by J. M. Martin
~
Anglia, 963AD
Late summer
In the distance, shouts rang out and horses whinnied. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal told of blacksmiths hard at work, fixing armor, and sharpening swords. Commands in a strange, woollen language carried over thatched roofs, river banks, and the heads of three young men hiding behind a thick hedge.
“Oh, great. Now what?” Thormund asked, clutching a rough-spun sack.
Sven turned around and glared. “Now you shut up before you get us killed with your moaning,” he hissed, bushy eyebrows knotted with fury. “And keep it still. If you move, it clinks.”
“Should have just chopped it up,” Thormund said. “Easier to carry.”
Up ahead, Sigurd motioned for both of them to be quiet and scratched the few, stubbly hairs on his chin. “It’s not about that. We need it in one piece. Now - there are twenty of them,” he whispered. “They’ve only got one horse, but they’re armed and armored. I could take about five, I think, but that still leaves too many for you.” He turned and peered through the gap in the hedge.
“You think?” Sven said. “This is turning out to be a bad idea.”
“It was your idea,” Thormund growled, puffing up his bony chest like a tiny rooster getting ready to fight.
“That’s hardly my fault, is it?” Sven snarled.
“What? How is that not your fault? You’re going to get all of us killed,” Thormund said. “Now I’ll never reach twenty summers.”
“If you die it will be from cowardice, not blades,” Sven said. “You’ve had no trouble avoiding a fight so far.”
Thormund kicked out and connected with Sven’s shin, just as a startled blackbird burst out of the hedge.
“Stop it.” Sigurd glared at them. “You both need to shut up and think.”
“He kicked me! Can we leave him?” Sven said. “Trade him for a pair of trousers, maybe? I’m sure the king will have him. For sausages or something.”
“No,” Sigurd said.
“Well, we can’t go back.” Sven glanced up at the keep. “We were lucky enough to get out.”
“The river’s too wide on the left,” Sigurd added. “And there are too many people on the right.”
“And we can’t wait till nightfall, because they’ll get news of the ship. So the only way is forward,” said Thormund with a sigh.
Sigurd turned to Sven. “Impress me.”
“Fine,” Sven said. “Fine. I’ll go. But you better be prepared to run.” He slinked off towards the houses, hugging the growing shadows and hunching over.
Thormund slumped to the ground. “I hate this,” he muttered. “We’re all going to die. Stupid, stupid idea.”
“The idea was fine,” Sigurd said. “Get there, grab what we came for, get back before news of the ship gets to them. It’s cost us quite a lot less than a full assault. Father will be pleased.”
“If we get out of here alive, which is no guarantee.”
“We will,” Sigurd said, almost gently. “And you’ll be back on the boat. He might even make you boatswain. Especially after Ormar died last week.” Thormund studied the branch next to his face with great intent. Sigurd looked at his friend. “It was odd how he got his throat cut, wasn’t it?”
“Girl musta had a knife,” Thormund muttered.
“She may have. She’ll have been very limber, too, to cut his throat from behind.”
Thormund was about to answer when a clear voice interrupted. “Hweart thed?” Bright, innocent. A child’s voice. Both men turned and stared. The boy couldn’t be much more than five, and he was standing twenty yards away, staring at them. “Hweart thed?” he repeated.
Sigurd reached over and gently put his hand on Thormund’s scrawny arm. “No,” he whispered. “Too far away. He’ll scream.” Thormund eased the knife back under his belt.
Sigurd contorted his face into the biggest expression of surprise he could make.
The boy stared at him—and giggled.
Sigurd smiled and slowly placed a finger on his lips.
The boy, eyes sparkling with understanding, did the same. Then he stuck his tongue out.
Sigurd Aegisson, captain’s son and scourge of the north seas, stuck his tongue out further. The boy giggled again, and Sigurd motioned for him to come over. He glanced furtively at the hole in the hedge, then pulled back as if someone might have seen him. Delighted, the boy scampered over and crouched next to them, peering out onto the village square. When he saw the people there, he turned to Sigurd and Thormund. He opened his mouth—and hissed very quietly. “Sssh.” Then he knelt next to them and smiled.
“Sssh,” Sigurd repeated. Then he turned to the grinning Thormund. “Leave your blade be. If he lives, we get out of here. If we kill him, his kin will not stop until we’re dead. But if you tell anyone I spared his life I will gut you like a fish. Understood?”
The smirk on Thormund’s face vanished. “Understood,” he muttered. “I wasn’t going to—”
A woman’s screech ripped through the village. “Vykingr!” she shouted. “VYKINGR!”
Moments later an odd shape dressed in what looked like five layers of the brightest clothes imaginable sprinted past the soldiers in the square, slapping a fair few of them in the process. “GET THE HORSE, YOU BASTARDS!” Sven screamed, lifting his knees high to avoid tripping on the hem of a stolen skirt. “RUN!” He turned sharply and disappeared in between houses, vaulting over a waist-high fence.
The effect on the men in the square was impressive. Almost all of them grabbed their weapons and gave chase.
Behind them a woman screamed “AETHELRED!” Beside them the boy’s ears perked up and he took off at great speed.
“Now!” Sigurd hissed. “NOW!”
Thormund did not need any encouragement. He squeezed out of the hedge and darted to the nearest oak tree, with Sigurd in pursuit.
Chaos reigned in the square. The fastest and the youngest were turning in between the houses where Sven had gone, but a number of them were still milling about in confusion.
Sigurd overtook Thormund and sprinted up to the next man he could find, grabbing him by the shift and screaming in his face, “VYKINGR!” Before the doughy soldier knew what had happened, Sigurd had spun him around and pushed him towards the road, on Sven’s trail. Terrified, the soldier started running. Sigurd ran close behind him, staying at least partially hidden and inserting all the command he could muster into his voice, shouting “Vykingr” over and over. Two more soldiers joined, and before long they were barking encouragement at each other. Like a herd, the remaining soldiers caught on and started running.
When the last one ran out of the square, Sigurd turned and ran towards the horse, which Thormund had already saddled.
He greeted Sigurd with a smile. “Stopping for a chat, were we?”
“They needed some encouragement,” Sigurd replied.
“Right. Shall we go catch ourselves an ugly woman?”
“Sounds good to me,” They mounted up, Sigurd in front, and urged the stolen horse onwards. Over the sound of hooves on hard ground they heard the frustrated shouts of the townsfolk in their strange language.
“They bleat like sheep!” Thormund shouted.
“Sheep are smarter!” Sigurd shouted back.
Suddenly Sven burst out of an impossibly narrow space between a house and a tool shed, turning sharply and sprinting towards the edge of town. His clothes were ripped and torn, but he was grinning manically. Three young men ran hard on Sven’s heels, but the fourth caught his foot, spun with complete lack of grace, and smacked into the ground.
“There!” Thormund shouted, and leaned forward on the horse to spur it on.
Sigurd’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He took a deep breath. “Run, you bastard! Arms out, don’t look back!” he shouted.
Sven stretched his arms out and sprinted for all he was worth.
Behind him, hooves thundered as Sigurd and Thormund approached. The pursuers looked up too la
te—a well-placed kick sent one flying, and the other two had to dive sideways to avoid being trampled.
Strong arms hooked Sven by the elbow, and he was airborne. He caught a toe-hold on the stirrup and swung his other leg over, grabbing hold of Sigurd’s waist with both hands.
The town disappeared behind a bend in the road, and a frustrated scream suggested the pursuers had given up.
“Next time, let’s rob a town that has more than one horse,” Sven huffed.
“Nothing but complaints,” Thormund muttered. The mare whinnied in agreement, and they rode on.
#
An endless expanse of grass stretched out to either side as far as the eye could see. Up ahead, the road sloped up a hill, into a pine forest.
“No wonder these farmers have settled here,” Thormund said. “It is the country for it.”
“That’s why they’re soft,” Sigurd said. “They don’t need to defend themselves.”
“Didn’t,” Sven corrected.
Sigurd smiled. “That’s right. Thormund—do you have the sack?”
Eyes wide with panic, Thormund started patting himself. “The sack? Uhrm…what? No! Sven had it!”
Sven reached for his knife. “You lying pile of shit, I’ll gut—” Then he looked up and saw the smirk on the skinny horse thief’s face. “Not funny.”
Grinning, Thormund produced the sack from underneath his shirt. “Here it is.” The unmistakeable sound of seagulls punctuated his sentence, and he handed the sack over to Sigurd, who fastened it to the saddle horn.
“And here we are.” Sigurd cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Norsemen coming!”
“About fucking time!” a voice echoed from the forest. Seven men just…appeared, stepping out from the shadows of the trees. “Your father is ready.”
“My father is always ready,” Sigurd replied.
“Did you get what you needed?” a big, broad-chested guard said, leaning on his spear.
Sigurd just grinned and rode past him.
It didn’t take them long to clear the thicket and come out to the pebble-covered beach on the other side. His father’s ship, The Northman’s Claw, lay beached, and the men were sat around a cook-fire roasting something big.
“So that’s what you do when the work is being done for you?” Sven hollered. “Sit around and stuff your face with the king’s deer?”
Various levels of abuse and suggestions of where he could shove the hooves rang out from the men sat around the fire. Only one of them rose to his feet. Thick, silver-gray hair in a plait held together with gold wire snaked down over one shoulder. Sun-tanned and weather-beaten skin stretched taut over high cheek-bones, and piercing blue eyes stared at the boys.
Sigurd dismounted and grabbed the sack. “Here you are, father.”
Aegir Njardarson took the sack and nodded. “You have done well,” he said. “All of you.”
Behind him, Thormund and Sven dismounted and grinned. Sigurd just stood there, ramrod straight. “Thank you,” he said, but his father had already turned away.
Aegir’s was the voice of command. “Everyone up. Push out. We’ll have them on us sooner than you think. Carve up the meat, too. We’re sailing.” The men grumbled, but none of them hesitated, each one getting up and taking to his assigned role.
Thormund and Sven went to help push the boat out. The icy cold sea snapped at their ankles, then bit at their calves. “I swear, even the sea around here is softer,” Sven said.
“Not soft enough,” Thormund grumbled.
“You’re just not fat enough,” Sven countered, grunting with the effort of dragging the ship out and wincing at the sound of the hull scraping the pebbles.
Within moments, a cry came out from the watchers. “Soldiers coming!”
There was no shouting or cursing on the beach. Everyone simply did what they were already doing, just faster. As the seven watchers came running down the hill towards the ship, men were clearing up and jumping on board. Soon enough, Aegir’s fighters were placing themselves on the twenty benches, grabbing oars, and stowing away sacks of loot.
In the midst of it all, Aegir Njardarson walked calmly on the shoreline commanding his men. When the time was right, he picked up a fist-sized stone, walked towards the longship, and leapt up into the bow.
Moments later, a wave of men crested the hill and charged down towards the ship—but too late. Strong arms were pulling on oars like they’d done thousands of times before, and the vessel slid effortlessly backwards and out to sea.
“They brought some friends,” Thormund said.
“They probably heard Thormund the Destroyer was on the boat and didn’t want to take any chances,” Sven said.
“Halt,” Aegir shouted. Commands were barked down the line, and the rowers kept the ship steady, out of arrow range. The Viking captain lifted the sack overhead. Then he stuck his hand in it and pulled out a glittering, finely wrought crown.
The mass of men on the beach shouted and shook their weapons, but there was nothing they could do as Aegir put the crown back in the sack, reached down and picked up the stone, and placed that in the bag too.
“No. He isn’t—” Thormund began. He glanced at Sigurd, but the young man’s eyes were riveted to the figure of his father, of how his men looked at him, and how he stood in the bow, calm as a Tuesday morning.
“I reckon he is,” Sven said.
“But why?” Thormund almost wailed.
“To piss them off,” Sigurd said. “To make them too angry for reason. To make them charge us next time without thinking.”
“To win,” Sven added.
By the stern, Aegir Njardarson had started swinging the sack with the stone and the crown over his head. The clamour from the beach was raw now, men screaming the ugliest words they knew, invoking their god, something—and then Aegir let it go.
The sack sailed to their starboard side. It hit the water with an audible plop and sank out of sight immediately. Without needing to be prompted, the rowers on the port side pulled hard. The Northman’s Claw turned in a half-circle and sped away.
“Glad that’s over,” Thormund said from his spot behind Sven and Sigurd.
“Over?” Sven said. “You should hear what we’ve got planned for Frankia!”
Thieves at the Gate
James Enge
The principal thief in this story is me. I stole the world and characters for “Thieves at the Gate” from Homer. It's always been interesting to me how people like Odysseus (or Gunnarr Hamundarson or whoever) could be decent, respectable guys at home and murderous pirates abroad. This isn't really the answer, but it's an answer.
~
When their first child was born dead, Odysseus and Penelope grieved, and Ithaca and the Cephallenian nations grieved with them. When their second child was stillborn also, Odysseus' father told him to get a new wife.
"Go back to your farm, old man!" said Odysseus, and went off to bury the dead baby.
After the third child took a few breaths and died, an assembly of Ithacan nobles came to Odysseus. Eupeithes spoke for the group, with his fair-haired son Alcinous standing at his side. He begged Odysseus to marry again. "We know how you love Penelope, and so do we all love her and honor her for her many talents. But if you have no heir, the lands conquered by your grandfather, Arceisius, may break away and we will be thrown back to live on our farms and flocks and the rocky soil of Ithaca. What a dreadful thing that would be!"
It would certainly be bad for Eupeithes, Odysseus knew. His lands, though large, wouldn't support a decent-sized herd of goats. Eupeithes was rich because he took money from the wealthy men of Cephallenia, promising to plead their cases with the king of Ithaca. Odysseus knew better than Eupeithes how much treasure and blood it had taken to conquer the Cephallenian lands, and how much it still took to maintain Ithaca's rule there. He would’ve traded Ithacan rule over the Cephallenians for a decent plow. He was not about to throw Penelope aside for Eupethes’ benefit.
But
Eupeithes was rich, and the Ithacan nobles with him were important in more important ways. So Odysseus told them he would think about it, and didn't. Instead he went to play with his new puppy.
"Argus," he said reflectively to the puppy (who was his closest confidant, apart from Penelope), "if I were as good at siring children as I am at raising dogs, this house would be full of children. Herds of babies would darken the narrow plains of Ithaca, devouring all nursing mothers in their path."
Argus' dark clear eyes took on the tragic look of confusion they always wore when Odysseus said any sentence longer than, "Sit!" or "Seek!" or "Let's eat!"
"Never mind, fat boy," Odysseus said kindly. (The epithet was merely descriptive. At this point in his career, Argus resembled an overstuffed sausage with floppy ears and four alarmingly large feet.) "Let's eat!"
Relieved of his responsibilities as a state counsellor, Argus ran frantically to the kitchen, barking happily. Odysseus beat him there, but only by a hair. The puppy's legs were getting longer; Odysseus thought he'd be a good hunting dog.
"Keep that animal out of my kitchen!" shrieked Euryclea, as she did two or three times a day.
"You talk that way of my only son?" Odysseus declaimed, in mock-offended tones.
Euryclea gasped. "You're a fool, Odysseus: that's my opinion!" she said, when she could speak. "Your father Laertes was the only son of his father, and you are the only son of Laertes. The house of Arceisius is destined to yield only sons. If you persist in calling that dirty beast your only son, the gods will punish you by making it the truth!"
"And which god told you this, Euryclea?"
"It stands to reason!" Euryclea screamed. She rarely spoke at any tone other than the top of her voice, and Odysseus not infrequently felt the urge to clap his hand over her mouth and tell her to be quiet. But she had been his nurse when he was a child, so he let her run on. "Besides," she continued, "I thought you had given up this nasty hunting business. The last time you went hunting boar, the thing nearly took your leg off! Why would the gods let that happen, if they wanted you to go on hunting?"