stones, until the waterfowl settled in. Bursti referred to the river as Goose River, and I could see why. The water echoed with the honks and calls of that bird. My father shot four that day, which we carried to the hall and handed to the women. After a fortnight of bread and dried meat, I cannot remember a meal I enjoyed more. It was a feast of fowl, though amazingly, they supplied only enough down for Astrid's pillow.

  I would like to say that we boys hunted like that every day, but that was rarely the case. That task fell to my father alone. The women, under the guidance of Tala, milked the cows and sheep, prepared the meals, and tended to the myriad other tasks that filled a day. We boys and Bursti saw to the fields with the other male thrall, whose name was Gamal. The grass on the edges of the farm had already been cut and collected for hay, so our loathsome task was to painstakingly weed Haakon's crop fields before sowing the rye seeds. Olaf did not seem to mind the work, but I hated that task. Bending and standing until my back screamed. Grubbing in the dirt like a foraging pig. It was menial work. Thrall work.

  When I complained to my father, he showed no mercy. “You are a guest on Haakon's farm and you will do as he asks.”

  “But —-” I tried to plead.

  “Save your breath, Torgil,” he called as he marched away. And so I bit my tongue and groveled in the soil.

  When we were not rummaging for weeds, we helped Bursti build the bed frames in Haakon's hall. This I liked better, for it involved working with wood and tools in Haakon's workshop to produce something that would last. I liked the delicate task of planing and the smell of wood that filled that place. I liked hammering the nails and the feeling of completion when we finished a frame. Strangely, Olaf's mind strayed with this kind of work, and he complained to me later about how boring it was. It was to him as weeding was to me.

  At night, we five — Astrid, my father, Olaf, Turid, and I — sat with Haakon at his table and talked. We learned early on about Haakon, and how he had come to have the farm and how he knew Astrid's father.

  As a lad, Haakon had ridden the wave-steeds south and west with his friends and earned his share of booty from those fights. Erik had been with him on some of those raids and had saved his life on one occasion, which is why Haakon had not — could not — refuse our request for lodging. It was a debt and Erik had finally called for his payment.

  Haakon used his earnings from his raids to buy a plot of land from his lord and to take the hand of a woman he had known all his life. His dream had been to raise a family and work the land, but life did not unfold in the manner he expected. Instead of peace and prosperity, famine and disease came to his door. It was an enemy he knew not how to fight.

  “That is why you are alone here?” Astrid asked delicately.

  Haakon sighed deeply and slurped from his ale cup. “Aye. Disease took my wife that very winter. I raised my boys by myself, hoping they would enjoy farming as I did, but they had other dreams. My oldest son went a-viking and died in the east. I raised a runestone in his memory, which stands up on the hill to our north. After that, I forbade my other boy to go, but he left anyway. I am told he now lives in Irland, but I have long since given up hope that I will see him again. He and I parted on bad terms, as you can imagine.”

  I looked at my plate because I was not quite sure how to react to such a sad tale. I was not alone in that. No one else spoke either. “I am sorry,” Astrid finally offered.

  My father, who was never comfortable with sorrowful tales, turned the conversation to a more practical subject. “Who will run the farm when you are gone? Do you have other family near?”

  Haakon shook his head. “I do not. Mayhap I will give it to you.” He chuckled, then backhanded the air before him as if to brush away a fly. “We shall see. In any case, it is good that you are here. I have missed gatherings at my table.�
� He raised his ale cup. “Sköl.”

  “Sköl,” we responded.

  We completed the beds just as the rye fields began to ripen. Haakon waited for a string of warm days before declaring that it was time to harvest. On Jel, our thralls had seen to the reaping and binding, but on Haakon's farm, every person was employed in the task, save for Tala, who made sure we were fed. It was my first time taking part in a harvest, and it was every bit as hard as felling trees for our borg on Jel. We rose before dawn, toiled all day, and stopped at night. By the end of it, when the sheaves were safely stored in the barn, my hands were calloused, my body tanned, and my muscles sore from toil. My only solace was that our beds were now inside and just a few steps from the table and the crackling hearth fire. Most nights, I fell asleep on top of the skins, fully clothed.

  At the harvest's end, Haakon sent word to his neighbors to come for a feast. The women prepared for days, pounding some of the new grain into flour for bread, making cheese and butter, or gathering nuts and honey from the nearby woods. We men pulled trestle tables and benches from the back of the barn, repairing those that needed it, and placed them in the field beside Haakon's hall. The day before the feast, we fished in the river and cleared a pit of debris. Above it, we erected a spit. On feast day, with the sun high over our heads, Haakon gathered his guests about the pit — roughly thirty of us in all. There, he called to the gods, thanking them for a good harvest and beseeching them for a mild winter to come. With practiced skill, he then slit the throat of one of his finest pigs and collected its sacrificial blood — its hlaut — in a wooden bowl. This he passed around to his guests to drink.

  When the bowl reached me, I repeated my prayer to Thor, asking for his help to see my journey through. I would not quit, I promised, until Holger and his king, Harald, lay dead. This I swore above the bowl, then I drank of the acrid liquid and passed the bowl to Olaf. He, too, said some words above the blood, though I could not hear them.

  The sacrifice over, Haakon ushered us to the tables, which had been festooned with wildflowers of blue and yellow. I did not know the names of those flowers, but they were beautiful. Among them stood pitchers of ale, water, and milk, as well as baskets of warm flatbread and plates of butter and cheese. My stomach growled as Haakon took his seat at the head table and bade us sit.