Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘By trolls?’ asked Earl Sigvaldi, jittering. ‘Have trolls abducted Hild?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Gest told him.

  ‘I have appealed to you about this matter time and time again, lord,’ Bjorn blustered. ‘Something must be done. Thorstein was killed by these trolls, and now another king’s man has suffered their assaults. You don’t want word of this to reach the king’s ears.’

  Earl Sigvaldi tottered over to the high seat, trying to quell his quivering limbs as he sat down. ‘I am not the stuff heroes are made of,’ he complained. ‘I cannot fight trolls. She was only a thrall, king’s man, when all is said and done. I will find you another.’

  Bjorn turned to Gest. ‘That won’t do at all,’ he said. ‘The trolls must be hunted down and wiped out. Don’t you agree, neighbour?’

  ‘It would be foolish to allow such creatures to haunt these lands,’ Gest acknowledged.

  Earl Sigvaldi wrung his hands. His wife, still wearing her nightgown, joined him on the high seat, and laid a comforting hand on his arm. ‘But what can I do?’ the earl asked.

  ‘We know where the trolls are said to dwell,’ said Gest. ‘I would counsel that the crags above Gandsfjord are where we should make our start.’

  ‘They are very high,’ the earl’s wife spoke up. ‘No one has climbed them in living memory.’

  ‘The trolls can get up and down them it seems,’ Gest said. ‘And unless they can fly, they are no different from men. They have legs and arms like us.’

  ‘We’re not asking you to fight the trolls yourself, lord,’ said Bjorn. ‘Merely to muster men to accompany Gest and I as we go in search of the trolls’ cave and his woman.’

  Earl Sigvaldi brightened. His hounds had slunk from his sleeping chamber with his wife, and one laid his head on the earl’s knees with a whine, and rolled his eyes at his master. Absently, Earl Sigvaldi patted the loyal hound.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will gather men to go with you. Asgeir, call them as soon as the sun has risen.’

  ‘Lord,’ said Asgeir in a harsh, grating voice, his eyes on Gest, ‘is this wise? All know what happened to this king’s man’s last wild goose chase.’

  Earl Sigvaldi shook with anger. ‘Speak with more respect!’ he urged the man. ‘This is another matter. Besides, if Gest rids us of the trolls that haunt the fells, all will forget his earlier history and he will redeem himself in the eyes of the folk. Do as I bid you, Asgeir, and let us hear no more arguments.’

  He clapped his hands. ‘Arrange sleeping quarters for our visitors. You’ll remain with us for the rest of the night,’ he told Gest, ‘and in the morning you will can ready for this new outing. And may the gods smile upon your endeavours!’

  —12—

  Next morning, Gest stood outside Earl Sigvaldi’s hall, gazing out at the crystal clear air over Gandsfjord. The crags loomed high and stark, fringed with pines for a third of the way, then sheer and seemingly smooth until they reached the tiny pockmarks that the folk insisted were caves.

  Bjorn came out of the hall, yawning and stretching, and joined him.

  ‘I see no path that leads up the slope,’ Gest commented.

  ‘The folk say that it is unscalable,’ said Bjorn with a bear like shrug. ‘But the trolls seem able to come and go with impunity.’

  ‘If they are truly trolls,’ said Gest thoughtfully, ‘they surely have powers of witchcraft. Is there one troll or many?’

  Bjorn shrugged again. ‘Opinions are divided,’ he said. ‘Everything seems uncertain. But what we do know is that the troll, or trolls, cross the fjord to plunder in our lands. Mine especially. And yours.’

  ‘We’re both newcomers,’ Gest said. ‘Is that why the trolls target us?’

  Bjorn looked at him from under bushy eyebrows. ‘We’re not of this land,’ he acknowledged. ‘Perhaps that’s it. But the folk report that trolls have been making attacks ever since Earl Sigvaldi surrendered to the king.’

  ‘And before that?’ Gest said. ‘Were the trolls ever heard of?’

  ‘Only as a tale, it seems,’ Bjorn replied.

  Gest digested this. ‘We’re getting no closer to working out a plan of attack,’ he commented.

  ‘I know of one way we can get up there.’

  Gest and Bjorn turned to see that they had been joined by Asgeir. The bearded warrior looked from one to the other, expectantly.

  ‘What way is that?’ asked Bjorn.

  Asgeir pointed upwards. ‘We climb. We row to the edge of the cliff and we climb.’

  ‘The cliffs are said to be unscalable,’ Gest objected.

  ‘No cliff is unscalable,’ Asgeir snapped at him. ‘Not to me. I was born on the coast, along the sea cliffs. I climbed my first crag when but a boy, searching for sea mew eggs. No cliff is ever unscalable.’

  Gest gave the crags another look. They reared high above the calm waters of the fjord, rugged and bleak. In some places, the dark blots of bushes were visible, in others slopes of scree tumbled almost vertically towards the waters. The rest seemed to be sheer rock. It plunged into the water as if it went down a long way below sea level. He turned his gaze to the landward side. Here dark woods swathed the lower slopes. He narrowed his eyes. Were those deer cropping the sparse grass of the slope?

  ‘Why has no one made any effort to rid the land of these trolls?’ he asked. ‘It is nine years since Earl Sigvaldi bowed the knee to the king. If the land has been troll haunted all that time…’

  ‘Attempts have been made,’ said Asgeir with a scowl. ‘Men have tried to hunt down the trolls. Youths, rather, wanting to prove themselves. They have failed. Either they could not find a way up, or else they did, and were never seen again.’

  ‘Does anyone know how the latter got up there?’ Bjorn asked.

  Asgeir shook his head. ‘Some tried a way through the wood, others sought to climb. The ones who returned failed. The ones who did not return…’

  ‘Doubtless they failed as well,’ said Gest grimly.

  ‘I think it would be best to try a two-pronged attack,’ said Bjorn. ‘Some through the woods, some up the cliffs.’

  ‘What do you say, king’s man?’ asked Asgeir. ‘Divide our forces?’

  Gest shook his head. ‘A mistake. Wherever we make our attack, we should concentrate our forces. When will the vessel be ready?’

  ‘Men were sent to the boatsheds at dawn,’ Asgeir told them. ‘They should be ready by now. I will go to gather the warriors.’

  A band of a dozen men had been provided by Earl Sigvaldi, led by Asgeir, and they rode down to the boatsheds with Gest and Bjorn to where a longship of the kind called a karvi had been made ready. It was a broad beamed vessel, seventeen feet across and seventy feet long, with enough room for twelve men to row. All in all it resembled a smaller version of the longships in which vikings made their raids and with which the king’s forces patrolled the coasts.

  The sail had not been raised, since there would be no need for it on a short trip down Gandsfjord, but the stem and stern were ornamented with a carved serpent’s head and tail. The former was normally removed when in friendly waters, since it was believed that it would frighten away the spirits of the land, but on Earl Sigvaldi’s orders it had been retained. When fighting trolls it was necessary to keep every advantage you had.

  The twelve men hauled the longship down the strand to the water’s edge and set her afloat, after which they boarded by the gangplank and took their positions. Asgeir was helmsman, while the other twelve men took down their oars from the oar trees and thrust them through the rowlocks. Bjorn and Gest took positions in the stern and prow respectively.

  Asgeir cast off and they were soon under way, their keen keel slicing the slate grey waters of Gandsfjord. The wide expanse of water was like a mirror, in which the desolate cliffs were pictured clearly. A little morning mist hung around the higher crags, but otherwise the air was clear, if cold. A wind played around the deck as the oarsmen put their backs into rowing. Gest’s hair flew like
a king’s banner as he stood in the prow.

  Slowly they drew alongside the towering cliffs. Gest felt his pulse pound and his mouth grow dry as they came so close that the tops of the cliffs were now out of sight. He peered down. It was dark and murky here, but he could just make out the cliffs plunging down into the depths. The water seemed unfathomable.

  He took a lead and line and cast it over the side, then rested his hands on the gunwales and peered downwards as the oars creaked in the rowlocks and the breeze played in his hair, as the lead plummeted. Fathom five, fathom six, fathom seven, he measured. It continued to descend. Finally he reached the end of the line and still the lead had not hit bottom. Thoughtful, he wound it back up again.

  Then he rose and went aft to join Bjorn and Asgeir. ‘We’re drawing close to the cliff,’ he said, ‘but the water is deep. I couldn’t get a true sounding, so it must be more than twenty fathom.’

  Bjorn studied the cliffs that beetled above them. ‘But there is nowhere we can land,’ he observed. ‘What do you say, Asgeir? You know so much of climbing. Where can we go ashore?’

  Asgeir gave the command for the men to back water, and when they were drifting in silence, he pointed out a notch in the cliff. ‘We must swim there, then climb,’ he said.

  Gest looked doubtfully at the spears and axes and armour the men had brought, which lay scattered about the deck, ready for them to snatch up when it was needed. ‘Swim?’ he said. ‘We’ll sink if we’re fully equipped, and if we go ashore without our weapons, what chance will we have against trolls?’

  They were drifting too close to the cliff, so Bjorn took an oar and used it to push them back off. Asgeir came to help him. They drifted around a headland, and a cave opened up like a yawning mouth in the cliff face. Water lapped inside it, and it was half flooded. A narrow strand led down from the weed-festooned back wall.

  ‘Here!’ said Gest excitedly. ‘Here we can weigh anchor.’

  The rowers returned to their oars and with a few sweeps they were within the flooded cave. Bjorn cast the anchor and they sat at rest. It was so shallow Gest realised that they had narrowly missed running aground. Water oozing from the cave roof dripped on the deck. All was quiet except for the lapping of the waters outside the cave.

  ‘We can moor here, and go ashore,’ said Bjorn. ‘But how do we get up the cliff?’

  Gest climbed over the side and waded up onto the beach. The cave mouth was low here so he had to crouch. He looked about himself in the gloom.

  The strand followed the wall of the cliff in a crescent, tapering off as it reached the cave mouth. Waddling and shuffling along, he reached the cave mouth. From here the cliff wall plunged sheer into the fjord. He looked back at the longship, bobbing in the cave water. Then he followed the strand back the way he had come, halting part of the way when he stumbled over a log that had seemingly been washed up within the cave. Something made him crouch down to investigate it.

  The log had been hollowed out inside, and lying propped against it was what looked like a crude wooden paddle. Was this how the troll he had encountered had crossed the fjord? His lip curled. There was nothing supernatural about a crude dugout.

  He waded back to the vessel and two of the rowers helped him ashore. Standing dripping on the deck he spoke to Bjorn and Asgeir.

  ‘Here we have a haven,’ he said, ‘but I see no path up the cliffs from here. The rock wall is sheer and unscalable.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Asgeir. He wrapped a line round his body and lowered himself down into the shallow water. Wading across to the edge of the cave mouth he got up onto the strand and then inched his way round the corner.

  Gest looked at Bjorn. The farmer returned the glance. ‘No wonder no one has ever come back,’ he muttered. The echoes of the cave magnified his words and all the rowers turned to look at him.

  ‘We ought to look for a way through the woods,’ Gest said, his voice low, so the others did not hear. ‘We’ll never get up the cliff.’

  There was a scraping sound from the cave mouth and Gest saw Asgeir coming back round. He sat down on a jutting shelf of rock.

  ‘Any success?’ Gest called.

  Asgeir nodded. ‘It’s almost sheer for a score of feet,’ he called back, ‘but I can climb it. I’ll attach this rope and the rest of you can follow me.’

  ‘Attach it to what?’ Gest asked, but already Asgeir had risen and was vanishing round the corner.

  Gest and Bjorn issued orders to the men, who raised the anchor then used the oars to manoeuvre the ship out into the open at the foot of the cliff. Here they halted. Asgeir had already climbed as far as a ledge that must be, just as he said, a score of feet above them. He was in the process of hitching the rope around a withered thorn bush that grew from a crevice in the rock.

  Above Asgeir the cliffs rose as far as Gest could see. The cloudy sky seemed like a roof above the endlessly high wall of rock. But he could see the tiny lines of ledges along the cliff, running crazily this way and that. He saw signs of movement, and saw what looked like a wild goat moving along a ledge far aloft. It might be possible to climb up that way, at least some of them. But some of them would have to remain to ensure the ship did not drift away.

  Asgeir flung the rope down and its coils opened out and opened out until it cascaded onto the deck. Gest gripped hold of it and gave a strong tug. He looked up with a grin and waved to Asgeir.

  ‘Firm,’ he shouted.

  Asgeir waved back. ‘Climb up and join me,’ he invited.

  Gest set a helmet on his head and hooked a hand axe into his belt. He addressed the men gathered on the pitching deck. ‘Bjorn, arm up and come next. Then I want ten of you to follow. The other two, stay behind to look after the ship. This will be a scouting mission, but there’s a chance we could find ourselves in trouble, so we need strength in numbers. We don’t know what to expect up there.’

  He gripped the rope in both hands, then leaned backwards, keeping himself steady, until his feet were firmly set on the cliff wall. Now he reached with one hand to seize the rope higher up, then repeated the action with the other hand, shifting his feet so he was walking up the side. At right angles to the cliff, he proceeded up as far as the ledge, then hauled himself up on to it with Asgeir’s aid.

  ‘My thanks,’ he said.

  Asgeir ignored him, instead gesturing down to Bjorn to begin the climb. Bjorn managed it less deftly than Gest, scrambling up the rock, bouncing from position to position as he clung frantically to the rope. Gest could see he had little experience of ropes, but he himself had served aboard the ships of the king, and learnt all the arts of the seafarer.

  He looked about himself. The ledge was narrow, and tapered off on either side, but it was large enough for the whole group to crouch upon. But what then? He asked Asgeir.

  Asgeir gave him an uncomprehending look, and gestured at the rugged cliff face. Then he reached out to help Bjorn up, and as he did, he said, ‘Climb!’ with a wild laugh.

  Bjorn looked anxious. He gazed nervously up at the endless rock wall. Then he gasped.

  Gest looked upwards to see what had caught his attention, but he saw nothing. Asgeir was busy helping another man scramble up onto the ledge. Bjorn was still peering upwards. Gest shaded his eyes.

  ‘What is it, Bjorn?’ he whispered.

  Bjorn looked back. ‘I thought I saw someone up there,’ he said. There was a clatter from above.

  All four looked up. Gest saw nothing but grey rocks and occasional bushes. ‘I thought I saw a goat up there,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘A goat?’ Asgeir asked. ‘Up there?’ He craned his neck then shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘What did you see?’ asked the newly come oarsman. Bjorn lowered his eyes.

  ‘Someone or something up there,’ he said. ‘Just for a moment. It drew back into the cliff.’

  ‘Into the cliff?’ Gest said. Another clatter from aloft was followed by a creaking, cracking noise.

  Bjorn looked up again. ‘
Moved back,’ he explained. ‘So he was out of sight.’

  ‘You saw a man?’ Asgeir gasped.

  ‘Or a troll…’ breathed the oarsman.

  Gest drew the hand axe from his belt. But how was he to fight someone or something halfway up the cliff face? He could see no one.

  Another oarsman clambered up to join them, a scrawny youth called Gorm who had complained throughout the short voyage. ‘What’s everyone looking at?’ he asked in a loud voice, but he was hushed by Bjorn. ‘There’s something up there,’ the latter hissed.

  Gest glanced at Asgeir. The rope was quivering again as another man ascended. ‘Can you get up there?’ he asked. ‘Can you find a way up?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Asgeir, pointing. ‘Up that chimney of rock, then along that ledge. Then…’

  He broke off as a shadow fell over them.

  Gest looked up. Part of the cliff had broken free and was tumbling towards them. He glimpsed the figure of a man (or was it a troll?) galloping away across a ledge. Then fragments of tumbling rock struck them and he was knocked straight off the ledge.

  —13—

  Gest hit the water with a bone-jarring smack and at once everything was lost in a roaring silence of dark green. He threshed about, feeling the pressure of the water crushing down on him. All around him he could see plummeting shapes trailing bubbles. One by one they struck their way back up to the surface.

  His head burst out into the open and he trod water. He had lost his axe in the fall; happily, he realised, since its weight could have dragged him to the bottom. He would reequip himself from the ship. The capsized vessel was drifting in the water a short way from the cliff side. The falling rock must have struck her, emptying her into the icy fjord waters. He swam towards her.

  Several men were already clinging to her side. He recognised Asgeir, flaxen locks plastered to his skull, holding onto the prow.

  ‘King’s man!’ Asgeir said dazedly. ‘What happened?’