“No sleep,” Erik announced. “We’ll ride as soon as we’ve prepared the weapons.”
Before their revenge could begin, they’d have to go to Hawk Farm. Erik would not go and fight without the blessing of the family and, above all, without Thjodhild’s consent.
While Tyrkir dragged the armory chests outside the house with the help of a servant, Erik briefly informed the other servants of his plans. He divided the work and determined the place where the dead were to be buried. Afterward, he selected four fast horses, ensuring that each hoof and tendon was carefully checked.
Tyrkir was satisfied with the condition of the weapons. Thanks to the fat-soaked rags that had wrapped them, the blades of the long-stemmed battle-axes, daggers, and spearheads showed no signs of rust. The usual armament, which they carried with them daily or had ready at hand in the house, would not be sufficient for the upcoming battle.
For the first time since their arrival in Iceland, Tyrkir held the well-made bow woods, the sinews and arrows, the shimmering chain shirts, and the cutting and stabbing weapons. After checking each object carefully, he laid it in the grass, separating those intended for Erik’s use from those he’d use himself. Nothing could be left to chance—the slightest damage, break, or torn bow-eye could mean death. He had the servant rub the round helmets with a mixture of seal fat and sand, after which he mixed ashes with his own saliva to polish their surfaces. The metal had to shine, flashing to frighten the opponent. Then Tyrkir turned his attention to the round shields.
As Erik led the bridled horses to the forecourt, Tyrkir had just decided on five shields, all made of tightly joined wood. The leather and the pointed horn on the metal arch in the middle of each was undamaged.
“It’s been a long time,” Erik murmured at the sight of the arsenal. “The last time we were armed so was when my father and I prepared ourselves in Norway.”
“It’d feel easier if the weapons stayed in the chest.” Tyrkir sighed. “Back then, we won and yet lost.”
“Not a word of that! We will punish the murderers of our servants. That’s the end of it. There will be no war between the families.”
“That’s how it should be,” Tyrkir said, quietly hoping that providence would be kind to them.
Both men silently put on their undergarments of thick, tightly woven cloth, tied their leather shoes, wrapped the leg protectors up to the knee cuffs of their wide pants, and then put on their chain mail. Each pulled the knob of his sword into his belts and put two daggers within reach next to it.
“Just the cloak. That’ll do for now,” said Erik as he pulled the strap of the hunting horn over his head. “Or else, Thorbjörn might think we’re about to attack Hawk Farm.” The servants tied the battle-axes and spears, shields, bows, arrows, and quivers to the spare horses along with the travel bundles. Before Tyrkir fastened the polished helmets to his saddle, he silently showed his friend the dents from earlier fights.
“So what? That’s how you know how much they can take. Even your Know-It-All head stayed whole under there. What more do you want?”
As they left the new farm on the slope, blessings for success and for a happy return accompanied them until they finally ebbed away.
The friends rode in silence. Fog capped the snow-covered mountains in the distance, gray veils of haze rolling along with them on the nearby hills. No night and yet no day. The singing swans, disturbed by the riders, rose out of the meadow with shrill cries.
Soon, the men had reached the pastures of Hawk Farm. As always, the dogs struck first—this time louder, angrier—and the servants came out of the main building faster to see what the commotion was. Only upon closer inspection did they recognize the armed men as Erik and his steward and ran back inside to wake their master.
Barefoot, in a roughly woven nightgown, Thorbjörn stepped outside. With one look, he took in the armor and weapons. The determined faces of his midnight callers made any question unnecessary. “Come into the hall.”
After Thorbjörg and Thjodhild emerged from their sleeping rooms wrapped in their capes and had greeted the young men sleepily, the big farmer sat down on the high seat. “I’m listening.”
Erik’s chest rose and fell. He started twice but struggled to explain the facts calmly. Finally, he turned to Tyrkir. “You explain. You know better than I what’s happened.”
Thorbjörn interrupted the German’s report only once. “The ravens—what did they do? Were they silent when Ketil died?”
Tyrkir tried to remember, recalling the scenes one by one. He moved from one corpse to the next and heard the screeching. At the same time, he closed the lids of the disembodied head, then kneeled next to the old servant. “Silence. When Ketil asked me about God Tyr, and I told him about the hand, there was no sound from the trees.”
“That’s good.” The big farmer twisted a finger through his beard. “Go on. What happened after the man died?”
“Nothing important.”
“That’s for me to decide, boy.”
First grief, then fear made Tyrkir rise. He recalled looking down into the valley at the scree. “I tore green twigs from a branch and thought how quickly they would wither.” He explained how he’d found the two horses grazing quietly and closed with how he had led the carriage down into the valley on foot. “As I said, nothing important happened afterward.”
The sentence faded away in the hall. For a time, only the crackling of the smoldering embers could be heard.
Thorbjörg broke away from Thjodhild. Her leg slowed her walk to the high seat, but there, she stood tall with a gaze that showed no weakness. After a slight nod from her husband, she laid both hands over her heart like a shield. “The birch leaves must not wither until the murders have been avenged. Hear this, son-in-law. Even the dead must not be touched until you have purified our family honor.”
“What? But I’ve already ordered my people to take them down to the farm.”
“You cannot!” Never before had the old farmer’s wife scolded him so harshly. “Do you want to break the spell that supports your just cause? How can the gods help you when they can no longer see the reason for your revenge?”
“I didn’t think,” Erik mumbled, and shoved his friend in the side. “You should have warned me.”
Because Tyrkir felt responsible, he defended Erik without hesitation. “Calm yourself, Mistress. Our error can still be rectified.” He suggested sending a messenger right away to change the command. Nothing would be touched at the scene of the murder. Quietly, he added, “Thank you for reminding us.”
The words brightened the old woman’s features. Fighting was a man’s business. But Thorbjörg had not been gifted with magical powers, and she often lamented this lack of ability. Still, she would certainly not have let the two young men go on their quest without herbal potions and an incantation. She not only fulfilled her duty as a housewife to always remind the men of their revenge but she also ensured they received divine support and the family’s encouragement for the weighty task.
She turned to her daughter. “Why are you silent?”
Thjodhild fidgeted with the hem of her cape. “Soon, Mother. Everything is so new . . .” she whispered. “Give me more time!”
Thorbjörn saw her distress and called out for a servant, gave him precise instructions, and sent him to the new farm on the hill. Turning to Erik, he said, “Whatever happens, I will support you with all my wealth and my loyalty. But before you set out, we should please God Thor with a gift.”
Together they went outside and entered the fenced-off sacrificial garden. Erik took the chicken the farmer offered, opened the animal’s breast with a single cut, and tied it to the top of the stake by its claws. While blood dripped on his silver Thor’s hammer, he looked up at the sky. “Don’t think me arrogant, great friend, but lend me some of your strength! Only so much that I can regain our good fortune.” He carefully put the amulet back into the coin bag at his belt.
Thjodhild felt her mother’s disapproval. Be calm,
Mother. I will fulfill my duty. She accompanied the men to their horses. My heart must be silent, she thought. I must not say anything about how afraid I am for my son’s father, nor about my concern for Tyrkir. He has more courage than strength. I am the wife of a Viking.
She gave Erik both of her hands. “Blood for blood. Revenge for the sacrilege that was done to us.” Uselessly, she fought against the tears. “And . . . and return to me!”
Erik wanted to pull her close, but under the eyes of his parents-in-law, he resisted the urge. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to wait for me long.”
Thjodhild went to the steward. “Take care so that Leif doesn’t lose his good teacher. He and I, we need you.”
Before Tyrkir could answer, she turned away and returned to the house.
The Holmgang
As the sun rose higher, the friends rested in a sheltered hollow. They kept their swords and shields within reach as they stretched their tired limbs. Erik chewed on a blade of grass and watched the drifting clouds. Tyrkir had rolled up his coat and pushed it under his neck. The morning is so quiet and peaceful, he thought. How long would it last?
The lower Hawk Valley opened up before them. The river gleamed like a silver ribbon, broadening and becoming an oval mirror in the form of the great lake in the distance. There, on the lower bank, behind the woods, was the Spiel Farm. Hravn Holmgang and his clan lived there. “Do we ride directly to the lake? Where do we start the search?”
Erik spat out the stalk he’d been chewing on. “From house to house. I want to have my back free.” He pointed to the settlements, small and large. “We inquire about the murderers everywhere. Everyone should know that we’re hunting them, and why.”
“But we’ll lose time. Somebody will warn them.”
“That’s what I want, Know-It-All.” Erik sat up. “No one can say afterward that I killed them in an ambush.”
Oh, great Tyr, give him sense, begged Tyrkir. He challenges men who train with their weapons every day, and now he won’t use even a little cunning.
“How long has it been?” Tyrkir began cautiously. “I mean, when was the last time you fought? Swung an ax or hurled a spear?”
“Why do you ask when you already know the answer?”
“Three years is a long time.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Erik whispered. He pushed his hand through his red mane. “Father took care of that. . . .”
Week after week, Thorvald had trained his son in hand-to-hand combat. Bruises and open wounds were no excuse to interrupt lessons. Only when the son had defeated the father a few times had the old man been satisfied. “You’ll also have to remember quickly what he taught us.” Erik stood. “Come. This is our day.”
The pair shared a flat loaf of bread, washing it down with sour milk, then strapped their swords back on and put on their helmets. The nose bridges changed their faces, pairs of eyes separated by cold metal. They took their battle-axes and spears with them, riding to the nearest farm.
“We’re looking for Ejolf Dirt and Hravn Holmgang.”
“They’re not here.” The farmer eyed the armed riders warily. “Is there a reason why you carry so much iron with you?”
Erik enlightened the man in brief words, and immediately they rode on.
“That man is lying,” he grumbled. “I know it. Did you see his eyes?” He paused. “You talk to the others, Know-It-All. You’ll do better than I.”
By noon, they’d reached the upper shore of the lake. They’d asked at four houses on both sides of the stream, but no, the men they sought were not there, and no, nobody knew where they were.
“There! See that man?” Tyrkir pointed to a horseman he saw leaving the homestead where they’d last inquired. The man rode at a wild gallop, making a wide arc, and then headed straight for the Spiel Farm.
“That’s good.” Erik nodded, satisfied. “Now we know exactly where our prey is. This dog will lure the weasels out of their den.” He quickly reached for his spear, making sure the shaft readily slipped out of the leather quiver on the side of the saddle and that the long-stemmed ax jumped into his other fist, before replacing each.
“If we’d had to go to the courtyard first, it would have been bad for us. They could have quickly spread out in the stable or barn.”
Tyrkir was quietly amazed. His friend was often sluggish in his thinking, but now he was a hunter who carefully sought to avoid any mistakes.
They rode around the densely packed buildings at a safe distance until the sun was at their backs. Atop a hill, they climbed from their saddles.
“What now?” Tyrkir looked down at the green roofs. White columns of smoke quickly dissolved in the breeze, leaving behind only the smell of a wood fire.
“We wait. And if it takes too long . . .” Erik struck his horn lightly. “I blow them out.”
They didn’t have to wait long. The door of the main house swung open, and fully equipped, Ejolf Dirt stepped outside with Hravn, followed by five armed men. So Ejolf had anticipated an attack and had already gathered his horde.
“We should have brought some servants with us.” Tyrkir’s tongue stuck to his palate. “There’s still time. We could retreat and gather reinforcements.”
“I’m not a rabbit.” Erik watched closely as the men led their horses out of the yard and approached the hill. Only Ejolf and the giant wore chain mail shirts—the rest had protected themselves with thick, quilted-leather jackets. Within shouting distance, the troop formed a spread-out line of attack.
“I’ll make my demand,” Erik whispered. “You take care of the rest. Our success depends on you. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Don’t tease me now, Know-It-All! I’ll tell you quietly what you should say. Just make sure you do it right.”
Ejolf Dirt took a few steps forward and greeted Erik with an exaggerated wave of his arm. “Look. Visitors. I can’t say that this pleases me, but what makes you, intruder, keep honorable men from their work?”
Despite the mockery, Erik controlled his temper. “Atonement for my five servants whom you murdered. I demand the full fine for each one.”
Laughing, Ejolf summoned the Holmganger and the others with a signal, and they joined his laughter. But when he raised his shield, silence immediately returned.
“Never before have I paid money for manslaughter, not one gram of silver. Even my friend Hravn has so far only bagged, but never relinquished anything. You speak of murder? No, I avenged the death of my brother and his family. With that, the balance is restored.” He bounced slightly on his knees. “But if your ugly red comb swells, we will gladly trim it for you.” He gave his men a signal, and with spears in their fists, the attackers moved as one, drawing their semicircle closer around Erik and Tyrkir.
Tyrkir looked around surreptitiously. The escape route was still open—into the saddles, up and away. This pride—this damned sense of honor—what good was it if it only brought death?
But Erik did not move. “Let them come a little closer,” he whispered. “Then tell them something about cowardice! Seven against two. I want to fight each one alone.”
Tyrkir understood. It wasn’t a good plan, but it at least offered them a small chance of survival. With his hands raised high, he stood in front of his friend. “You cowards! My lord has nothing but contempt for you.”
Surprised, Ejolf faltered and ordered the cronies to stop. “Contempt? Tell your red rooster that he’ll be slain by men who are respected throughout Hawk Valley.”
“My master will defend himself. He may die, yes, but the honor will remain his. Your reputation, however, will be blackened. Cowardly mutts, that’s what they’ll call you and your people in the future. Do you think any woman will ever want to dance with you at a feast? No, she will turn away, her face full of disgust.”
Tyrkir saw how his words affected the vain man and added, “What everyone has always thought about you, today you’ve proved. I can already hear their scorn. ‘Yes, Ejolf is all hot air, when he
has a superior force at his back.’”
Pale with anger, Ejolf shouted back, “What does your master demand?”
“A fair fight.” Tyrkir let his arms sink to his sides. “Nothing more.”
Behind him, he heard the quiet voice of his friend: “Excellent, Know-It-All. First, you target the bastard, then Holmganger.”
Tyrkir continued loudly, “Your people have nothing to do with it. We, too, could have come here with men, but my master does not want war. This dispute concerns only you and Hravn. If you’re so brave, then face my master, and if you are defeated, let your friend try his luck.”
“You! You certainly have a smart mouth.” Ejolf pointed threateningly. “That tongue—I should cut your fucking tongue out!”
Behind him, Tyrkir heard Erik whisper, “He’s not so stupid. You would make a clever gode. Well done, my friend. He doesn’t have a choice now if he doesn’t want to lose face.”
Below the hill, Ejolf consulted with Hravn. There was a violent exchange of words between them. Again and again, Hravn struck his chest, and despite his efforts, the slender leader had trouble appeasing him. Finally, they came to an agreement.
“As you wish,” Ejolf Dreck shouted up to the hilltop. “My friend only regrets that he’ll be deprived of the fun since I get to fight first, and only the corpse of Erik will be left for him. As compensation, he may take weapons, horses, and you as a slave. Your master has succeeded in his demand, but I choose how we fight.”
The duel was to be carried out on horseback, and then, if necessary, on foot. Ejolf selected a meadow near the lakeshore. Only death would bring victory. Until then, no one but the two fighters would be allowed to enter the battleground. He chose the west side for himself, with the advantage that Erik had to ride against the sun.
“Fine by me,” the Red growled.
“My master agrees.”
“Tell him to hurry,” Ejolf jeered. “I want this little business done in time for dinner.”
Tyrkir turned. “Do I have to answer him?”
“Leave it!”
Erik the Red Page 8