Dragons from the Sea

by Judson Roberts

  And he was a Frank. Should I hate him for what his forefathers had done when they’d attacked our land? I’d had enough. I needed to be with people who did not despise me. I walked over to the corner where I’d made a makeshift bed, and picked up my small-axe from the pile of my weapons and gear.

  “What are you doing?” Wulf asked. I could hear the fear in his voice. Did he think I was going to murder them? I stuck the axe in my belt, next to my dagger, and turned back to him.

  “I am going out,” I said. “Do not touch my things. I will be back later.”

  “You are leaving? Who will protect us?”

  “That seems a strange question for the sheep to ask a wolf,” I replied. “Bar the door when I leave, and protect yourselves.”

  I caught up with Torvald as he was walking down the last stretch of street leading to the river gate. This was where the Frankish cavalry had formed, and Tore, Odd, and I had shot their horses down. The only signs now that a battle had been fought here were some dark stains on the road.

  “I thought you were not coming,” Torvald said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  He turned and looked down at me. “You are angry,” he said.

  It irritated me that he could tell. “I am not,” I retorted. “Why do you say that?”

  “The look on your face gives it away. That, and the sound of your voice.”

  We walked on in silence for a few moments, then Torvald spoke again.

  “Blood or ale.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Blood or ale,” he repeated. “It is how I deal with anger. It is not good for me to hold anger in. When I do, it is like having a splinter so deep I cannot get it out, that festers and generates poison. It clouds my thoughts and constipates my bowels.”

  I was unsure whether Torvald meant that anger or splinters had the latter effect on him, but I was grateful neither caused the same effect on me.

  “What do blood and ale have to do with it?” I asked.

  “I am an easygoing man,” Torvald explained. “It usually is difficult for someone to anger me. But if another does manage to, I rid myself of the anger by spilling his blood.”

  “And the ale?”

  “Sometimes it is not possible to purge my anger with blood. Occasionally, for instance, Hastein angers me. I cannot shed his blood, for he is my friend and my jarl. Instead, I drink. Ale affects my anger like water poured on a flame. After enough, I almost always feel better. Who has angered you?”

  I shook my head. “I am just angry,” I said. “At Wulf, at his family, at Tore—even at Hastein.”

  “Clearly blood cannot purge this anger. I think you need ale,” Torvald said.

  As we approached the opening of the tunnel leading through the wall to the river gate, I saw that at the far end the gate was standing open. Three guards—Danes, of course—stood watch over it from the rampart above.

  I had not been back to the river since the night we’d attacked the town. In three days, the area outside the walls had been transformed. Just upstream, a long island, curved along one side and straight on the other like a strung bow, split the river into two channels. Most of the ships of our fleet were moored along its banks, and tents crowded the interior. A number of ships’ smallboats were tied up at the downstream end of the island. As I watched, one pushed off and headed toward the quay in front of the river gate.

  A few ships, among them the Gull and Ragnar’s black Raven, were moored along the riverbank below the town wall. No encampments for the crews of these ships had been set up, though their sails had been tented above their decks. To complete our army’s transformation of Ruda into a military stronghold, deep defensive ditches extending from the town wall to the water’s edge had been dug to protect the quay area, and our ships moored there, from attack. The rock and soil removed to create the ditches was being shaped into an earthen wall on the inside perimeter of each ditch by Franks from the town, laboring under the watchful eyes of armed Danish guards.

  “The island looks a more comfortable place to camp,” I remarked. “Why is our ship moored on this side, and why do we have no encampment?”

  “Only a few of the leaders’ ships are moored here,” Torvald explained. “Ragnar’s, Hastein’s, Ivar’s, and a few others. Most of the men from these ships are staying in the count’s palace. We are the new garrison of Ruda. Only a small guard is staying aboard the ships.” Torvald grinned. “Tore is in charge of guarding the Gull. It is his punishment for not helping you protect Wulf and his family on the night the town fell.”

  I was pleased to learn that Hastein had realized Tore had ignored his order. I suspected, though, that being punished would strain relations between Tore and me even further.

  “Look,” Torvald said. “They come.”

  A longship appeared from around the bend in the river below Ruda, its oars rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Two long red horns jutted above the gold-painted carved head decorating the stem-post in the bow. A moment later, more ships rounded the bend behind it, moving up the river two abreast.

  “It is the Golden Bull,” Torvald said. “Bjorn’s ship.”

  While Bjorn and the new arrivals made their way to the shore below the town wall, Torvald and I boarded the Gull. “There will be ale here,” Torvald assured me. “Hastein sent a cask out from the town for Tore and the others standing guard duty.” He was correct. A keg was propped up on the raised stern deck. Tore, who had obviously been sampling its contents, was propped up beside it.

  “Did Hastein send you?” Tore asked Torvald, his voice a bit slurred. “Am I being relieved?”

  “Yes,” Torvald assured him, nodding his head vigorously. “He did send me, and Halfdan, too. He wanted us to sample the ale and make certain it was of decent quality, since you will be here for a long while.”

  Torvald and I filled a cup and passed it back and forth between us. It took us several refillings to fully evaluate the quality of the rich brown drink. It was far stronger than what Wulf had offered me. Some Franks, at least, understood how to brew good ale.

  “You were right,” I told Torvald, and burped. “I do feel better now.”

  “I heard that Ragnar wanted to hang you,” Tore said. He, too, was continuing to assess the quality of the ale. It seemed to have mellowed his usually prickly disposition. I was glad. I’d expected him to be angry about the way I had spoken to him the last time we’d met, but he seemed to have forgotten about it—or washed it from his mind with drink.

  “Only for a little while,” I assured him. “Once he became satisfied that I am a disciplined warrior, he changed his mind.”

  Tore nodded, looking a little confused, and refilled his cup and mine.

  By now a crowd of warriors had disembarked from the arriving longships and was milling around on the narrow strip of land between the town’s wall and the river.

  “Look,” Torvald said, pointing at the gate. “Here come Hastein and Ragnar. Ivar is with them, too.” He strode down the deck toward the bow. Tore and I followed more slowly, walking carefully to avoid spilling our brimming cups.

  “Well met, brother. How was your journey from the Limfjord?” Ivar was saying as we reached the bow. He, Ragnar and Hastein were not far from where the bow of the Gull rested against bank of the river.

  Bjorn was standing in front of them, hands on his hips, staring at the walls of Ruda. The growing crowd of warriors from the newly arrived ships had gathered behind him. I would not have guessed Bjorn and Ivar were brothers. Where Ivar was tall and lean of body and face like their father, Bjorn was of only average height, with a thick chest, heavy shoulders, and a belly that bulged out below as if he was trying to conceal a small keg of ale beneath his tunic.

  “I’ve had worse journeys, but better ones, too,” Bjorn replied. “We were slowed by contrary winds, and were hit hard by a storm off the coast of Frisia. We lost one ship, but managed to rescue more than half her crew.”

  “How many ships did you bring me?” Ra
gnar asked.

  “Twenty-nine,” Bjorn answered. “Including mine. By the Gods, these walls are high. How did you take the town?”

  “A ruse,” Ivar said. “It was Hastein’s idea.”

  Bjorn grinned and clapped his hand on Hastein’s shoulder. “You always were a clever one,” he said.

  About twenty of the men standing behind Bjorn turned away and headed for the gate. Hastein and Ragnar exchanged glances.

  “Hold,” Ragnar called. “Do not enter the town.”

  “Why should they not?” Bjorn asked. “These men have been long at sea and are ready to feel dry land underfoot, and a roof overhead. And we are also ready for the Franks to share some of their wealth with us. We did not stop to raid along the way.”

  “That is probably just as well,” Ivar said. “I doubt our raiding parties left much downriver from here for you to find.”

  “Our army is encamped on the island,” Ragnar told Bjorn. “Move your ships and men there. The town was looted the night we took it, but it is calm again now. I wish to keep it that way, for we may be based here for a while. The town will be easier to hold if its folk are left in peace.”

  Ragnar’s decision was clearly unpopular with the newly arrived warriors. A low rumbling noise, indistinct like distant thunder, began to swell as they grumbled to each other.

  A voice from somewhere in the crowd shouted, “I thought we came here to harry the Franks, not to protect them.”

  “Who said that?” Ragnar snapped. No one answered, but a dozen voices growled their agreement with the sentiment.

  “Bjorn, control your men,” Hastein murmured.

  “These are not my men,” he replied. “I merely led them here. And in truth, I do not think their feelings are unjust.”

  Ragnar raised his voice and addressed the crowd of warriors. “This is a large and rich kingdom,” he said. “No army has attacked its interior for hundreds of years. There will be more than enough plunder for all.”

  “When?” someone shouted, interrupting him. By the sound of it, it was the same man who had shouted before.

  “I see him,” Torvald said, pointing. “Skulking over there. I do not think a man should hide his face that way when he is addressing his betters.” He rested a hand on the top strake of the hull and vaulted over the side, landing between two warriors standing on the shore below. They staggered back, startled to have a giant suddenly appear in their midst.

  Torvald looked back at Tore and me. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked, then turned and began pushing his way through the crowd.

  “You must have patience,” Ragnar roared. “Patience and discipline.”

  I carefully set my cup of ale down on the deck and climbed up onto the top strake, balancing myself with one hand on the neck of the Gull’s carved dragon head while I looked for a clear space to land. As he staggered forward to follow, Tore’s foot hit my cup and sent it flying. The ale in it sprayed us both, and the cup bounced off the ship’s side, clattering across the deck. Tore cursed and lunged in a vain attempt to catch it. When he did, he lost his balance and stumbled, hitting me in the back of my knees with his shoulder.

  For one horrified moment I stood there, both arms flailing wildly as I tried to regain my balance, then I pitched forward off the bow. A tall, black-haired warrior was right below me, looking up. He must have turned around to see where Torvald had come from. I hit him full-on, my knees against his chest and his face in my belly. We fell together to the ground and lay there for a moment, him on his back and me facedown across him. He was more stunned by the impact than I, though, for although I quickly regained my senses enough to raise myself up on my hands and knees, he continued to lie there, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he struggled to recover the breath I’d knocked out of him.

  He was a truly ugly man, with a big, hooked nose and a coarse, wild beard that looked as if small animals might live in it. A long scar ran diagonally across his face from one side to the other, making a deep furrow through his left eyebrow and down his cheek, leaving a ragged gap in his mustache where it crossed his lip below his nose. His upper front teeth were missing and his left eye, the one the scar crossed, was a milky white.

  I realized with a shock that I knew him. I scrambled to my feet. When I did, he pushed himself to a sitting position, coughing. “Murderer!” I shouted, and kicked him in the face, knocking him flat again. I threw myself back onto him, straddling his chest, and began choking him and pounding the back of his head against the earth.

  Hands grabbed me and dragged me off, flinging me sideways onto the ground. Men crowded in, kicking and punching. I grabbed someone’s belt and pulled myself back up to my knees, but a fist smashed into the side of my head, knocking my grip on the belt loose and making my vision blur. The fist hit me again and I fell forward onto my stomach. Someone stepped on the back of my head, grinding my face into the dirt, then two men grabbed my arms, dragged me to my feet, and turned me around. The man I’d attacked was standing in front of me, a long, wide-bladed seax in his hand.

  “I have been looking for you, boy,” he said. “For a long time now. I heard a youth had joined Jarl Hastein’s followers and hoped it might be you. I never dreamed you’d come to me and make it this easy, though. Toke has promised a rich reward for proof that you are dead.”

  I heard a roar like an angry bear, and Tore threw himself off the bow of the Gull and crashed into the back of one of the men who held me, breaking the man’s grip on my arm. As he and Tore fell to the ground I turned and kneed the other man holding me in the crotch.

  “Halfdan! Behind you!” Torvald shouted the warning.

  I grabbed the shoulders of the man I’d just kneed and spun around, swinging him in front of me as I did. The one-eyed man was lunging with his seax as I turned, and its blade stuck into the side of the man I was holding.

  Hastein and Ivar pushed through the circle of men around me, their swords drawn. The one-eyed man backed away, and I pushed the man I was holding after him. He took a few steps then sat down heavily, clutching at his groin with one hand and his wounded side with the other.

  Hastein looked furious. “You have much explaining to do,” he snapped, glaring at me.

  Ragnar appeared, shoving men out of his way with both hands. His face was an even deeper red than it had been at our last meeting. When he saw me, he stopped and his mouth fell open.

  “You! Again?” he shouted. His eyes darted wildly from side to side, as if searching among the crowd for a rope to hang me with on the spot.

  I looked at Hastein with alarm, then pointed at the one-eyed man.

  “Hastein,” I pleaded. “He is Toke’s helmsman. His name is Snorre.”

  “What is he babbling about?” Ragnar demanded.

  “This man helped kill my brother,” I exclaimed.

  My ribs felt bruised in several places, one eye was beginning to darken and swell, and I still had traces of dirt in my mouth and nose. My clothing looked disreputable, too, stained with mud from the riverbank. For now these problems were insignificant. What worried me was that once again I had been haled into the count’s palace to appear before Ragnar Logbrod to answer for my conduct.

  Fortunately this time I had not killed anyone, so he could not hang me. At least I did not think he could. On the other hand, this time Hastein was angry, too. Ragnar and the jarl were seated beside each other at the long table. Bjorn and Ivar, the other top commanders of our army, were also present, seated to Ragnar’s left. Bjorn looked irritated to have to be there. Ivar, surprisingly, seemed to be amused. He leaned over and whispered in Bjorn’s ear, in a voice loud enough that even I could hear it from where I stood in front of the table.

  “I’ll wager you three silver pennies to one that Father talks about discipline at least once before we’re through here today.”

  Ragnar pretended not to hear, but his face slowly turned a deep, dark red. It seemed a shade that frequently colored his visage.

  “How much have you had to d
rink?” Hastein asked me. “I can smell it on you from here.”

  “Halfdan did not drink that much,” Tore interjected. He, Torvald, and Snorre were also standing, as I was, in front of the table. “He just smells that way because I tripped over his cup and spilled it on him.”

  I appreciated Tore speaking up for me, and was even more grateful for his rescue earlier. I suspected, though, that he would have carried more weight as a witness if his voice was not still slurred from the amount he’d drunk.

  “Are you saying Halfdan drank less than you?” Hastein asked him, in a soft voice.

  “Oh, yes,” Tore said, nodding his head vigorously. “Much less. I’d been drinking for a while before he and Torvald arrived.”

  “I left you in charge of guarding my ship,” Hastein said through gritted teeth. Tore took a step back.

  “The Gull is safe,” he said.

  “And obviously has been in good hands,” Ivar added.

  “We are not here to discuss how much your men do or do not drink,” Ragnar said to Hastein. “We are here because there has been another breakdown of discipline in the army…”

  Ivar nudged Bjorn with his elbow.

  “And once again this member of your crew was involved.” As he finished speaking, Ragnar shook his finger at me.

  “I can solve your discipline problem, Lord Ragnar,” Snorre said. “This boy attacked me without provocation. I demand my right to challenge him to a duel. I will kill him, and he will not trouble your army anymore.”

  “Well that seems a tidy way to resolve this,” Ivar said. “And it will provide us with entertainment, too.”

  “There will be no dueling,” Ragnar snapped. “Not while we are deep within the heart of Frankia and surrounded by enemies. One killing always leads to another and another. I do not want petty differences tearing our army apart.”

  “I have been struck and insulted,” Snorre protested. “I have the right to defend my honor.”

  I turned on him. “You have no honor to defend. You murdered my brother. You murdered innocent women and children. You and Toke.”

  “I knew a Toke,” Ivar remarked. “A chieftain from Dublin. Is this the same man?”