by Paul Finch
Sigfurth sat back in his chair, the timbers creaking. “After that we put to sea, but we hadn’t sufficient supplies to attempt the return-voyage. Instead, we sailed north for another two days, and made a winter base on a narrow headland. We fortified and posted watches. We were confident those degenerate savages would neither find nor attack us.”
He sighed – it was a deep, wretched sigh: “We were wrong. But they didn’t assail us in the normal way, in a massed wave that would break on our rampart. They came at night, in their ones and twos. Silent, stealthy … we never saw or heard them until our sentries were dead, their throats slit. They attacked our outhouses with burning arrows, poisoned the waterways that flowed past us to the sea. Occasionally they would snatch one of us while he was still alive. We would listen from the stockade as they tortured him, hour after hour, his terrible screams ringing through the forest. One carl they sent back to us flayed. Another had been smeared all over with honey and stung to death by hornets. And still we never saw them, never heard them. We made forays, but we never found them. They couldn’t stand against us toe-to-toe, but they were master woodsmen.”
The old Viking relapsed into grim silence.
“How long did this go on for?” Ljot wondered.
“Weeks, months. No matter how fierce the wind and sleet, it was non-stop. And now our numbers were thinning, and we were hungry and thirsty. Some said we should release the captives. They were half-dead already … we could scarcely feed them if we couldn’t feed ourselves, and the Skraeling might depart. But I said no. And I enforced it with my broadsword. It would not do … my first campaign as captain, and me coming back empty-handed, with half my crew dead or missing.”
He shook his head at the folly of youth. “So we hung on. And in retaliation for their secret attacks on us, we mounted very public attacks on our prisoners. It was eye for eye, limb for limb. We cut them apart, skewered them to tree-trunks, hanged them from branches … by their feet, by their necks, by their hair.”
Sigfurth gazed at his nephews defiantly. “Those were my orders. We would fight terror with terror. That would be Tyr’s way. And it worked. The Skraeling were cowed. Their visitations ceased, but from that time on we heard drums throbbing in the night. We sent out scouts. Those that returned brought a sinister tale: native reinforcements were arriving from settlements all along the coast. There were already several thousands of them, but more and more were arriving, all daubed in paint, and every night screaming and wailing as they danced around their campfires.”
He clenched his fists on the armrests of his chair. “We knew the assault that would follow would overwhelm us. There were perhaps forty of us left. So we fled.” He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, my nephews, your fearless uncle fled. With only two longships from an original thirty-six … and scarcely any supplies. But before we went … before we went, we killed what remained of the prisoners. And stuck their heads on the poles of the stockade as a warning to those savages that we would be back, and that when we came back we would wreak Ragnarok on their people.”
Silence followed, the candle-light flickering on the images adorning the walls.
“You never did go back, though, did you?” Ljot said.
Sigfurth shook his head. “Events at home overtook us. There were new wars to fight, new and quicker ways for a young captain to make his name. In any case, when I reached Iceland I had only one longship and a handful of living skeletons for a drengir. We blamed the weather, we blamed the gods, we blamed the vast, barren endlessness of the Poison Sea. Most listeners were sympathetic.”
“Uncle,” Radnar said, “are you trying to tell us these Skraeling are here now?”
“It’s the only conclusion I can reach.”
“But I was up on the fell. I saw no tracks made by man.”
“They never leave tracks. Haven’t you been listening to me? They come and go like phantoms.”
“But how could they make the voyage from Vinland?” Ljot asked. “Do they have ships, nautical training?”
Sigfurth became irritable. “How do I know? They had none of these things that I saw, but how do I know?”
“And how could they even know you are here … ?”
“Ljot!” the jarl thundered. “I don’t know! If I knew I would have dealt with them already!” His fists clenched so tightly the white tendons gleamed in his knuckles. “There are spells at work … that’s all I can say. Hexes. Rune-magic. They want their revenge and they’re having it.”
Again there was silence, aside from Sigfurth’s hoarse, heavy breathing. He was red in the face, but ringed beneath the eyes; he looked old and tired.
“Well … Skraeling we can fight,” Radnar said.
“If we can find them,” Ljot replied doubtfully.
Radnar turned to leave. “If they’re here, we’ll find them.”
They left their uncle brooding, and passed out through the mead-hall, where servants were now laying new straw and bringing out benches and tables for the evening meal.
As always, after the warmth indoors, the outdoor chill was bitter. By the light of several rush-lamps, a group of thralls carried a pathetic bundle – a human form swathed in a bloody winding-sheet – out from the cowshed and towards the charnel-house. The girl Marta, still weeping, walked behind them.
Ljot watched. He made a mental note that, later on, he would go into that dismal place and pay his last respects in the correct, Christian fashion. The thought of the poor lass being stacked in some corner like a cord of wood was too much to bear.
“There’s nothing you can do for her now,” Radnar said. “But you can avenge her memory. Come.”
“Where?”
“Away from prying ears. Just for a minute.”
They moved outside the compound, where white mist now drifted in opaque veils.
“So,” Radnar said, “now we know what we face.”
Ljot was surprised. “You believe Sigfurth?”
“Do you not? It’s the first logical thing we’ve heard since we came here.”
“It’s not so logical. The events he talked about happened decades ago, and those people, if they existed at all, were simple primitives.”
“I only know that if it is the Skraeling it’s a human foe, and a human foe can be killed.”
“It isn’t the Skraeling,” came another voice.
They turned, and saw Assbjorn at the watch-point on top of the palisade. He clambered down the ladder and came out through the gateway. Though he was wrapped in fleeces, his face was white and pinched with cold.
“I see you’ve been listening to father’s ravings. You needn’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about … I know his fear of the Skraeling.”
“He said he’d told nobody else about this,” Radnar said.
“He’s said that to everyone he’s told. But don’t worry, he isn’t mad. You may not know it, but your Christian ways are having an influence even in outposts like this. In a nutshell, father is conscience-stricken … about his sortie to Vinland.”
Ljot found that hard to believe. “Conscience-stricken? Uncle Sigfurth?”
“Not because of those savages he robbed and slew. They were sheep waiting to be sheared. No, it’s the loss of his men he regrets. In the pursuit of personal glory, he led his comrades to ignominious deaths. And the memory of it still haunts him.”
“But your father doesn’t say ghosts pursue him,” Radnar said. “He says it’s the Skraeling themselves, in vengeance for the slaughter he wreaked.”
Assbjorn gazed into the curling mist. “I think it’s the same thing. The Skraeling are a brute people, but not unapproachable if one seeks to parley. Lief Ericsson made a small fortune trading with them. Father, of course, as was his way, jeered at this and went about things differently. As a result, his visit to Vinland was a disaster, costing many lives on both sides. In any case, the Skraeling have no ships. It isn’t the Skraeling that torment us here. It’s something worse.”
“Tell us,” Radnar urged
him.
Assbjorn hesitated before replying, but when he finally did, it was with perfect seriousness, his faced fixed in a sincere frown. “It’s the trolls.”
“What?”
Assbjorn half-smiled, as though he’d expected disbelief. “This is where your Christian teaching will fail you. Because it closes your minds to certain possibilities.”
“There are no such creatures as trolls,” Ljot said.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Because I’ve seen them.”
“You’ve seen them?” Radnar exclaimed.
“And heard them,” Assbjorn added. “I was out here on my own as the winter dark of Morketiden flowed in. I heard the creak of the stones as those great lumbering cannibals tore themselves loose from the Earth.”
“But … you’ve seen them?” Radnar persisted.
“They move about in the dark. But their outlines are distinctive … or rather their lack of outline is. They’re misshapen monstrosities. There’s no human form to them, just great shambling shadows that betoken death to all men.”
“And what are they doing, these trolls?” Ljot wondered.
“What they always do at this time of year. Massing … up on the fells, deep in the woods. Biding their time for the arrival of Midvintersblot, when there’s no light at all but the dull red glow of our hearth. Then they’ll attack in force and kill everyone at the stead. There’ll be nothing we can do to resist them.”
Ljot glanced warily at Radnar.
“You look as if I’ve lost my senses,” Assbjorn said, “but do you have an explanation? You’ve seen the magical ways our people are being murdered. In each case it’s a personal issue. Ubbi Anlafsson burned as his father was, the Christian girl with the second-sight blinded. Don’t tell me you think the Skraeling did that?”
“No, I don’t think it was the Skraeling,” Ljot said.
“But you don’t think it was the trolls either?”
Ljot tried to sound reasonable. “Trolls are myths, conjured by parents to keep naughty children in bed at night.”
Assbjorn smiled an almost sinister smile. “Your own Christian poet – the one you almost fought Turgi over – he puts it better than I ever could.”
From Cain awoke all that fearsome breed – ettins, kobolds and black-hearted elves, as well as the troll-kind, who warred with God …
Assbjorn turned and strode back into the compound.
“Trolls, Skraeling?” Ljot said. “What do we believe?”
“The evidence of our own eyes,” Radnar replied. “It’s all that’s left to us.”
“What do you suggest?”
Radnar fingered the cross-hilt of his broadsword. “We circle. Slow and careful. Examine every piece of ground surrounding the stead. Whoever our enemy is, he or it is using the cover of Morketiden to move around. He’s clearly reliant on the fact that the only thing our uncle and his drengir are doing is hiding indoors, longing for springtime. That isn’t the way we’ll do it. We’ll carry the fight outdoors, take it right to our enemy rather than wait for him to bring it to us. Wasn’t that Olaf’s vision? Didn’t he seek to engage the army of the Tronder in its own back-yard, so there would be no dispute as to where victory belonged?”
“Radnar … Olaf was killed.”
“It was a worthy effort all the same. It might pay off yet.”
Ljot pondered this as he peered into the fog. “Do we begin right away?”
“Why not? I’ll take the sheep to the high pasture again. That will give me a chance to search on the fell. You stay close to the stead, but circle, as we’ve agreed. This whole surrounding area. And remember …”
Ljot glanced round at him.
Radnar’s brow was dark and furrowed. “The archangel flung Satan with violence from Heaven. He drove the traitors from Eden with a sword of fire.” Radnar balled his big fist. “We are Christ-men, yes. But evil must be smitten!”
8
The following morning, they rose side-by-side.
Though most of the household was still sleeping, Radnar was to take the flock to the high pasture, as he’d agreed with his uncle, and Ljot had determined that his search of the ground around the stead would commence as early as possible. They ate oatmeal porridge, then climbed into their ring-coats and leggings. Radnar was the first to leave. He fitted his helm on his head, buckled his sword-belt to his waist, picked up his axe and shield, nodded to his brother, and strode from the hall. Ljot was almost ready, himself. He raised a foot onto a bench, to cross-strap his fur boot – and barely noticed the female figure approach through the shadows. When he realised she was there, he half-jumped.
It was Marta.
Again, she wore fox-fur over her thrall’s smock, and hugged herself in the chill. Her red hair was in wild disarray, her eyes still wet with weeping. With considerable effort, she swallowed her emotions and held something out to him.
It was the cloth fish-pendant.
“This was Theora’s,” he said.
Marta nodded. “It’s the only thing of value she had.”
“And why do I deserve it?”
“You spoke for her. You fought for her name after she had been murdered.”
Ljot looped the pendant around his neck. “I’d sooner have fought the murderer.”
The girl nodded. Fresh tears appeared on her cheeks and she made to move away.
“Wait,” he said. “You were like a sister to her, no?”
Marta’s shoulders heaved as she wept, though this time she made an effort to keep her sobs to herself lest the housekeeper lose patience.
“She’s in a better place now,” Ljot said, though he knew this would be no consolation.
Marta no longer followed the Christian faith, and he could scarcely blame her. Taken hostage as a child, removed from her family by pagan men, raped repeatedly, then sold into servitude where she would be forced to work until she dropped – who knew what ordeals she’d gone through before arriving here at Bjarkalstead. Even here, with a relatively even-tempered master, if any of the thegns – no matter how drunk or foul-breathed – felt the urge to tumble her, she was expected to comply without complaint. It must be difficult for someone like Marta to believe in a benign creator. As she stood there, face buried in her hands, he wondered how he could believe it himself.
Awkwardly, he gathered his war-hoard and walked from the long-hall.
Outside, Morketiden awaited him with its endless silence and its chill, dismal dark. Theora had been right about one thing: how like the end of the world this place was; how like Niflheim, the mist-realm, where those unfitted to feast in Valhalla would roam for eternity. In the Scanian homelands, it was difficult at the best of times to imagine that God was good and Christ the one true path to Him. But when the winter came!
Little wonder these far outposts were the last bastions of heathen practice; and how likely it was they’d remain so for years to come.
There was a heavy stillness. The snow lay deep and crisp, but flakes were no longer falling. The sky was clear, ablaze with winter stars, which cast a silvery aura over the deathly, frozen world. From beyond the palisade, Ljot heard the diminishing shouts of Radnar as he drove the sheep to the high pastures. The night-watchman was in the process of barring the gate behind him.
“Wait!” Ljot called. “I’m going out too.”
The gate was unbarred again, and dragged open by its greasy, hempen rope. Ljot went outside. It closed behind him with a thump.
He descended the winding path towards the shore, treading slowly and warily, scanning the fresh-fallen snow. It remained unbroken, which was no more than he expected. Even if he did come across tracks, it was likely they’d have been left by scavenging animals or members of the household engaged in legitimate business – even during Morketiden there’d be fishing-nets to mend, ropes to splice, smithy-fires to stoke.
That said, the shingle beach was deserted.
The Snorrifjord glimmered beneath its thick sheet of grey-green ice; white mist lay over it in
a dense, undulating blanket. Then, what sounded like a distant female voice pin-pricked the silence. “Ljot!” it seemed to cry.
At first he was too surprised to move
“Ljot … where are you?”
He hurried to the frozen water-line. By starlight alone he felt sure that, should someone be close by, he’d see their dim outline.
“Ljot!” the voice cried. It was definitely a woman, somewhere on the ice.
Ljot was baffled. Marta was back at the long-house, and none of the other females here knew him by name. His spine crawled as a new horror occurred to him. Could this be Theora’s soul, bound to this place because of the wretched manner of her death? He shuddered. Ghosts were never a good thing, and rarely easy to dispel. It would take a priest or monk, and though there were Christian men at Brattahlid and in the eastern settlements of Herjolfnes, that was hundreds of miles away over wild, bleak tundra.
“Theora … is that you?” His voice echoed eerily, but there was no response. He stepped onto the ice and ventured forward through the mist. “Theora!”
“Ljot … come to me!”
It was Theora. A tremor passed through him. He gripped the hilt of his sword, though edged iron would be no use against a ghost. More hideous thoughts assailed him. Theora hadn’t received the correct burial. Did that mean she’d now be lost, wandering eyeless through the void of the netherworld? Could she have been thrown among less worthy wraiths, trapped in some bottomless pit where only the damned were confined?
As though in response to these nightmares, he heard her start to weep – and that sent a new chill through him.
To weep when the eyes had been torn from the skull …
How was such a thing possible? Would it bring new pain, new delirium?
Ljot strode further from shore. “Theora … I can’t see you. Find me, if you can.”
The ice creaked, but he pressed on, passing the point where the dragon-ship and fishing boats were moored. Countless black fathoms now lay beneath him.
“Theora?” He could hear her weeping, but still couldn’t see her.
He glanced down distractedly. His footing was only visible in glimpses through the pearlescent vapour. But then he spotted something strange. Something that was actually below the surface of the ice. It was nothing distinct, though perhaps that wasn’t surprising given that the ice was at least a foot thick. But it displayed movement – unctuous, oozing movement, as if some huge and globular mass was pushing up from underneath. Ljot crouched, astounded. And in that same second it had gone, vanishing downwards into the dark of the ocean’s underbelly.