A Short Tale From Norse America: Young Ravens & Hidden Blades (The United States of Vinland)
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Ulfarr and Brandr held their breath as they peered beyond the rock and between the crowding wall of branches and leaves. For now, they felt safe, but it all depended on how determined One-Eye’s search would be.
As they waited, Thoromr’s footsteps not only neared as he took the path, they also slowed.
Ulfarr began to examine the overhang more closely to see if they could get any deeper inside or if there was another way out. The rock ran along the hill like a huge uncovered bone, standing deepest where they were. He saw that escape was possible from either way, although one of the routes would lead them above the beginning of the trail, too close to Thoromr. The other way might be an option for escape, but Brandr’s ankle would slow them down. Right now they needed to remain undiscovered and for Thoromr to abandon the hunt.
A hissed intake of breath from Brandr drew Ulfarr’s attention.
His friend was looking directly behind him, to where only the rising wall of rough stone stood.
He turned around and then saw a tight, vertical crack in the rock, just above his head. Sticking out of it, so only the end showed, was a leather-wrapped, bound handle. Both boys knew it for what it was — a knife.
Ulfarr turned back to check on Thoromr.
The big man was starting along the trail they had abandoned, taking him down the slope and away from them. He was far enough away now that Ulfarr could change his focus, so he reached up behind himself and grabbed the handle, pulling the blade free.
The handle carried some weight but was roughly made, as was the leather grip. The tool ended in a sharp, iron blade, making it suitable for fighting or hunting.
Pulling it out, Ulfarr felt something else further back and out of view. Carefully he handed the blade to Brandr before using his fingers to probe the space and see what else he might discover.
His fingers brushed not just one other handle, but several. Carefully, one by one, he drew out three more iron blades.
Iron had real value in Markland, as it took time to smelt once retrieved from the few bogs that offered it up, and then, of course, it had to be worked. Every man wanted to carry an iron blade and the bigger the blade, the better. Any man of standing also had an axe, but very few could claim to have more than two iron weapons. Certainly, a hoard of four blades, even of rough workmanship, was a small treasure.
Thoromr’s footsteps receded as he made his way down the first part of the steep slope.
The boys relaxed, feeling safe for the first time.
The birdcall sounded again, this time whispered and very close.
Both boys turned towards it.
Only a few arm lengths away, the skraeling boy knelt at the entry to the overhang that ran from above the beginning of the trail. This close to them, they could also see he bore a trace of Norse features, his hair brown and his eyes blue.
His gaze locked on Ulfarr and his bloodied cheek. “You are hurt.”
Ulfarr shook his head and frowned. “The arrow grazed me, but it has stopped bleeding.”
The skraeling boy gave a nod, approving of the young Raven’s bravery. He then looked to both of them and the knives in their hands, before whispering, “This is my place.”
Ulfarr glanced at Brandr, and then back to the boy. “We needed somewhere to hide.”
The boy nodded.
“What is your name?”
“My mother calls me Dore,” he paused, and then let a smirk settle on his face before going on, “but my father usually calls out curses as names for me.”
“Your father?”
“One-Eye.”
“Thoromr One-Eye?”
“Yes.” Dore looked down at the blades in their hands.
Ulfarr also looked to the iron. “We found these.”
“They are mine. This is where I come when One-Eye wants to beat me.”
“He was going to put an arrow in your back.”
“I know. He usually just kicks me and hits me, but I shamed him on the hunt.”
“How?”
“I scared the deer away.”
“But he did it, not you. We saw it. He stepped on the twig!” Brandr hissed.
Dore looked back down at the blades for a moment, before again lifting his gaze. His eyes softened, but also held surprise that the boys sought to blame the Norseman, and not him, for the ruination of the hunt. “He always blames me for such things; they all do. His missing eye means that sometimes he does not see a branch or twig.”
“He was going to kill you!”
Dore wore a sly smile. "He is still strong and good at hitting me, but he is not good with a bow.” He glanced back at Ulfarr’s bloody cheek. “Well, not usually.”
The young Ravens warmed to him, both grinning.
“Come to Godsland with us?”
“No, I have to go home.”
Brandr whispered, “He’ll beat you!”
“If I do not return, he will take his rage out on my mother and slit her throat.”
The boys tried to understand such a thing, but neither could fully grasp it, as it was so alien to what they experienced from their own fathers in Godsland. For that reason, they could offer no answer.
Dore went on, “I shall go out and call him to the ridge top, and then lead him back into Lakeland’s vale. When he is over the crest, you should be able to get away.” He glanced to the blades the boys held. “But put them back. They belong to me.”
“Why don’t you carry them?” Ulfarr whispered.
“I’m not to have them. In Lakeland, no skraeling can carry iron.”
“Why?”
He glanced through the greenery and down the slope to where his father searched the trail. The boy’s eyes narrowed as he hissed, “Because Thoromr fears we would use them against him.”
Both Godsland boys were familiar with similar rules at home, if they were perhaps dressed in more gentle terms. Iron needed to always be accounted for and was only available to those who had proven themselves. Yet, on occasion, blades still went missing.
Ulfarr wondered for a moment — were such weapons truly lost or had they been taken by the skraelings and mixed children in Godsland, to also be hoarded by angry and resentful minds?
Dore indicated Thoromr with a nod of his head, the giant Lakelander now about sixty paces down the slope. “Put them back and I will lead One-Eye away. You can then get back to your boat or raft and head home.”
The boys nodded. Ulfarr took the blade from Brandr and put all of them back into the hiding place in crack in the rock. He smiled as he said, “Thank you, Dore.”
Brandr nodded in agreement.
Dore offered a smile and looked pleased to see the blades returned. “Many thanks for earlier distracting One-Eye. You have saved me from some bruises.”
“You could still come with us.”
“No. I’ll go out and call him and take him home. His anger will have faded. Wait until he comes back up and passes. Do not move until you are sure we have gone down into the next valley.”
The boys nodded.
“You know I’m Dore, but who are you two?”
“I’m Ulfarr, this is Brandr.”
Brandr offered a smile, despite the pain of his swollen ankle.
Dore’s eyes went wide, his gaze locking onto Brandr. “Your father stole one of my father’s eyes! I have heard the tale!”
Brandr gave a cautious nod. “Yes, a long time ago, after the murder of Ari.”
Dore beamed with pleasure to hear it, before the expression fell into a sneer, but not one directed at Brandr. “If Thoromr ever cuts my mother’s throat, I shall claim his last eye! I might be his son by blood, but I am little more than a slave to him. He names his true sons as the ones born of Aldis, his Greenlandic wife.”
The boys understood. They had heard that the Lakelanders often put babies into their skraeling thralls, despite having their own wives.
Dore turned to Ulfarr. “I have also heard your name; you are the son of Eskil, the Founder of Godsland?”
; “Yes.”
Dore nodded, pleased. “I need to go, but I hope we meet again.”
Brandr said, “I hope so, too.”
Dore didn’t waste any time. He left, disappearing back up the slope to where Thoromr had first crossed the ridge. Once there, he stopped and called out to his father, “One-Eye, the hunt is over. The hunters are waiting for you to celebrate with them back in Lakeland!”
The boys couldn’t see Dore from where they were, but heard him clearly and could see Thoromr below, turning at his son’s voice. The man’s face was firm, but much of the anger had drained from it. The big man called up, “Where are your friends?”
“What friends?”
“The two boys!”
“I don’t know.”
Thoromr cursed and glanced about the slope.
Dore repeated, “The hunters are waiting to honour you!”
His father grumbled to himself and then growled, “I still owe you a beating!” before he began walking back up the trail, but his voice did not hold any of its previous fury.
As the man advanced, Ulfarr and Brandr shrunk as low and as far back as they could into the rock overhang.
One-Eye moved quickly, but his steps came heavy and he breathed noisily as he climbed the steep trail. His gaze stuck to the path to ensure his footing, only occasionally glancing up to check on Dore. He grumbled to himself as he walked. “Wretch, I should have named you Loki, as you are such a trickster!”
Dore laughed.
He soon passed by the rocks, trees, ferns and shrubs that hid the boys, and he then headed for the end of the trail, making his way to the ridge’s crest.
Ulfarr and Brandr held still, listening to his passage.
Thoromr’s footfalls and panting receded.
Dore spoke up again, luring his father on, “The hunters will be back at the hall by now.”
Thoromr answered, his tone gentler. “If I find fresh meat awaiting me, I shall save your beating for another day.”
Dore laughed again, the sound short but sincere.
Two sets of footsteps then padded out through the grass and rock of the slope as Dore darted over the crest and began his descent into Lakeland. He kept just ahead of One-Eye, retaining some distance from him.
With a teasing tone, Thoromr One-Eye, called out, “Do not run off!”
Dore’s voice was more distant, “I am not; I am right here.”
“Not within reach.”
The boys listened to them move off, their voices fading.
When it seemed safe, Brandr looked to Ulfarr and asked, “Are you going to leave the blades?”
“Yes. While he should not have them according to the laws of Lakeland, he has helped us.”
“And we helped him.”
“He will still get a beating. Besides, the blades are in the borderland.”
Brandr nodded. “He is tough.”
Ulfarr got up, stepping out of the shadows before reaching down to help Brandr rise. “Let us get going. I’ll help you.”
“Thanks, I just want to get back to the raft and across the water.”
“At least the trip is all downhill.”
Brandr smiled, but after a heartbeat, the warmth of it faded. “We better start thinking of what we shall tell our mothers. They will want to know how I hurt my ankle and how you cut your face.”
“Yes, they will.” He then grinned before adding, “And so will Seta.”
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The United States of Vinland: The Landing
Also by Colin Taber
The Markland Trilogy
The United States of Vinland: The Landing
The United States of Vinland
A Short Tale From Norse America: Young Ravens & Hidden Blades
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