Vierra felt something break inside her. Sharp pain made her cower and forced her to lie down on the ground. Moss felt damp against her cheek.
“Sorry, mother.” Vierra heard a small voice inside her say. “It was either me or all of us.”
“No, you can’t! You can’t!” yelled Vierra to herself. “I have nobody else.”
In the already fading voice, there was sorrow:
“The Fargoer will not bear children. From where I come out of, you will never have a third. A dear price and a large sacrifice. Do not grieve, mother, for we will meet on the other side by the fires of your foremothers.”
Vierra felt something flowing out of her. She did not see dark hair or dark eyes, but Vierra knew that the child would have had those, had the girl been allowed to live. For a short moment, Vierra had felt something. Something other than three years of numbness caused by slavery. That something had now been ripped away from her.
Ambjorn half walked, half carried Vierra through the forest. He did not understand what had just happened, but didn’t break the silence with questions.
***
Vierra and Ambjorn stood on a top of a hill, from where there was an unobstructed view to Ambjorn’s home village. Two ravens soared high in the sky, and the clear autumn weather carried into their ears the voices of the people moving down in the valley. There was still a stench of burned wood in the air, even though the houses of the village had burned to the ground two nights ago.
Ambjorn’s expression was grim, as he looked down to the remains of his future.
“We have to go down to help the rest,” said Ambjorn and took a step down the slope.
Vierra stood there, not making any gestures. They had traveled in silence.
“Come on.”
“Why?” Vierra’s voice echoed with emptiness.
“I owe you for saving my life. You are alone with no food or gear. You have no stature, family or relatives. Someone will take you as their slave.”
“I do not care.”
Ambjorn’s anger could be seen on his face.
“I care. You’ll be my slave from now on, then.”
Ambjorn took her arm and pulled her with him, down by the side of the hill. Vierra did not resist. At that moment, there was no purpose for anything.
Bloodsilver
Sea sown wishes
Dragon-headed bows of two longboats appeared from the mist like ancient sea monsters. The sounds of men rowing the boats echoed strangely in the impervious air, mixing with splashes of water and oars creaking against damp, wooden surfaces. The late autumn weather in Northern Gulf could change violently, offering a traveler anything from warm sunshine to a freezing blizzard. On the bow of the boats stood the lookouts, who stared constantly into the gray, damp wall that loomed out in front. They rowed in unfamiliar waters. Even the slightest error could mean a shipwreck on the icy sea.
The crew members, shivering in their rain-soaked clothes knew exactly just what kind of danger they were getting into. The men of the leading boat were long-bearded, proud Vikings. They traveled far during the summertime, wagering their lives and swords for bounty. Luck had not been on their side lately, thus encouraging them to journey this far, this late in the fall. The boat was led by Thorleik Styrsson, a heavily-built and cold-eyed Norseman. Numerous battles had left him full of deep scars, but also brought him a fame as an invincible Viking. It was the fruits of Thorleik’s knowledge they tried to reap now, and the thought of silver treasures burned in each and every mind like fire. The northern sea was an unusual target for plundering; It would be hard to find anyone there boasting about the silver or gold they have. Nevertheless Thorleik was believed upon, he had good luck and therefore the men were trustful.
If the men in the first boat were tough like hardened oak, the crew of the second was carved out of softer wood. From their boat, the men watched the surrounding mist with nervous eyes, as if at any moment it could manifest itself in some threatening form and unleash its fury upon them. Most of them were unseasoned peasants, and only a few had seen enough seas and journeys to call themselves proper Vikings. They even had two women with them, a thing that disturbed the men greatly. Many of them were afraid of the water spirits’ wrath and were often dropping crumbs of bread into the water to soothe them. The boat was led by red-bearded Ambjorn. Styr had been his father too, and even though you could recognize them as brothers by their looks, their essence was altogether different. Ambjorn’s face, unlike his brother’s, was without scars; A fact that was not counted to his benefit in the minds of the men rowing his boat.
On the back of the boat, separated from the others as much as possible, sat two women. As odd as their presence on a journey like this was, their mutual difference was even more striking. The one sitting further away was tall and blond, an archetype of a Svean woman. Blue eyes that glowed underneath the golden hair were like springs of ice, eyes which she used to look at the surrounding mist, as if detesting the trouble it caused to the travelers. It was useless to try and find any warmth from her stare, even when she was watching her red-bearded husband from the back of the boat. Her sisters did not traverse the sea nor travel and plunder, but took care of the cattle and homes while the men were away. Jofrid Olafsdaughter shared the destiny of her husband Ambjorn and of everyone on the boat; they had no more home than cattle. Nevertheless, Jofrid was not a woman to bend in face of hardship. Instead, misfortune gave her fierce strength to maintain the only thing she had left - her honor.
The other woman was dark-haired and much shorter than Jofrid. Her looks suggested northern origin and her frame a demanding life spent in nature. For the last few years Vierra had been far from her foremothers’ hunting grounds. Over three years ago she had witnessed how cruel the men of these tall people could be. They had slain her husband and son, torn her away from her homeland and taken her far over the sea into a life of slavery. The times spent as the Vikings’ slave had extinguished the sparkle from her dark eyes, and only tenacity and persistence had kept her alive. But now every pull of the oars took her further away from a slave’s life and closer to the land of her birth. Now and then, a glimpse of a rocky shore or outlines of a dark forest could be seen through the mist. At times, Vierra’s eyes wandered to the crew of the other boat and when they found Thorleik, an open, uncovered hatred rose onto her face that did not go unnoticed by the target of the stare.
The autumn day cleared and the mist dissolved rapidly. The air stayed damp nevertheless, and gray clouds hung low above the dark sea. Free of the mist, the travelers could now see where they were going. The boats traveled along the shore northbound, and the thick forest that grew on the strand often reached all the way to the waterline. Autumn had already stripped the deciduous trees of their clothes, and they reached toward the sea with their naked branches like skeletons. Here and there the forest was breached by empty fields, already relieved of the crops, and occasionally the travelers could see glimpses of cattle and sheep. Other than that, the shores looked uninhabited. Now and then, on the hills that rose further away from the strand, there could be seen simple forts which often had signal fires burning on top of them. Fires had been lit because of the boats, but robbing farmers was not a part of their plan, and the boats instead kept moving towards north.
When the day turned into evening, even the slightest signs of settlement disappeared, and their boats passed beside of an untouched wilderness. Thorleik started scouring the shoreline, looking for a suitable camping spot. The wind had been weak all day, and the men had been forced to row the boats forward with no help from the sails. To further their nuisance, the clouds started to drizzle, which made the men shiver at their oars.
When the dusk set, they finally pulled ashore to a small bay. Styr’s sons ordered their crews to collect firewood. Soon there was plenty and enough, but everything was wet and the fire could not be lit, even with the best of skill. The tired and cold men cursed, when one try after another failed.
“Can’t anyone get
a fire going?” yelled Thorleik, annoyed by his men’s misfortune. “I promise twenty silver coins from the bounty to the one who makes a fire now.”
To everyone’s surprise, Vierra got up and answered.
“I can do it, if you let me go to the forest to find suitable wood.”
Thorleik looked surprised. A promise was a promise, nevertheless, and given in front of the whole group.
“Pesky bondwoman, you just try to scheme your way to escape or to bewitch us. Dark you are, and obviously a woodswoman, is it not that this is your homeland, where you were born and grown?” he spoke, trying to take back his promise.
“You should know where I grew, for you have been there. Besides, I, like yourself, have a desire for dry and warmth, and a woman’s success should not bother a chief of your magnitude,” said Vierra, with a hint of concealed ridicule in her voice.
Ambjorn suddenly intervened.
“I will go and guard her, so she can’t go anywhere. And she’s my slave anyway, so if she does, then it’s my loss.”
Both Thorleik and Ambjorn’s wife, Jofrid, looked at him askew. Why would a man protect his slave’s matters? However, as Ambjorn was the leader of the second boat, his word was obeyed immediately.
Vierra stepped into the dark forest with Ambjorn following closely behind. Thorleik had guessed wrong as these were not her homelands. But even if her native forests soughed much further to the north than this, the forest here talked in a language very familiar to her. It’s damp, cool feel woke up memories and feelings, feelings which endless labor and cruelty during her years of slavery had put out. She breathed the forest deep inside her, and its strength straightened her stooped posture.
“What do you intend to do,” Ambjorn asked when they walked further into the darkening forest. “You cannot lead me astray here.”
“I’m trying to get to warm myself, like I told you.” There was a trifle of the old willpower that she used to have.
After searching for a while, Vierra finally found a dry, resinous stump of a pine on higher ground, which was partly under the surface. No rainwater pooled here as it flowed easily to lower grounds. Vikings were able woodsmen, but they lived in houses and cultivated the ground. Vierra’s people had lived in forests since ancient times, and in their life, failure to make a fire equaled death. Ambjorn and Vierra went to work, and it wasn’t long before axes had broken off large pieces of the stump.
When they were already preparing to go back, Ambjorn suddenly grabbed the woman by the waist and pulled her against himself. His hands were trembling from the surge of emotion he had been holding inside. Vierra did not answer the gesture. Ambjorn pushed the woman away from him, and she fell down onto a tussock.
“All of you are the same, cold as the winter’s breath.”
This kind of behavior was not uncommon to Vierra. Even though she had been Ambjorn’s slave for just a while, he had already done this countless times. And as many times she had turned him down.
“Why don’t you take what you want by force,” Vierra snapped. “That’s what the other men of your tribe do.”
Ambjorn looked surprised, because Vierra had never before answered his approaches in any way. She had been like a dead fish in his large hands.
“I do not take love by force.”
“You had maids and slaves. Why didn’t you take them with you instead of me?”
Ambjorn thought for a moment.
“Nobody has the same kind of fire that you do. I know it burns inside you, even if you don’t show it to anyone else. Why won’t you give it to me? I have treated you well, better than anyone else. Do I not deserve your love? You have bewitched me.”
Vierra tried to find signs of deceit from the man’s eyes, or a glimpse that would tell something words never could. If Ambjorn remembered what had happened between them in the house amid the woods, he had kept it in. Something moved inside Vierra, something she had thought dead forever, but right there in the forest started to slowly come back to life. Ambjorn was an exceptional man, and Vierra understood she could never find better in this cold and hostile world. She got up from the wet moss.
“Then come with me. Grab my hand and I will take you to the forest. Let’s leave everything else and go back to my tribe’s lands. There I will share with you the joys and sorrows of my hut.”
Ambjorn didn’t answer for a long time.
“I cannot, I have my responsibility for my men. And for my wife’s and brother’s honor.” He indicated for the woman to go back.
Vierra was surprised to find herself feeling disappointed.
Finally the wood cutters returned to camp and Vierra started to light the fire carefully. A spark that she had struck was alive, and she fed it with small chips of the pine stump. For a moment she thought, as if hesitating, but then started to sing birth of fire with a clear voice, like she had once done when among her own tribe.
Oh you seagull, bird of birds
Strengthen our pyre
Termes mighty, lord of heavens
Bring to us your fire
Give me now the brand of yellow
Spark of highest heat
Warmth to lonely forest dweller
Flame of life unsheathe
That was the first song that came off her lips after her son had died. As if sensing this shackled power, the flames started to blaze and rapidly grow. The Vikings backed off from the singing woman, and looked at her nervously.
“The slave hag will witch us all. I think I will kill her,” Thorleik stated.
“Let it go and watch, the fire burns already,” said Ambjorn, grasping his brother’s hand and stopping it from reaching for a sword.
The rain ceased and the night fell over, shrouding them and their small fires in darkness. Warmth, ceasing of rain, beer and food heightened the group’s spirits and soon the merry voices of chattering men echoed in the forest. They feared nothing, because the woods looked unsettled, and two longboats full of men were a tough adversary to any warband that this land had to offer. After eating, the men went to sleep and only the ones left to guard stared at the crackling fire and talked quietly. The boat leaders were conferring about the upcoming day.
“Do we reach the treasure tomorrow,” asked Ambjorn.
“Only a half-day of rowing left,” replied Thorleik. The glow of the fire made his scarred face look even more hideous. “Why does that wench slave of yours give me the bad eye? How much does it cost if I strike her dead? She brings me bad luck and women should not be present on this kind of journey at all,” he said with indignation in his voice.
Ambjorn considered his words for a moment.
“You very well know why the women are with us. And when it comes to Vierra I hope that you won’t carry out your threat. She was the one that made these fires, after all,” defended Ambjorn.
“I remember your story. The story of a darkening sun, of combat and of a longhouse in the center of a cursed forest. And that woman then saved you from there... a woman.” Thorleik did not hide the mockery in his voice. Finally he snorted: “It is useless to dwell on this. I will keep my sword sheathed for now. And you, brother, keep your slave in order and hope that your weakness does not drive us all to ruin, like it has driven you.”
Ambjorn’s eyes flashed with anger. Fighting between them was not in question, however. They were leaders of their crews and on a joint quest. So they also lied down, tired of the day’s burdens.
Ambjorn went to his wife’s side on the hides, and she looked at her husband with bright eyes in the lively gleam of the fire.
“Wouldn’t it be best for all if we sank Vierra in the sea or, maybe left her here?” asked Jofrid from her husband. “Men say women bring bad luck when searching for silver, so wouldn’t it bring half the luck back if one of the two women was gone?”
“I will kill nobody for a scant reason, especially anyone who has saved my life,” Ambjorn snapped for an answer. “It would bring twice the bad luck. Besides, if we find the treasure our father
buried, we’ll need good slaves to rebuild our village.”
“Silver will buy slaves more obedient than Vierra,” answered Jofrid.
Ambjorn didn’t answer and they both fell silent and slept till the morning.
The guardians
The morning came, clear and cold. Wind had driven the clouds away and the sun rose starting its daily passage on the blue sky. The men shivered and did their morning errands briskly, to repel the numbness from their limbs. The boats were soon ready to go and everyone was eager to get their hands on the treasure. The rising sun and rowing drove away the last of the cold from the men, and the air was filled with joyous hum of voices.
The rising sun was followed by a rather mellow wind from the southwest, given the time of the year, and the boats hauled their sails, which immediately bulged promising fast and easy travel. The air warmed and the journey north progressed rapidly. The uninhabited shores were forested, but here and there were sandy dunes with pines and low, sandy beaches, glowing golden in the sun. The terrain was even, like cut straight with an enormous knife, and where the trees did not obstruct the view they could see far inland.
“Are these regions familiar to you?” asked Ambjorn from Vierra. He had walked to the aft of the boat, where the women sat silent. Ambjorn evaded the woman’s gaze and kept his eyes on the waves which gathered foam to the boat’s stern.
“Our people sometimes come south, to catch salmon and otter. The hunters luck has been always good, because nobody lives here. Old ones always warn about Termes’ folk, the ones who guard these shores. They say people lived here once; people who came from the south and built houses and cleared land to grow their hay. The Termes’ men drove them away and killed the ones who were not fast enough. They did not leave two stones side by side, or two logs together,” Vierra said, remembering the stories the old hags had told her.
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