by Njord Kane
The Thrall
by Njord Kane
© 2016 by Njord Kane. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author, Njord Kane, or the publisher, Spangenhelm Publishing. You must not circulate this book in any format.
Published on: June 1, 2016 by Spangenhelm Publishing
Interior Design and Cover by: Njord Kane
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938507
ASIN: B01E1WCLKE
ISBN-13: 978-1943066-117
ISBN-10: 1943066116
1. Fiction 2. Fantasy 3. Historical Fiction
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – The Longhouse
Chapter 2 - The Thrall
Chapter 3 - Late in the Night
Chapter 4 - The Mound
Chapter 5 - The Long Way Back
Chapter 6 - An Interesting Night
Chapter 7 - Through the Forest
Chapter 8 - The Inquisition
Chapter 9 - The Expedition
Chapter 10 - Property
Chapter 11 - A Plan
Chapter 12 - The Trap
Chapter 13 - The Battle
Chapter 14 - The Triumphant Return
No kitten was harmed in the production of this book.
Chapter 1 – The Longhouse
In a glaciated valley where rocky green slopes descended into the crisp blue waters of a long narrow Fjord, there stood the tall mossy thatched roof of a longhouse.
There was nothing particularly special about this long pitched roof from any of the other long pitched roofs scattered about on the sloped hills leading into the fjord. Except this particular long pitched roof belonged to the household of Bjord Thorsson, the local blacksmith.
Bjord's longhouse was easy to pick out because of the black smoke that often bellowed out from the fires of his forge burning inside. One didn't suffer the cold of winter inside the house of a blacksmith.
Inside lived the ever busy household of the blacksmith. Most of their daily toils were conducted around the central fire pit in the very heart of their home.
The aroma of fresh rye bread filled the air inside the house. Gwenda, Bjord's wife, was busy making bread. She always made extra knowing that it would be gobbled up with the fresh cheese she had to go with their meal.
They already goggled up nearly half of it with the leftovers of yesterday's bread early this morning.
Her mother Helga sat near the fire with her distaff and was diligently spinning wool. She hummed an old lullaby in some old and forgotten language. Nobody in the house understood the words except Grandmother.
Nobody really knew how old Grandmother Helga really was. Gwenda had once confessed to her husband when they first married that she wasn't really sure if Helga was her mother or grandmother.
Helga maintained many of her old habits and always wore a scarf over her grayed hair, which she put in a partially braided bun.
The smell of fresh bread wasn't the only thing permeating the air of the longhouse. Near the fire hung a haunch of mutton, rubbed with dried sweet grasses and honey, that slowly smoked.
Directly over the fire hung a black kettle that had been fabricated years ago by her husband's father's father. A tribute to the durability of the skilled blacksmiths that had been passed on their trade generation after generation.
The pot was slowly being filled with chopped root vegetables by the blacksmith's daughter Thelsa. This would later become the stew for the evening meal. Seasoning and chopped slices from the smoking mutton will be added to it later.
Thelsa was a young girl who was just a few Yules past puberty and already she looked just like her mother when she was a young woman herself.
At one end of the house was the byre where the family's livestock was kept. There were three cows and six sheep in the byre, not to mention one temperamental goat, which the family appropriately named, "Grumpy."
Grumpy didn't like being with the rest of the livestock. He felt he was much too important to be considered with the cows and the sheep. He never stayed in his pen. Most mornings, members of the household would awaken to see Grumpy standing over them and staring them in the face, chewing on whatever mischief he got his chompers into this time. Whenever anyone got up to put him back into his pen, he'd protest with a loud bleat and have to be dragged back into his pen as he resisted the whole way.
On the other end of the longhouse was where Bjord worked his trade. It was the blacksmithing area. There was a large forge and an anvil stone that set deep into the ground.
The anvil stone was much too large to have been brought into the house when it was built. The blacksmith's house was built over the massive anvil stone to accompany the smith's needs.
It was upon this anvil stone that Bjord was busy pounding away upon a piece of red hot iron.
Bjord was a large middle aged man with a thick bushy beard. Strains of gray wove their way through the dark curls of his beard. Lines of experience ran across his face to match that helped reveal his age.
His long bushy beard was most likely a compensation for his balding head. Something Bjord would never admit. However, balding or not, he still grew out what little of it was left and tied it back into pony tail by a leather cord.
Bjord preferred to wear heavy leather boots and brown leather pants due to his trade. It only takes stepping on a hot piece of iron slag once to make a blacksmith prefer wearing leather boots. He also wore a loose undyed sleeveless tunics, which was always dirty and stained black due to the dirtiness of his profession of working iron. He also wore a leather apron that protected him from the flying sparks when hot iron was struck.
Bjord was striking hot iron now. He was making an ax head for chopping wood. Each swing of his hammer made the tell tale sound of metal clinging that rang through the walls and echoed out into the stillness of the surrounding area.
He worked with precision as he banged away, shaping the heated chunk of iron gradually into the shape of an ax head. His arms were as strong as the iron he worked from many years of pounding metal into its new shapes.
Along the walls hung various tools that the craftsman had made that he had available for trade. Besides tools, there was also a variety of spear heads, shield bosses, and battle axes as well. The blacksmith specialized in both the tools of war and labor.
The axes he made were for a variety of uses and styles. Axes had existed as a part of his people's culture since before any elder can remember. It was customary for just about anyone within their culture to wear one in their belts. Even thralls that were bound in servitude to their masters, wore an ax.
The axes they wore on their belts weren't particularly large. The handles were no longer than a man's forearm and the ax heads were no larger than a man's outstretched hand.
The large battle axes were usually only carried when going to battle. They had larger bearded ax heads and long handles that made them nearly as tall as a man. A few of them hung peacefully on wooden pegs along the wall.
Also hanging along the wall were painted round wooden shields. They were made from planks of linden wood so they were less likely to split in combat. All shields had iron bosses with handles in the center. Some of them were even reinforced with leather and had a band of iron around them to help reinforce their strength.
Hanging near the shields were a few iron helms and a couple of partially completed chainmail shirts as well. The chainmail was usually worked in the wintertime, when the cold and snow kept everyone inside their longh
ouses. This was when time allowed for the more tedious demands it took to make such items.
Chain mail armor had hundreds of rings that needed to be riveted and linked together with unbroken rings in a precise pattern. A finished mail coat would bring the blacksmith quite a bit of silver, making it well worth his effort.
Assisting the blacksmith in his work was his son Sven, whom was also his only apprentice. Sven, although tall for his age, was skinny in contrast to his father's muscular bulk. His bushy dirty blond hair was cropped at shoulder length and was as wild as his temperament.
It was always a tangled mess when his mother would try to tame it with her comb. Sven wasn't too particular about how his hair appeared. This annoyed his mother to no ends.
Sven didn't care much for the laborious life associated with blacksmithing. This was to his father's annoyance. He often daydreamed of a life of adventure and longed to be part of the heroic adventures of going viking.
He never dressed in the woolen trousers or tunics that everyone else wore. Instead, he insisted on wearing linen clothes and soft leather leggings that laced up almost to his knees. He dressed for comfort, not work.
Sven was working the forge's bellows and watching his father's hammer blows on the hot iron in order to learn the trade himself. The forge's fire was kept hot by the bellows pumped on the side which forced air into the burning coals, making them glow hotter.
Bjord was focused on his work and kept a steady rhythm. He shaped the red hot iron until it needed to be put back in the fire to be reheated. The hammer's chime only stopped when he thrust the iron back into the forge's hot coals and barked out, "bellows!"
Sven responded with a startled jump from the sudden roar of Bjord's voice and grabbed the handle of the bellows. He pumped the bellows in a steady and deliberate tempo. The rush of air immediately made the fire glow hotter, sending tiny sparks and smoldering embers into the air mixing with the smoke.
Sven hated working the bellows, it was a job for a thrall, not an apprentice. Especially if the apprentice is the blacksmith's son. But once again, working the bellows was his task. It was always his task and he hated it.
Bjord set his hammer down on the anvil and with his iron tongs grabbed the piece of iron he was working and turned it in the hot coals. The piece of iron was already starting to glow red again from the forge's heat.
He wiped a line of sweat off his brow as he watched the piece of metal glow even more reddish orange from the heat. Experience taught him just when the metal was hot enough to work by the color alone.
He looked at his son Sven, whom was staring out the door and daydreaming again. It was obvious how disinterested he was in what he was doing.
"What's the matter boy, am I working you too hard?" remarked Bjord, not really expecting an answer.
"No, I just think I'm ready to work the iron and not always work the bellows like a thrall."
"You don't always work the bellows. Besides, I have the thrall busy with other things, unless you want to trade him places." Bjord snorted. "If you think you're ready to shape the iron, then tell me if this piece of iron is ready yet. Is it hot enough? You should be able to tell by now from its color alone."
"Yes, it's ready." answered Sven without much confidence.
"No it is not." Bjord angrily scorned. "You still have much to learn, boy! If you'd spend more time paying attention when I try to teach you this trade instead of daydreaming and wishing you were somewhere else, you might actually learn how to do this and become useful."
Bjord wasn't happy about his son's lack of enthusiasm to learn the family's trade. It wasn't something you learned right away nor learned passively. It took great attention of detail to work metal.
Looking at his son, who was once again looking out the doorway and daydreaming, Bjord decided to send him off to do something else.
"You're irritating me right now, boy. I have the thrall out sheering sheep. Go out there and help him gather the wool or something."
Sven looked at him with a visibly hurt expression on his face. He couldn't believe he was being told to go help a thrall.
"Make sure the wool is washed so it can be hung to dry and be put on a distaff as soon as possible. Go now, don't just stand there looking at me." Bjord barked as he reached over and took over pumping the forge's bellow.
Sven hesitated for a moment, but he knew not to make a protest. "Go now boy!" Bjord barked one last time as he grabbed the tongs and shifted the iron heating in the coals.
Sven did as he was told and moped his way out the door towards where he heard the sheep bleating. He muttered a few whines of self pity under his breathe as he walked away, but made sure his father didn't hear him.
Chapter 2 - The Thrall
Amongst the household dwelt a thrall named Rowan. He'd been in the blacksmith's household since he was a small lad. He was sold to the blacksmith by a trader whom had found him in the burnt rubble of his family's longhouse in another land called Jutland.
Rowan was too small to remember who the invaders were that attacked and destroyed his village, but he knew his village were a tribe of people called the Hard-Jutes.
The trader that found him came the morning after the invaders had left to scavenge through the village's ruins. While rummaging, he discovered Rowan hiding under a table in the ruins of his charred home.
The trader gathered small boy up, along with what household items of value remained and sailed off.
Rowan was put aboard a knarr boat that had a huge red and white striped sail, marking it as a merchant's trading vessel.
They sailed across the cold waters of the sea towards the mountainous lands of the north. Their boat fought across a violent and angry sea. The knarr crashed over the savage waves as the wind howled terrifyingly beyond the darkness. Rowan held on for dear life as he watched with wide eyes, the men aboard the ship laughing loudly at the angry sea, mocking it.
The trader tied Rowan to the mast and then reassured him, "don't worry boy, the gods aren't coming for you today!"
When the sea calmed and the morning mist lifted, Rowan could see that they were sailing along steep bluffs until they finally broke open to reveal pristine fjords.
Along one of these fjords, the trade ship ported at a village that was inhabited by other folk that belonged to a different tribe similar to his own folk that were now gone. Rowan would soon learn, this was the Hard-Anger tribe.
When he was disembarked, Rowan was hoping to be adopted by one of the villagers, but was sold immediately as a thrall to the blacksmith.
The blacksmith had bought him for less than the price of a calf and immediately put him to work chopping wood for the house's fire and stacking coal for the blacksmith's fiery forge.
Mind you, although he assisted the blacksmith, he was not a blacksmith's apprentice and was not trained in the trade. He was but a lowly thrall dressed in a worn tunic and woven pants. The first thing the blacksmith had put on him was a ring around his neck revealing this status.
His dirty blonde hair was also cropped short, common to that of a bond servant. His duties varied from tending to the household's livestock to gathering wood to whatever he was told to do by anyone in the blacksmith's house. He'd been in the Blacksmith's household for ten winters now.
Today, Rowan was out herding the newly shorn sheep when Sven arrived.
"I'm here to take over herding the sheep, you're to go and wash the wool." Sven said in a resentful tone while looking at the ground avoiding eye contact.
Rowan knew because of Sven's tone and manner and the fact that he was here to take over herding the sheep instead of helping his father that he'd probably been scorned again for not paying attention.
Rowan nodded at him and headed towards the side of the longhouse where he'd left the sacks of wool. Sven coming to take over herding the sheep was fine by him, he needed to gather up the fleece skirts so they could be washed anyways.
Grandmother Helga had shown Rowan how to wash the wool in a particular man
ner in which she insisted on. It required lots of rinsing and took Rowan longer to get it done to her specifications, but it always paid off. She'd reward him with a candied biscuit she made from honey comb and dried blueberries.
Rowan was fond of Grandmother Helga. Even though he was a thrall, she never treated him as such.
Helga also insisted on being the one who carded the wool. She always used her special combs with strange symbols carved on them. She'd quietly sing to the wool as she carded it.
Rowan spent the remainder of the daylight washing the wool and laying it out to dry. Hopefully, he'd get his reward for doing a good job on the wool tomorrow.
Chapter 3 - Late in the Night
It was late in the night when Rowan woke up startled. He felt like he was drowning in his sleep. He dreamt that he was in the water of the fjord and someone was standing on his chest holding him down underwater.
Although he'd awakened, it still felt like something heavy pressing down on his chest. Groggily, he opened eyes and was startled to what he saw. There was a rather large house cat sitting on his chest.
It just sat there looking down at him with its yellow eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness and look directly into his soul. It was the biggest cat he'd ever seen. It wasn't a mountain lion or anything like that. It was just a simple orange house cat, but it was biggest house cat that he'd ever seen.
Rowan wasn't sure if he was still half asleep and dreaming or what, but the cat seemed to be getting heavier and heavier as it sat there on his chest. It wasn't even moving, it was just sat on his chest staring down at him. It had the weight of a large man.
The cat's unusual weight had Rowan pinned down and he couldn't move. It was making it harder and harder for him to breath.
Rowan made a desperate attempt to get the cat off him, as it was definitely getting heavier and heavier. It was now making it impossible for him to breath, crushing his chest under its impossible weight. He tried to roll to his side and knock the cat off him, but he couldn't move. He was pinned down under its weight as it seemed to grow even larger.