Dragons from the Sea

by Judson Roberts

  I stepped up onto the stern deck and turned to study the shot I had to make. My arrow would have to pass beside the mast and over the raised oar rack in the center of the deck. I stared at the target in the bow, trying to gauge how to compensate for the rocking of the ship. I was used to solid ground underfoot. I cursed Torvald under my breath. He obviously was no archer, and had no idea how difficult a shot he’d set as a test.

  Hastein was seated on the top strake of the side, a short distance away, watching me. The anger was gone from his face now, replaced by an expression of curiosity. Perhaps he viewed this as another chance to weigh whether it was fate, woven by the Norns, that I should join his crew. But it was not the Norns who would have to shoot my bow. This shot was mine alone to make or miss.

  Torvald looked back and forth from Tore’s arrow, embedded in the target, to me, with a worried expression. Tore was gloating at the helmsman’s obvious concern. The sight of it did nothing to boost my confidence.

  Torvald walked back until he stood directly in front of me, took a deep breath, then let it out in a long, loud sigh, as if already lamenting the pending loss of so much silver. Then, while his back was turned to the rest of the crew, he winked.

  “Fourteen silver pennies,” he whispered. “It was a lucky day when I met you.”

  “I am glad you are so pleased with your plan,” I muttered at him, pretending to be examining the limbs of my bow. “I am not. If Tore bests me, I will be cast overboard. But if I prevail, you will win much silver from my labors, while all I will gain is the ill will of my shipmates who will lose their wagers to you.”

  “Do not worry yourself about that,” Torvald assured me. “This is a good-natured crew, for the most part. They’ll think it a fine jest.”

  A fine jest? And what if Torvald had miscalculated, and I could not best Tore’s shot? I was seething. It would not help me concentrate on my shot.

  From down the deck, Tore jeered. “Do you plan to shoot, or will you just jump overboard and save me the trouble of throwing you?”

  “Oh, yes, I can tell this crew is good-natured,” I whispered. “Perhaps Tore is right. Perhaps it would be better for me to concede, and not even shoot at all. Thanks to your plan, no matter what the outcome of this contest, now I can only lose.”

  An alarmed look crossed Torvald’s face. He stepped closer to me. “You cannot do this,” he said. “I will lose forty-two silver pieces. And I will be a laughingstock. Tore will never let me forget this.”

  Torvald’s look of concern raised my spirits considerably. At least now I was not the only one worried about the outcome of his ill-conceived plan.

  “What are you doing, Torvald?” Tore barked. “Move aside and let him shoot.”

  “Half,” I muttered. Torvald frowned, looking confused. I explained. “Half of the silver you win will be mine. My skill is worth that much.”

  A scowl flashed across Torvald’s face, then vanished just as quickly, like smoke in the wind. He laughed loudly, then whispered to me, “Done, Halfdan. Very well done, in fact. You have learned to bargain well.”

  Torvald stepped aside. I raised my eyes and let them find the silver coin, glinting in the sun at the far end of the ship. I let my anger and my fear wash away. The sounds of the waves lapping against the hull, and the catcalls of Tore and the crew faded, as the image of the coin grew in my mind until it filled it. In one swift movement, I raised my bow, drew, and released.

  The arrow’s flight seemed endless, as though the Gods had slowed time itself. It skimmed over the top of the oar rack, and whispered past the mast. Then, as it neared the ship’s bow, time returned. The arrow slammed into the center of the silver coin with such force the oak board split from the impact. The two halves of the shattered board parted and the arrow, its iron head jutting through the pierced coin, dropped onto the deck with a clatter.

  For a moment, there was only silence. Then every member of the crew, even those who had lost wagers, roared in amazement.

  When the noise died down, Jarl Hastein stepped forward and placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “This is Halfdan,” he announced in a loud voice. “I have invited him to join our crew. As you have noticed, he is a trifle young compared to the rest of you. He is a blacksmith, though, and we will need one on this voyage. And I believe he may possess some other skills that could prove useful.”

  The crew laughed. Hastein continued speaking.

  “Do you accept Halfdan, then, into our felag?”

  The men grunted and nodded their heads. They still did not look happy at the prospect, but at least their expressions were no longer hostile.

  “Tore,” Hastein said, turning to face the scowling loser. “Halfdan is an archer. You are the leader of my archers. He will fight under your command. Do you accept him now?”

  Tore’s expression looked like he had just taken a large mouthful of something that tasted very bad, but he, too, nodded. He had agreed to the test, and now was bound by it.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Then let us get the Gull underway,” Hastein cried. “We have wasted enough time on Torvald’s games. The king has summoned me to council.”

  5 : The King’s Council

  On leaving Hedeby, we sailed for the island of Sjaelland, where King Horik had a large estate. According to Torvald, the king usually chose to winter there. The journey marked my first time at sea in a longship.

  My shooting exhibition, arranged by Torvald, had provided me a foothold of acceptance in the Gull’s crew, but nothing more. It did not take me long to realize that to these men, who’d sailed and fought together many times, I was still an outsider. In battle or other danger, they knew they could depend on each other. They did not know whether they could trust me with their lives.

  Tore, whom I’d bested with my bow, seemed determined to find out as much as he could about me, as quickly as possible. Even before we got under way, he began.

  “Put your sea chest here,” he gruffly ordered me, pointing to the oar hole second from the rear on the steer-board side. “I row at the last oar on this side. If you are going to fight under my command, I want to keep an eye on you.”

  I wondered if he hoped to catch me making mistakes, thinking he might still see me ejected from the Gull’s crew. If so, my initial performance must have encouraged him. When we were ordered to take our oars down from the racks where they were stowed and prepare to cast off, I selected the wrong oar—one of the shorter ones that were stowed in the racks along each of the ship’s sides forward of the mast—because I thought it would be easier to handle. Tore corrected me.

  “Not that one,” he said, taking the oar from my hands and returning it to the rack. “We who row at the bow and stern, where the hull is narrower, use the longer oars, so our reach will match the rowers in the center. Our oars are kept on the overhead rack, with the boom and sail. These shorter oars are for the men who row at the midships positions. Have you never served on a longship before?”

  Red-faced, I shook my head. “No,” I said. He rolled his eyes.

  A short time later, when we slid our oars out through the holes in the ship’s sides and began pulling in time to Torvald’s chant, I demonstrated my inexperience again. Rowing with such a long and heavy oar was not a simple matter. A low swell caught the blade of my oar after I’d raised it up out of the water and was pushing it forward for the next stroke. The resistance when I wasn’t expecting any almost knocked the oar from my hands, and broke my rhythm. It took two full strokes before I was pulling smoothly again in time with the rest of the crew.

  Tore, who was seated immediately in front of me, had been rowing with his head turned to the side, watching my oar as he pulled on his own. He shook his head, and I felt my face flush again.

  I studied Tore as he rowed. He made it look easy. He rocked back and forth on his sea chest, his legs braced in front of him and his broad back and shoulders pushing and pulling the big oar in long, smooth movements. I began timing my own strokes to th
e movements of his back, and, by the time we reached the mouth of the fjord, was beginning to feel more comfortable with the rhythm. Still, I was grateful when Torvald barked out the order to ship oars and raise the sail.

  Beyond the mouth of the Schliefjord, the wind was blowing steadily and in a favorable direction. The Gull’s big red-and-white striped sail filled and the ship surged forward across the swells. I could feel her hull flexing and shifting under my feet like a living creature.

  The wind held steady all that day. I found myself with time on my hands, and little with which to fill it. I was used to having work to do. A slave seldom has time for leisure, and even after I’d been freed, my days had been occupied with Harald’s lessons. I found myself brooding. No matter where I tried to send my thoughts, they kept returning to Harald’s death, and my mother’s. Their faces haunted my mind and pulled at my heart.

  I needed work for my hands. Perhaps a task that kept them busy would occupy my mind, too. Opening my sea chest, I pulled out the metal-studded leather jerkin I’d stowed inside. There was a small hole in the front, over the belly. I would use this time to stitch it closed.

  Tore and several of the crew lounging nearby were discussing the best way to breach a wooden stockade. Tore argued it was best to pile brush against its timbers and try to burn an opening through. Odd, another archer, who rowed at the oar across from me, scoffed at this idea.

  “And if the fire spreads?” he asked. “You’ll burn everything of value inside. Climbing the wall is best. At night, while most inside are asleep.”

  Listening to them, I felt a pang of loneliness. I wished I could join in their banter. It was a foolish desire. It was safer to be ignored, as I learned when Tore suddenly turned to me and asked, “And you, Halfdan? Tell us, how would you breach a stockade?”

  How could I answer such a question? My brother, Harald, had taught me as much of the ways of a warrior as he could before he’d died. But I had never been to war, or gone raiding.

  “I have never assaulted a stockade,” I admitted.

  Tore feigned a look of surprise, and glanced at Odd and the others to see their reaction. They were staring at me curiously now. I felt certain they were wondering again why Hastein had invited me to join their crew.

  “You have never assaulted a stockade?” Tore continued. “I suppose that is not so strange after all, in one as young as you. Surely you have been in battle, though. Or are you too young for that, also?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I have fought in battle. I have killed men and I have seen comrades killed.”

  Tore and the others stared at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to continue, but I did not. My past was not their business. I tried to change the subject.

  “Do you have a needle?” I asked. “I need to repair a cut in my jerkin.”

  “Let me see it,” Tore said, and held out his hand. Reluctantly, I passed the jerkin to him. He examined it closely, paying special attention to the two dark stains, one below the neck opening and the other on the belly around the cut I wanted to stitch.

  “This looks like blood,” he said.

  “It is,” I admitted.

  “Yours?”

  I shook my head.

  Tore stuck his finger through the hole in the leather, and wiggled it.

  “This is small,” he said. “About the size an arrow would make.”

  It was true, but I said nothing. Tore would not let it be. “Did you shoot the arrow?” he asked.

  I did not want this conversation. But Tore had asked me a direct question. It would be rude to ignore him, and I did not wish to give insult.

  “Aye,” I responded.

  Again Tore and the others stared at me silently, as if expecting me to continue and tell them more. Again I did not.

  “So you took your jerkin from a dead man?” Tore asked. “A man you killed?”

  I remembered stripping it from the body on the hilltop, the body of one of the men who’d hunted me. I nodded slowly.

  “I did,” I said.

  “I myself took my mail brynie from a Frank I killed,” Tore said, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. It was the first time he’d shown any approval of anything about me. “How did it come to pass?” he asked. “How did you come to kill the man who wore this jerkin?”

  I’d had enough. I reached out my hand for my jerkin. “It was a private matter,” I told Tore. “Between the dead man and me. Between other dead men and me. I do not wish to share this tale with you.”

  I rolled the jerkin back up, replaced it in my sea chest, then turned and started to walk away, propelled by my need to escape Tore’s questions. Behind me, I heard an indignant snort.

  I should not have turned my back on Tore and the others. It was offensive, as though they were not worth my attention. They will never accept you, I told myself, if you insult them. I stopped, loosened the string tying the waist of my trews, and stepped to the ship’s side. I did not really need to empty my bladder, but it gave me a reason to have walked away. I glanced back toward the stern. Tore was watching me.

  “He is a shy one, our new shipmate,” he said. I did not think he was referring to my walking away to relieve myself.

  King Horik’s estate on the island of Sjaelland overlooked a bay edged with a sandy beach. In the afternoon of the third day after leaving Hedeby, we lowered the Gull’s sail at the mouth of the bay and prepared to row in across the last stretch of water. Hastein’s other two ships, the Sea Wolf and the Serpent, hove to on either side of us and also unshipped their oars. When all three crews were positioned and ready, Torvald roared out his rowing cadence, and the oars of all three ships rose and fell in time, beating the water and propelling us toward the shore.

  “Pull, pull, pull, pull…” Torvald shouted. His chant was echoed by the grunting breaths of the rowers, as we heaved on our oars.

  The three longships sped side by side toward the shore, their oars all moving in perfect cadence, the three crews working together as one. Even I managed to keep the rhythm.

  Torvald stood on the small, raised deck in the stern, steering the ship and gauging our approach to land. Suddenly he lifted his fist high above his head.

  “Raise!” he shouted. We kept pulling on our oars, maintaining the rhythm he’d established with his chant, but now all eyes were on Torvald. His fist dropped and his voice boomed out again.

  “Oars!”

  The Gull’s thirty oars rose out of the sea in unison. To either side of us, the crews of the Sea Wolf and the Serpent also raised their oars, and held them extended straight out from the sides of the ships as we coasted the final stretch to land.

  Torvald released the handle of the tiller, reached behind him, and heaved with both hands on the line attached to the trailing edge of the steering oar, pivoting it up and clear of the bottom.

  I could feel the Gull’s keel beginning to grate on the sandy bottom, and moments later we ground to a stop, our bow jutting up onto the beach.

  Torvald pumped his fist once over his head. Around me, the men of the three ships’ crews roared out a single cry.

  “Hastein!”

  The jarl had arrived for the king’s council.

  While Hastein and his captains, Svein and Stig, left to call on the king, the rest of us set up our camp for the night. Dark clouds hovered low on the horizon, threatening rain, and the afternoon wind blowing in off the water carried a chill, so we lowered the mast and, using the yard as a center pole, stretched the sail over the deck to form a simple tent to shelter us during the night.

  Other longships, eight in all, were also moored along the shore, their prows pulled up onto the sand and their sails tented. Torvald pointed to the one closest to our three ships. She had sixteen pairs of oars, one more than the Gull, and her hull was painted black.

  “There lies the Raven,” he told me. “She is the ship of Ragnar Logbrod.”

  I knew I had heard the name in tales told round the hearth on long winter evenings in my father’s longhou
se. Now, though, I could remember nothing of what I had heard, save the strange nickname: Hairy-Breeches.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “He is a war-king,” Torvald answered. “Perhaps the greatest who has ever lived, a true wolf-feeder. He does not rule over districts in the name of the king, like Jarl Hastein, though he is related by blood to King Horik’s line. Ragnar owns but a modest estate up on the Vik above Jutland. Yet at war or raiding, if Ragnar is present, men will choose him to lead.”

  A steep hill overlooked the bay. I could see, silhouetted against the sky on its crest, the great longhouse of the king surrounded by smaller buildings. A procession was winding its way down from the summit toward the shore.

  Thralls from the king’s household drove ox-carts, some laden with firewood and others with barrels of ale, down to the beach and unloaded them in front of the ships. Following behind the carts, other thralls drove a small herd of cattle. Two of the cattle were allotted to our three ships. The king was providing a feast—albeit a simple one of only beef and ale—for the crews of the chieftains he’d called to council.

  We slaughtered the cattle on the beach and built fires, then spent the rest of the afternoon watching the carcasses roast on great spits above the flames. Hastein’s slave Cullain supervised the cooking, periodically testing the carcasses with a sharpened stick or directing crewmen standing near the fire to turn the spits. No one seemed to mind taking orders from the little thrall, for we were all hungry and looked to him to remedy that for us.

  While we waited, one of the kegs of ale was tapped, and every man fetched a cup from his sea chest and gathered round. I had no cup—it was a piece of gear I would need to add to my kit—but Torvald had a spare, and loaned it to me. While we waited for the beef to cook, we drank.

  Not long after darkness had fallen, Cullain declared the meal ready.

  I sliced a chunk of beef as big as my fist from one of the carcasses and impaled it on the point of my dagger, since I had no plate nor even slab of bread to set it on. Torvald, who was standing beside me, did not concern himself with such niceties. After attacking the carcass with his seax and carving off a piece almost the size of a small cat, he sheathed the big knife and carried the slab of meat in his fist, occasionally ripping pieces from it with his teeth as we made our way back to where we’d left our cloaks spread on the ground, our cups beside them.