Dragons from the Sea

by Judson Roberts

  The giant, Torvald, erupted with a snort of indignation. “Impudent, beardless lad! This man to whom you speak is jarl over all of the northern district of Jutland. His crew are all handpicked warriors and seasoned men. Children do not serve on the Gull.”

  “I am not a child,” I sputtered. “No more than you are a tree that can speak, though in truth you are the size of one. I am a grown man.”

  Torvald opened his mouth, no doubt to insult me again, but Hastein held up his hand to silence him.

  “You did not know what you asked,” he said to me. “Even were you not so young, I would not bring into my crew any man whom I know nothing about. My men are all well known to me. Their courage, loyalty, and skill at arms have been proved. I know nothing at all about you—not even your name, or who your father was, or where you are from.”

  Halfdan, son of Hrorik, I started to say, then hesitated. What if the jarl had known my father? He would know of my brother, Harald, if he had, but not of me. How would I explain? I would have to reveal that I had been a slave in my own father’s household. What chance then would I have of joining any longship’s crew, much less the crew of this jarl?

  “My father’s name was Eric,” I lied. “He was a simple farmer. He’s dead now. He died of a fever. We lived near Ribe.” If Jarl Hastein ruled over northern Jutland, hopefully he would be unfamiliar with the folk of Ribe in the midlands.

  “My name is Halfdan,” I added. That much, at least, was true.

  The jarl stared at me silently for a moment, the expression on his face unreadable. I met his gaze without blinking or looking away.

  “Well, Halfdan,” he finally said, “you’ve made me curious to see how well you shoot your bow.” Hastein reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a silver coin. “I will not give you a berth on my ship, even if you impress me with your shooting. But if you can make the shot I name, I’ll give you this silver denier to reward you for your trouble, and for my amusement.”

  Hastein turned, scanned the harbor briefly, then pointed out across it toward the end of the timber breakwater.

  “Do you see that piling jutting up taller than the others?” he asked.

  I did. I nodded, surprised. It was not that long a shot he was proposing.

  “There is a knot in it, one hand’s length down from the top,” he continued. “Do you see it? Are you skilled enough to strike that knot with your arrow?”

  The knot was no larger than the palm of my hand. This was more of a test, a shot only a skilled archer could count on hitting. Still, I did not doubt I could make it. I’d learned to shoot a bow hunting squirrels, birds, and other small game. The frequency with which such fare had graced my father’s table was a testament to my ability to hit even the smallest of marks.

  To shoot the knot would prove me a skilled archer, but I wanted to do more. I wanted to amaze the jarl. Perhaps then he might change his mind. I searched the harbor for a more difficult target. Far down the shore, in some tall grass growing near where the earthen bank of the town wall stopped at the water’s edge, I saw movement.

  It would be a foolishly difficult shot to attempt. If I could hit this mark, though, it would surely impress any man. On the other hand, if I missed I would appear a braggart and a fool.

  I had come to Hedeby to seek my fortune. Fortunes are more often won by boldness than by caution. I decided to risk it.

  “Would you favor fresh duck for your midday meal, Jarl Hastein?” I asked. My voice sounded far calmer than I felt.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  Torvald rolled his eyes. “He cannot make the shot you named,” he muttered. “He wants to pick another.”

  “There are marsh ducks nesting in that tall grass,” I said, pointing to show him where. “See yonder where one has just wandered out onto the shore? If you would enjoy feasting on duck, I will shoot that one for you.”

  The distance was well over twice as far as the shot the jarl had proposed.

  Hastein stared at me piercingly for a moment. “Some think marsh duck tastes too strongly of fish,” he said. “But if you can make that shot, then I will dine on roasted duck, and you will join me.”

  I strung my bow, then unslung both quivers from my shoulder and selected an arrow I had made and knew shot true. As I laid the arrow across my bow and nocked it on the string, Torvald said, “Ho, boy, have you silver to back your boast? I’ll wager two silver pennies you cannot make that shot.”

  “I’ll take your wager, Torvald,” Jarl Hastein said, drawing a surprised look from his helmsman. “If he makes it, you will pay me. Now be silent and let him shoot.”

  The jarl’s words startled me, too. Why would he bet on me?

  The duck wandered along the water’s edge, pecking at the sand, stopping and moving, never still for more than an instant. I watched it, holding my bow ready but not drawn, and silently berated myself. Why had I been such a fool? Why had I entrusted my future to a duck? If it would not be still, I would have to try and anticipate where it might move between the time I released my shot and when the arrow fell to earth. It was impossible. The foolish creature could go anywhere.

  I was starting my draw when a second duck walked out of the reeds, ruffled its wings for a moment, then settled itself down into the warmth of the sand and began preening its feathers with its bill.

  “The second duck,” I murmured to Hastein, and came to full draw. As I looked beyond the point of my arrow, the shoreline of the town stretched out before me, the houses and work buildings to one side, the sea along the other. My vision narrowed till I saw clearly only the strip of beach leading to where the duck had nestled in the sand. I let all else fade from my sight and from my mind. Finally I saw only the duck itself, then the spot where its neck met its back. At that moment, I released.

  Odin guide my arrow, I prayed, as it sped away. And keep the duck from moving.

  The arrow arced up and across the stretch of shoreline, then began to drop down, its flight forming a curve as graceful as the shape of a strung bow. Like a thunderbolt thrown by Thor, it fell from the sky and pierced the duck through its side, knocking it sideways and pinning it to the sand. Its mate squawked in terror and took flight.

  “Remarkable,” Hastein muttered. “That was truly remarkable. I have never seen such a shot.” He turned and looked at me. “When you shoot at such a distance, how do you gauge how high you must aim to allow for the drop?”

  I shook my head. “When I shoot, I just look at my target and pick where I want to hit it. When I can see only that point, I release the arrow to find its mark.”

  “Remarkable,” Hastein said again. He turned to Torvald. “You owe me two silver pennies. And as loser of the wager, you should go and retrieve the duck.”

  “Why did you wager on me?” I asked, while we stood watching Torvald lumber along the shore to where my arrow had pinned the duck to the ground. “You’d never seen me shoot.”

  “I bet on your confidence,” Hastein answered. “You showed no fear that you would fail, and even though you are young, you do not appear to be the sort of fool who would boastfully claim that which he knew he could not do.

  “I could have been wrong about you, of course,” he continued, “but I consider myself a good judge of men. I would not be alive today, nor hold the position I do, if I was not. And if I had been wrong, it was only two silver pennies. I did not gain the wealth and power I now hold by being afraid to take chances.”

  I wondered if Jarl Hastein would have chanced his wager on me had he realized how my heart was in my throat when I took the shot.

  3 : Tell Me Your Tale

  While the Gull was beached for repair, Jarl Hastein and his crew were living in tents pitched along the shore. The jarl’s tent was striped, made from broad bands of red and white sail cloth sewn together. The tops of the tall cross-timbers supporting the roof-pole were carved into dragons’ heads, similar to the one affixed to the stem-post at the bow of Hastein’s ship.

  A low fire
was burning in a ring of stones in front of the jarl’s tent. Two iron stakes, forked at the top, had been driven into the ground on either side. A long iron rod, supported by the stakes and spanning the fire, was draped with a string of sausages that dripped fat into the flames.

  As we approached, a strange-looking little man emerged from the tent and prodded one of the sausages with a small knife. He was wearing only a long tunic of coarse brown wool and his head was shaved bald on top, though the fringe of hair remaining on the sides and back was long enough to fashion into a loose plait.

  “This is Cullain,” Hastein told me, nodding his head at the little man. “He is my thrall. He is skilled at many things, one of which is cooking. Give the duck to him, and he will prepare it.”

  Cullain. The sound of the name called memories of my mother’s voice to mind, of tales she’d told me of her distant home in Ireland. I’d loved the way her tongue had rolled over the names of the Irish kings and heroes in her stories.

  “Is Cullain from Ireland?” I asked.

  “He is,” Hastein replied. “I captured him in a raid on an abbey there. I could have ransomed him back, for the Christians usually pay to recover captured priests, but I’ve found him too useful. Besides being an excellent cook, he’s skilled at brewing ale and mead, and is also a trained leech, who knows how to treat wounds and illness.”

  My mother had lost her home and the life she’d known in Ireland because of her beauty. This little man had lost his because of his skills. Strange that what should be considered gifts from the Gods could become a curse in a person’s life.

  “Though your road be long and lonely, may you find peace at its end,” I said to Cullain in Latin, as I handed him the carcass of the duck.

  He stared at me, startled, then asked, “How come you to speak the language of civilized men?”

  “My mother was Irish,” I replied, “and learned in the tongue of the ancient Romans.”

  Cullain’s words caused my mind to drift back to an image of my mother. “You should learn Latin, Halfdan,” she would tell me, when I would protest her efforts to teach me. “It is the language of civilization.” I’d thought it an unconvincing reason for the slave of a Dane to learn the strange tongue, since, by her own admission, she did not believe my father’s people were civilized.

  “What are the two of you saying, and how do you know the tongue of the Christian priests?” Hastein demanded.

  “I was merely greeting him. I know Latin because my mother taught me. She was Irish,” I told Hastein, my mind still on the image of my mother. “She learned to speak and read Latin in a monastery near her home.”

  “I have spent time in Ireland,” Hastein said. “Only some of the priests and monks there, and a very few of the nobility, can both speak and read Latin. It is very unusual for a woman to have such learning.”

  “Aye,” I answered, without thinking. “Her father was a king, and the monastery was near his lands. That is why the priests taught her.”

  Hastein stared at me silently for a moment.

  “How strange,” he finally said. “Your mother was the daughter of a king in Ireland, but your father was merely a farmer in Ribe?”

  For a moment his comment confused me. Too late I recalled the lie I had told him about my father. Before I could try to invent a story, Hastein spoke again.

  “I suspected earlier that you were lying,” he said. “No man needs to think before answering when asked his father’s name or where he calls home, but you hesitated when I asked you those questions. The truth is like a well-known path our footsteps can follow without thinking. Lies are not so familiar, though. Your voice betrayed you then, as your face does now. Its expression is more honest than your tongue was earlier.”

  My face, which seemed to have a mind of its own, had indeed confirmed Hastein’s accusation by flushing a brilliant red.

  Cullain, who had laid the duck beside the fire ring and entered the tent, now staggered back out almost hidden beneath a huge bundle of thick brown fur—the pelt of a large bear—which he spread on the ground. When he was done, Hastein seated himself on the skin, his legs crossed. Torvald sat down beside him, to his right. Hastein pointed to the empty spot at his left.

  “Sit,” he told me. I would rather have crawled away in shame, but his voice had a tone of command in it I dared not disobey. I had already shown the jarl disrespect by lying to him. If I turned my back on him now and fled, I feared he might set the giant on me.

  “It will take some time for Cullain to prepare the duck. While we wait, we will talk. Let me warn you not to try to deceive me again, for I am deemed more cunning than most men. I wish to know who you are, and why you felt a need to conceal from me the truth about yourself. Now tell me your tale.”

  I dared tell him naught but the truth. But my life had led a twisted path, and I did not know where to begin. Sensing my hesitation, Hastein prompted me.

  “Who is your father? Who are your people?”

  Who were my people? I remembered the day when my brother, Harald, had taken me to see the burial mounds of our ancestors.

  “My father’s name was Hrorik,” I began. “He was the son of Offa, who was son of Gorm, who was son of Haldar Greycloak. My father was called Strong-Axe, and he was a chieftain.”

  “I know of him,” Hastein said. “I have met him and have raided with him. I heard a rumor that he died.”

  “It is true. He was gravely wounded in battle during a raid on England. My brother, Harald, brought him home. Hrorik died the night after they returned.”

  “I know of Harald, too,” Hastein said, nodding his head. “I remember a lawsuit was brought against him at the Thing up on the Limfjord, charging him with killing a man. I helped judge it. The killing was ruled to be lawful. It occurred in a duel, as I recall.”

  Hastein looked me in the eyes. “I do not recall hearing that Hrorik had another son, though. Who are you?”

  Though it was difficult, I held his gaze and did not look away.

  “My name is Halfdan, as I told you,” I said. “Hrorik was my father. My mother was the daughter of a king in Ireland, as I said, but Hrorik took her in a raid and kept her as his concubine. She was his slave.”

  “And are you a slave, too?” Hastein asked. “Perhaps a runaway? Though it is growing out, your hair still shows traces of having been cut shorter than a free man would wear it.”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I answered. “It is true I once was a slave. But on the night he returned home from England, before he died, Hrorik freed me.”

  “And your mother? Does she still live?” Hastein asked.

  Now I did look away. I did not want the jarl to see the tears that came to my eyes.

  “No,” I said. “She, too, is dead. Her body was burned with Hrorik’s on his funeral pyre. She agreed to accompany my father on his death voyage to the next world, if he would free me and acknowledge me as his son.”

  I missed my mother, but that was not what brought the tears to my eyes. I still felt pain that she had died for me; that she had bought my freedom with her death. I should not have let her.

  “Why did you try to hide this from me?” Hastein asked. “And why are you here in Hedeby, looking to join a ship’s crew? If Hrorik acknowledged you as his son, could you not stay in the household? Does Harald not wish to share the inheritance with you?”

  “No, that is not true, not at all,” I stammered. I did not want anyone to think ill of Harald. “Harald was the finest man I have ever known. I loved him. He embraced me as a brother. He trained me in the skills of a warrior and the manners of a free man.”

  “You speak of him in the past, as if he is dead,” Hastein interjected.

  “He is,” I replied. The thought of Harald’s death almost brought tears to my eyes again. “He was murdered. That is why I feared to tell you who I am. The man who killed Harald hunts me, too. And he has spread lies about me, to conceal his own misdeeds. He claims I was among the men who killed Harald a
nd his followers.”

  “Harald Hroriksson is dead?” Hastein asked. “Murdered? I had not heard that. I have been away, scouting the coast of Frankia. It is grave news. How did it happen?”

  “Harald and I had traveled, with a few of his men, to Hrorik’s smaller estate up north on the Limfjord,” I explained. “It happened there. The farm was attacked during the night. We tried to fight them off, but there were too many. In the end, everyone on the farm—even the women, children, and thralls—was slain. Everyone but me.”

  “How did you escape?” Hastein asked.

  “In the last assault, Harald gave his life, cutting a path through the enemy so I could flee. I did not want to leave him, but he ordered me to go. He said someone had to escape. Someone had to live, to avenge the dead.”

  “And you say these men who killed Harald are also hunting you?” Hastein asked. “Who are they?”

  “Their leader is called Toke,” I told him. “He is Hrorik’s foster son.”

  I could see the surprise in Hastein’s face.

  “I know Toke,” he said. “He is a chieftain. I met him once in Dublin. I have never raided with him, but he is said to be a fierce warrior, fearless in battle. He is not a man I would suspect of such treachery. And why would he kill his own foster brother?”

  “He is a berserk,” I said. “When he lived in our home, he was much given to evil moods and fits of violence. No one, save Hrorik and Harald, was safe when his black moods came upon him, and eventually he dared to challenge even Hrorik’s authority. Finally Hrorik banished him. But after Hrorik died, Toke returned, seeking a share of the inheritance. He was greatly angered to learn Hrorik had left him nothing.”

  “But with Harald dead, and if there is no other male heir, then Toke might still hope to inherit,” Hastein suggested.

  I nodded. “I believe that is his plan. He and Harald quarreled fiercely, and Harald ordered Toke to leave and never return. I thought blood would be spilled that night, but Toke and his crew left peacefully. I know now he was but biding his time.”