The Buttersmiths' Gold

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  “Enough,” said Father. The men went quiet. “I will deal with my son later. Now we must speak of survival.”

  “We do not have the strength to fight them,” said Mannkraft. “Look at our men – we have few left who can wield a spear, and even fewer weapons. We are not warriors!”

  “Give them what they want!” cried Mooverk.

  “Our churns?” cried Storfjell. “But that is what makes us Smordal! Without them we are nothing!”

  Father spoke, “Better to give them the work of wood and iron than our own flesh and blood.”

  The words hung in the air. Torbjorn stared into the fire, listening as the sound of the clan’s breath mingled with the crackling coals. Father was right.

  “We must give them the Nine Churns. Then we must go up Farstigen, the winding cliffs to the forests. If we give them what they want, they won’t follow us there,” said Father. “Gather the herds. Gather bread, fish, and as many succulent muffins as we can take. They will sustain us for a little while. We can only hope that somehow the forest will provide for us in such dark days as now.”

  Farstigen would not be easy for the entire village, plus the herd, to climb. Torbjorn had been up the paths once as a boy. They were steep and narrow. The herd and his family would have to walk single file to keep from falling off the edge. It would be dangerous. Especially for his sisters.

  “We should gather the churns,” whispered Mooverk. Father nodded.

  All at once, there was a howling of wind, a trotting of hooves, as if four horses thundered down the valley all at once. The door to the longhouse flew open.

  A tall grey stranger with a staff in hand stood there in the night. He wore a wide-brimmed grey hat that draped over his eyes and face, his cloak covering a majestic frame.

  Chapter 8 — The Wanderer

  “Hear me!” bellowed the stranger. His voice shook the walls; Torbjorn could feel it penetrate his ribs.

  He leapt back off his bench and crouched low against the wall. If there was going to be a fight, he would be ready. The men lunged for their weapons; the stranger held up his hand and the fire surged hot and bright. “I bring no harm to you!” he said.

  The men stepped back, covering their faces from the heat. It would be foolish to fight such a stranger. Someone who spoke to the flames could not be slain by spears alone. But if the other men attacked, Torbjorn would join them.

  “I am Vegtam, the Wanderer,” the stranger said. He was tall and thin. A black raven perched on each of his shoulders like two shadows, their eyes flickering and their feathers ruffling as they flexed their talons on his grey cloak. One of the Wanderer’s eyes was missing. It was frightening the way his socket was scarred and empty where an eyeball should have been.

  “This is not the first time I’ve come to Smordal. Your fathers’ fathers knew me, and I brought them gifts. So too do I bring a gift to you tonight. The gift of foresight and knowledge.”

  Father held out his hands as if to hold the men back, but they were already settled, fidgeting nervously at the edge of the fire, listening to the Wanderer’s words. The bovines stamped their hooves.

  The two ravens fluttered from the stranger’s shoulders over the fire, circling it and beating it with their wings. The flames dimmed and turned blue, then danced and swirled until they formed a tree. “Your fathers planted a shining apple in the ground. From it came the tree, and from its wood, the Nine Butter Churns imbued with the power of Asgard,” the Wanderer said.

  The tree fell and shattered to lumber. The pieces came together and formed the nine churns that Torbjorn had seen so often. The very same churns Mother sat at and worked with the fresh milk-nectar of the bovines.

  So it was him – the Wanderer was the very same stranger Father had spoken of in the lore of the Smordaler.

  “With the Nine Churns you spin the nectar of the bovines into gold. This is the envy of all of Asgard. You have not known when the Asgardians sought your muffins in the markets in secret, to taste just a hint of the golden butter for themselves. This is the Golden Fortune of your herds. You are the Buttersmiths. The Nine Churns are Asgard’s gift to you, and the butter is your gift to all of Midgard.”

  Father dropped to his knees by the fireside. “Wise One,” he said, “Our village is at stake. Our people face doom. We cannot fight the enemy again.”

  The folds beneath the Wanderer’s good eye sagged. He was silent for a long time as he looked each man in the face. He almost looked sad. “I cannot interfere more than I already have,” he whispered.

  “But know this: the fruit of your churns must live. One day, because of its power, men will beat their swords into cooking pots, and the roar of the dragons will cease. It has a destiny beyond what battles you fight on the morrow. You cannot forsake the Nine Churns. It has been spoken!”

  With that, the two black ravens flapped to him and landed on his shoulders. There was a rushing of wind, and a surge of the fire so hot and bright that Torbjorn had to cover his face and eyes.

  When he looked again, the grey Wanderer was gone.

  Chapter 9 — Plans

  “He has spoken,” whispered Father. Suddenly Father’s ruddy face looked weary and old, like he’d been through seven more battles in a moment. It was the weight of worry that pulled down on his hefty cheeks.

  “We will fight,” said Mannkraft. “We will fight like dragons, and up in Asgard, they will know that they can lean on the furious spears of Smordal!”

  Torbjorn traced his finger in the dirt at his feet. When Father had told him the legend of the Nine Churns, he’d believed it. The Wanderer had confirmed that it was all true, and Torbjorn had seen him with his own eyes now. But never had it occurred to Torbjorn that his clansmen would give their lives to protect the Nine Churns. He did not know if they could defeat their enemy; the battle had been severe. He wanted to hope that Smordal could triumph. They had for now. Tomorrow – Torbjorn just could not say.

  But then… they were Smordal. And he was Torbjorn, the mighty son of Chief Trofast. Mannkraft had been the center of the battle before. If he was so certain, how could Torbjorn doubt? Torbjorn had been raised in the valley of Smordal, eating its golden butter since he was born. That surely had to count for something.

  “The Blodkriger will learn to fear the men of Smordal,” said Torbjorn.

  “Yah,” said the men in agreement. But there were no cheers or banging of spears this time. They almost sounded… afraid.

  But Torbjorn was ready. If they are not prepared, then this battle will rest on the courage of the few.

  Regardless of their fear, the choice had been made. There was no more counsel to take. The Wanderer from Asgard had spoken. Mannkraft took the spears and dealt them out to the men. He handed one to Torbjorn.

  “He will not need it,” said Father, taking the spear from Torbjorn’s hand.

  “But – ” said Torbjorn. Now was not the time for Father to treat him like a child.

  Father glared at him. “You must lead the people into the valley and up the winding paths of Farstigen.”

  “But you need warriors now more than ever!” said Torbjorn.

  Father shook his head. He would not listen. The plan was set.

  Torbjorn did not argue. This time, Torbjorn did not need Father to agree. He knew what he would do.

  “Take the Nine Churns,” said Father to Storfjell. “You must hide them up in the valley; if Fortune turns her back on us, and we are overcome, they will be safe. You must fight until your last breath for Smordal.”

  Storfjell did not reply. His silence could only mean one thing: resolve. It did not seem like warrior’s work, but Storfjell took his spear and loaded the Nine Churns, carved and beautiful as daggers’ handles, upright into a wagon. He pushed the wagon up into the valley where he could try to hide them in the mountains.

  In a way it made sense that Storfjell should be the one to protect the churns. Torbjorn loved Smordal, but Storfjell loved it in a different way. He loved its past. He loved its
lore. If Torbjorn loved the Smordal of today and tomorrow, Storfjell loved the Smordal of centuries gone by.

  Torbjorn turned to prepare for departure. The nights had grown dark now that summer was over. They packed muffins and dried fish on the bovines’ backs by candlelight, and once all the women and children were gathered together, they began the journey up through the clover field toward Farstigen.

  Torbjorn let Mother and the other women and children pass him as they crossed the last of the green fields. Farstigen was the only way out of the valley besides the fjord. The path split off in several directions, like the branches of a tree, and was so narrow, Torbjorn remembered flattening himself up against the rock when he was young to keep himself from falling. If it weren’t for the trips Torbjorn and the other boys had taken up the face, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to navigate the maze to the top.

  It took hours for the entire herd to make it onto the start of the path. Torbjorn watched as the last bovine followed the women and children onto the base of the cliff. She was a reddish brown heifer with brown, watery eyes. She stopped, stamping her hoof on the brittle grey stone at the end of the clover.

  Maybe she sensed the danger. Maybe she even feared for the clan. Without thinking, Torbjorn suddenly clasped both of the bovine’s cheeks with his broad hands, and kissed her on the forehead. “I will return for you,” said Torbjorn.

  And then Torbjorn turned and ran down through the spongy green clover back toward the village. He knew he was defying Father’s wishes, but Mooverk was with the herd, and Mother too. The women and children would know the way up the steep paths. Torbjorn was going to do what he was meant to do. He was going to fight.

  He hid himself behind the smokehouse on the edge of the village. As the morning grew, and the grey light melted away and the colors of the rocks and trees and sky began to glow, he saw a faint smear of color emerge from around the bend in the fjord. Three red sails. Just like Father said they would, the Blodkriger had come.

  Chapter 10 — Battle

  The morning colors began to show themselves; Torbjorn could tell that men were not trees, but there was still not enough light to tell who was who. Two of his clansmen were crouched, their backs turned to him, waiting behind the boulders on the edge of the village near the last hut. They could probably see the battle better from there.

  All he had was the same spade from before and a small knife that he kept on his belt. He so badly needed a spear.

  Torbjorn started for the next closest hut, when he heard a whisper and a clatter of shields. Three more men – Smordaler – lay on the ground on the south side of the smokehouse. They were whispering frantically to one another. Torbjorn couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their words were filled with dread.

  So Torbjorn crouched low, and almost forgetting himself, crawled out from behind the smokehouse and fixed his eyes on the ships that were now easily in view.

  He felt himself freeze with fear. This was it. This was real. Was it too late to run back up to Farstigen? That’s not what he came for, he told himself. So he bit his lip and tried to concentrate on the moment. He was as strong as any of the men. He would prove it.

  Of the three ships, one was closest to shore – just beyond an arrow’s reach. It had stopped, drifting idly on the current, as if the rowers were waiting for something. It was a strange stance for their small fleet to take, and unless every one of their oars had broken, a foolish one that would allow the Smordaler an even greater advantage.

  Then Torbjorn saw it – the reason they had stopped. They were making a show of their power. Now he understood the garbled word his clansmen spoke, and it filled him dread and disbelief: “Trolls.”

  This was no time for fairytales, but there was no mistake: chained to the deck, near the ship’s pointed, upturned bow, was a monstrous, gnarled, hideous troll.

  The troll must have been a head taller than Mannkraft. It was humongous, even from Torbjorn’s distant vantage point. His shoulders were broad and bare, with a neckless head that was nothing more than a large bump on the top of his chest. His skin was the color of rocks – all grey and splotched with dull orange moss – with hair like wiry pine needles. His nose almost wasn’t there at all, from what Torbjorn could see, and a mat of needly forest-green fur stuck out of his shoulders and back. What struck Torbjorn the most were his horrible, smoldering, red-orange eyes, which shined and burned like the inside of his head was a burning brick oven, and Torbjorn, even from so far away, was staring into the flames.

  Torbjorn had never seen a troll before – and even now that he was looking at it, he could not believe that the tales he’d heard as a child were real. Trolls turned to stone if they were outside when the sun reached its highest point. Trolls couldn’t cross water. Trolls could smell your fear. But above all, a single troll could tear apart an army of men and eat their bones. Suddenly the emerging dawn felt like a bad dream.

  The stone finger, he thought, remembering the finger on Rotte’s door back in Viksfjord.

  The troll struggled at the chains and rasped deep inside its throat. It was the sound of boulder scraping on boulder – an eerie warning to the men who waited on the land in the village. There was only a stone’s throw of water separating the village from the beast. Once it got on land…

  Then a second horrible rasping came from the furthest ship. On its deck was chained another troll, this one with light-brown skin, just as hideous as the first. There were not one, but two creatures of doom.

  A cloaked man came to the bow of the foremost ship, just out of reach of the chained troll. It was Rotte the Righteous. “We come with iron and with thunder, and with beasts that shake the earth beneath!”

  It was an intimidation tactic, but the sight of Rotte only made Torbjorn more furious. He wished he’d had a bow; he would shoot an arrow straight into Rotte’s eye.

  Then, out of the cluster of huts to the north, just where Torbjorn had meant to hide, there charged a tall, fur-clad man heaving a wooden cart in front of him down the slope like a tumbling boulder. The cart was piled high with straw and wood; it smashed into the beach when the wheel hit the sand, and the contents tumbled and spilled onto the ground in one pile. It was Storfjell.

  Fool, thought Torbjorn; he was afraid for him. Storfjell was nearly within arrow’s reach, and for what?

  Then Torbjorn thought he saw in the wreckage of the cart and the pile of straw nine carved and polished handles affixed to nine barrels – the Nine Butter Churns of Asgard.

  Storfjell took from his belt a smoldering torch, and thrust it into the straw like a dagger. The flame caught hold like it was starving, flashing red-hot, roaring over the top of the dry straw and devouring it like a pack of wolves tasting reindeer for the first time. The churns went with it, the flame taking hold so fast, the straw burned up and was gone.

  Within moments, all that remained were nine black skeletons scattered across each other like bones inside the growing wall of flame.

  “Storfjell!” cried Torbjorn. There was no time to put out the crackling fire, even if Torbjorn had dared to race to the water’s edge. The enemy was too close; it would be like running under a giant’s foot.

  And in a moment more, the Nine Churns of Asgard were charred and broken. They burned up into smoldering coals and ash that blew away with the smoke on the breeze.

  “Fool!” cried someone hidden up in the rocks.

  Then a low moan broke from the south side of the valley. It was a moan of despair and sadness, long and deep, the kind one makes at the loss of a kinsman. It grew louder, and it pierced Torbjorn in the heart like a sad song. It spread across the rocks, curving up to the north and circling the narrow bay, as one Smordaler passed it on to the other, their hearts breaking inside for Smordal’s hope and way of life. It grew deeper, as if generations of Smordaler – all the way back from when the Wanderer first gave them the Shining Apple as a gift – joined in the mournful song.

  Torbjorn’s own brother had done the unthinkable. Storfjel
l, of all the clan, had been loyal to their ways and filled with the pride of Smordal. And now he had betrayed them all.

  Storfjell turned to the waiting ships. “Behold! The Nine Churns of Asgard are destroyed! Smordal holds nothing for you!” he cried.

  Torbjorn rushed at Storfjell, not caring how close to the clutches of the Blodkriger he came. He smashed into him with his shoulder from behind, knocking him to the sand.

  Storfjell turned and picked himself up, his face and beard covered in flecks of pale yellow sand. There was very little surprise in his grey eyes. Just steady, clear vision.

  “Storfjell, what have you done?” gasped Torbjorn.

  “That which had to be,” said Storfjell.

  Torbjorn shook his head. This was not his brother. “But Smordal…. The churns… Storfjell, what have you done?” he said again.

  “That which you forced me to do,” said Storfjell.

  The words cut deep. Rotte’s smile at Viksfjord flashed into his mind. Torbjorn knew his brother spoke true. This was the end of the work which Torbjorn had begun when he’d given up their secret.

  There was a sudden rush; something charged toward Torbjorn. It was warrior of Smordal, a shrill battle cry in his throat, his spear raised and aimed at Storfjell’s heart.

  Torbjorn reacted instinctively. He swung his spade at the attacker’s legs from the front, catching him at the ankles and tripping him up just enough to make him falter. Storfjell dodged, leaping to one side with his back arched. The attacker’s spear lunged into empty air. He fell to the ground.

  It was Mannkraft’s son, Grimbarn. “Are you for Smordal, or for them?” he shouted.

  Storfjell never answered. An arrow whistled through the air and with a loud thunk! drove itself into the wooden cart right next to Storfjell’s back. Torbjorn turned to face the ships.

  “Attack!” came a shrill cry from the ships. It was a cry filled with rage and revenge. All at once, the men brandished their iron swords, their blades pointed skyward so that the ship looked like a fierce falcon with bristling metal feathers. Then the first ship molted its iron plumage, the men pouring over the side, lowering themselves into the water and wading ashore.