Fargoer (12 page)

Often a branch or a root tripped one of the travelers, and, then, the other dragged him or her back up immediately. Like this continued their desperate trek toward the dawn of the next day. They did not know at all if they were moving in a circle but, whenever their confusion allowed, they tried to move toward the sun which was rising painfully slow. The sounds of the forest grew from whispers to yells and from malevolence to hostility.

“Here you will stay, in the ground you will lay, join us you shall, the ranks of the gray”.

A thick fog started to intertwine. It was so heavy they couldn’t see the rising sun anymore. The nearest trees just gleamed like foggy shadows amid a gray mass. Having lost their direction and glancing around, they stopped and leaned against one another.

There were darker figures than the fog moving around them. Vierra blinked her eyes anxiously, thinking she was seeing visions coming out of her exhaustion, but the shapes didn’t disappear. Instead there were soon more and more of them, everywhere, surrounding them. When they came closer, Vierra and Ambjorn could see that they were shaped like men, like figures of people made out of fog. No artist could have built such a lively character, they resembled real people, even down to the slightest detail. On every gray walker’s eyes burned a white, milky shine which drilled into the travelers with an inhuman glow. There were women and children in addition to men, and to her horror Vierra realized she knew a few of the shapes. Finally they also saw Oder and Alf, and they didn’t need to think about their destiny any more.

They felt as if the damp fog was strangling them. Vierra and Ambjorn fell to their knees, gasping for air greedily like they had water in their lungs. Gasping the fog did not relieve the pain they felt inside.

With her mind’s eye, Vierra saw glimpses of the miserable lives and deaths of the misty shades. The death their master Bothvar had brought to them in his house. She also felt the anger that pulsated in them, hatred towards everything alive that didn’t share their own fate. The visions invaded her mind like a dagger, deepening her anguish.

Oder’s figure stepped forward.

“Here you will stay, in the ground you will lay, join us you shall, the ranks of the gray.” Oder’s shape repeated this, and the others hummed it with him one after another, until these words engulfed the whole fog-filled world.

Vierra’s sight started to dim, and she couldn’t make out the shapes clearly anymore. Still she could hear herself talking and feel her mouth moving. But the voice that spoke wasn’t her own voice, nor the will that moved it her own will.

“Spirits of the night, go away.”

Vierra knew that voice and will. They belonged to the dark-eyed girl who had visited her dream.

The shadowy figures were silent for a moment, as if listening, but then continued their humming with a hint of triumph. The fog got thicker and thicker, and Vierra couldn’t see the forest anymore.

“You know whose blood flows in me,” yelled a voice from inside Vierra again, full of staunched determination. “Blood is power. I have the might to command. Do you see, the fog is clearing.”

Vierra felt that her hand made a gesture, moved the cloud of fog aside. It was her hand, but she wasn’t controlling it.

The fog started to yield, and Vierra felt the squeeze in her lungs letting go.

Run, fools, run. I cannot hold them forever, Vierra heard a silent voice inside her head. She grabbed Ambjorn’s hand and pointed at the sunrise which had appeared from the fading fog. He looked stunned, but let the hurrying woman drag him along with her.

They ran as fast as they could from their loss of breath and fumes of the beer. The forest opened in front of them, seemingly endless, and disappeared behind. However, the fog didn’t let go. It reached its gray fingers after them, over every tree root and to every hollow in the forest. Vierra felt the creatures behind her, even though she couldn’t see them when looking back. Ambjorn also seemed to understand; he moved fast with sweat and dew dripping from his beard, and didn’t look back.

Something strained its powers to their limit. From behind them in the forest could only be heard a low sigh, not much bigger than a morning whoosh of wind. And as they walked, the fog couldn’t reach them anymore and the sun rose over the treetops, painting the bleak morning sky blue as if to mark their final victory.

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.