Saga of the Red Viking

Saga

FIRST SAGA

FJORDLAND SOMETIME AROUND 960 A.D.

The eyes of Torvald the Red came almost out of their sockets and his veins were bursting. His temples were tremoring as he bit his teeth together and blood started to rush into his head. His heart beat once and immediately his eyes were glowing red, like the sun that was setting behind the iron mountains in the horizon. Did his eyes turn red because of the pure anger or was there smoke in the air? One couldn’t be sure, but the eyes of this berserker were red and scary. A loud screech revealed that a tooth must have broken when Torvald had clamped his jaws shut. Foamy wave crests regurgitated from his mouth onto his beard, it was like someone had poured foamy beer from a beer mug all over the place. The white scar that went across his face, made by a Holy Roman Empire cladius in some ancient battle, was now glazing red as Torvald was raging himself into fury. He was a born berserker, one that must not be aggravated and this saga is not suitable for sensitive persons. Torvald stood on the pier and fell into a trance. Every emotion that he had sometimes had, joy, grief, embarrassment and pride, were now trivial, they were now turned into anger. Torvald hated, because he loved. He hit, because he was afraid. But who would have had the courage to tell that to Torvald? Or why should have, he must have known that himself without anyone telling him that. Surely he knew himself, or how could he have been otherwise be able to tear everything into shreds on his path and turn into a monster within a few heartbeats, when the world demanded it?

He awakened from his trance for a while and turned his head to see his son one last time before he would be ready to die. This act was not suitable for children’s eyes, but his son was a son of a berserker and no one could save him from seeing what would happen next. As he saw his son his face looked compassionate and the scar on his face turned white again. He whispered: »Be strong and I will meet you again in the halls of Valhalla. « He nodded as to say goodbye or as an encouragement to his son who stood behind him on the boat deck. Rage started to build up again in Torvald’s veins and the scar on his face turned red again. »Torvaldsson! Run!« hissed the rabid old man between his teeth. His eyes continued to bloat horrendously and his head looked like it could explode any minute like a volcano. Barely three heartbeats passed by and Torvald grab the nearest man with sideburns by ears with his big hands and broke his neck. Torvald was big as a house and was roaring like a bear that had been awakened in the middle of hibernation. Two men who had surrounded him had daggers in their hands and they attacked raging Torvald. One of them plunged his dagger into the bear pelt vest of the berserker. Torvald cried out and roared like someone had slaughtered a bull as the dagger bit into his flesh through the pelt. The man thrust his dagger deeper and Torvald swung at him with his bear claw. It was like someone had hit his forehead with an oak plank. The man loosened his grip on the dagger, tripped over his own feet and even unluckily hit his head to a harbour buoy to which the knarr of Torvald the Red was tied to. The boat was floating lightly on the waves as its captain was grimly in the middle of his latest survival battle on the pier. The one who had hit his head on the buoy fell unconscious into the water. He sank to the bottom like a bullet that is attached to a string when measuring the depth of the water. Torvald grab the last wrist holding a dagger before it would also be plunged into his berserker’s pelt. He didn’t care about the blade cutting his arm as he blocked the hit. The last assaulter had fear in his eyes as he saw his dagger bending in the grip of a strong seaman. He was panicking like a prey in front of the predator. Like an unlucky bastard who had tried to rob a Berserker who had been awakened from his hibernation.

Torvald yanked the dagger of the drowned bully off his pelt. The other assaulter emptied his bowels, nasty stench spread into the fresh maritime air. Torvald plunged the dagger upwards through the man’s jaw and pierced even his tongue. He left the dagger sticking to the blood gushing corpse on the pier. Even the sea water turned red under the pier as the man twitched and wheezed his last sounds with a dagger in his throat. The blood was gushing like it would have been an inexhaustible natural resource. A bit further away stood two men and their swords were trembling in their hands. They thought they had seen something supernatural. In reality though, Torvald was a regular veteran Berserker who could very well die to the next sword plunge. Nevertheless he would probably refuse to believe that and would go on a roaring rampage for a while. He would take anyone he could with him to Valhalla, before his blood would run dry and he would understand to stop breathe heavily.

Those men who got this Berserker to this mad were originally five. They had been pressuring fishermen and captains to pay tithing to the mightiest bandit leader of the harbour. He offered a kind of fire and theft insurance to every ship that was floating in the harbour. Torvald had refused to pay though, and he had lost his temper. His heartbeat had started to calm down and he stimulated his heart to beat like it should in Berserker’s rage. He took in his hands a huge double-bladed axe that he had carried on his back under the red cape. One couldn’t hold it with just one hand. It was a berserker’s war axe and it could split a man into halves from head to toe with just one hit. Nobody dared to doubt its juggernaut. As Torvald’s heartbeat accelerated, his breathing got heavier and he breathed wheezily through his nostrils. He looked gloom and he took one step forward and swung his axe towards one swordsman. The swordsman tried to block the strike, but the axe of Torvald the Red was too heavy and Torvald’s strike had as much power as a whole crew on a Viking ship. The axe made its way through the blockage, the hand holding sword gave in, and the axe bit the man on the shoulder. It didn’t split him up though. But at least the sword fell down on the cobblestones at the harbour. The last bandit ran away. Torvald put the heavy axe on the ground and fell exhausted onto his knees breathing heavily. Blood was gushing from the wound on his side, and it got mixed with blood of the attackers. Torvald the Berserker fell over to his side the blood pool and laid there on his cheek on the cobblestones.

FIRST CHAPTER

VALHALLA

Torvalsson climbed to the pier and ran to his father as rigid as a wild horse colt with his long legs. He tried to pick his exhausted father from the blood pool but didn’t succeed. He didn’t have enough strength but luckily some men from the nearest ships came to help him. »Are you dead father?« Torvalsson asked. Men who had run to his help started to console him and told him that his father wouldn’t die, his wound just needed bandaging. Berserkers always fell on the ground after battle. The trance took all their strength and all that was left was a beaten up animal breathing heavily on a battle ground. Sometimes berserkers could die due to the exhaustion, but it would take heck of a lot more men than four against one berserker. »Is he coming to his senses already?« asked one young seaman who had come to help. The man holding Torvald shook his head. »Nope, sleeps like a log. He won’t wake up tonight.« The young seaman had another troubling question: »Will the bandits come again with more men tonight?«

Pale-faced captain Ingeborg Glass-Eye came to the pier. He had already a rugged voice of an old man although he wasn’t that old at this point. He was still already a skilled captain, whose glass eye was valuable war injury that awed. As soon as he stepped on the pier with his boots he had the control. »Carry Torvald to my ship to recover and bind his wounds. My crew will guard his ship tonight. From now on, nobody pays tithing to Finnbog. You all saw how Torvald killed four men out of five. The Earl Olav himself can send his guards to this pier to suppress our rebellion that nobody has seen for a long time. Every man on this pier must take a sword or make a spear out of oar. Those bandits will not blackmail us, the time of intimidation and gathering tithing of the Finnbog family is now over. If Torvald manages to kill four men by himself, then some of you can kill the fifth man!« Ingeborg roared as the sunset reflected from his glass eye. It made him look spooky. He yanked the dagger from the corpse lying on the pier, from its jaw. The dagger was a fine-looking one; one could fight with it against sword although the consequences would be daunting.

»I want to fight too! Give me my father’s axe! I’m Erik Torvaldsson!« shouted the leggy redheaded boy who was about nine years old. He was tall for his age, even for a boy from fjords. He grabbed his father’s axe to pick it up in the dusk, but he couldn’t raise Berserker’s axe from the ground no matter how he tried. Men were laughing at boy’s defiance. Ingeborg signalled men to quiet down and glared cunningly at the boy with the dagger in his hand. »Take this dagger. You can sting ten times with it before even the most experienced man can swing that axe.« Torvaldsson took the dagger, it was the same dagger which had bitten Torvald just moments ago. The dagger was like a sword in Torvaldsson’s hand and it was covered in sticky blood. The blood of Finnbog’s brothers and Torvald’s caused a war with the help of this dagger.

Ingeborg looked at Torvaldsson and saw a future warrior, maybe even a future chief, who would be an honour to follow if the boy just would make through the night without any serious injuries. Ingeborg’s thoughts wondered further to some important decisions. How could he protect the pier, he would have only seamen when the Finnbog brothers came with their green-caped Varangians. You couldn’t have any hesitating nor fearful gestures. Feelings had to be hidden from the face. If you were a captain, you had to look like one. There was always a man behind you who wouldn’t hesitate to take your place. If you were happy, you couldn’t show it. A smiling captain was always hated on long journeys, when sailors had it tough and captain had some reason to smile. Captain couldn’t also ever ask for too many advices from the experienced first officers. Captain was trustworthy only then if he could make quick decisions and stood firmly by them. Ingeborg noticed that he had wasted too much time already on these thoughts. He raised his voice so that it could be heard everywhere in the harbour. He took the easy way out and decided to play some time and organized first the watch. »Count to three. I want to have three watches tonight. When Finnbog brothers arrive at the pier, everyone must be ready and armed in a row.« Ingeborg seemed to be again a worthy captain to command the pier. Basically Ingeborg had just a big mouth and nobody believed he could ever be a great chief. As a captain he probably would be the most honourable and would amass a nice fortune. More than those silver earrings and valuable glass eye. He didn’t have more war skills than an average peasant, although he had a valuable sword on his sheath. He didn’t even trust himself on his own war strategies, he expected sailors to fight with their axes as good they can and didn’t make any defensive plans. He realized that maybe he had stepped into too large shoes by organizing a rebellion against thugs, just on a whim. Ingeborg’s posture and bearing attracted his crew’s attention and festive feeling of Torvaldsson getting his dagger disappeared. Nobody saw this young man anymore amongst the men. Torvaldsson was astonished and held the dagger which almost had killed his father the mighty Torvald. Here and there men were counting to three. »Well!« said Ingeborg and frowned as it was Torvaldsson’s turn. The man next to him wearing helmet poked him and whispered: »Two.« twice before Torvaldsson could mumble the word: »Two.«

»Ok, number ones will start the first watch and it lasts until the North Star has moved half a span.« said Ingeborg and tried to think like Finnbog. What would he do if he was Finnbog? No, Ingeborg couldn’t think like a bandit leader. He tried a different approach. How would the chief of Finnbog clan claim the pier back to under his protection? So far as everybody knew Finnbog clan, they would most certainly come and burn the ships. So the main thing to do was organizing how to extinguish fire. Ingeborg ordered men with his ragged voice: »Bring water barrels near the ships, deck boys must extinguish fires every time they see any fire.« Ingeborg was satisfied, he was doing pretty good so far as war chief. And oh well, the satisfaction could be seen on his face for a moment, before it changed into a sour face expression of an experienced captain. Torvalsson was disappointed as he heard that boys just should carry water. Or wait a minute, he had gotten the dagger, maybe he wouldn’t have to run around extinguishing fires. He didn’t dare to ask about it, he could end up to the extinguishing patrol if he would ask about it. He would follow the men tonight. Ingeborg decided to speak further. »All available guards need to rest, we need your strength and well-rested men.« Two thirds of the crowd disappeared from the pier. Torvalsson was still standing when Ingeborg the Cyclops turned his back on him and started to stare the sea with his one good frog eye. The light reflecting from the sea made captain’s other eye look like a dark blue diamond.

Torvaldsson’s thoughts were wandering. What if father won’t wake up? What will happen to me then? Questions larger than life wandered around in Torvalsson’s head. He couldn’t think of sleeping and stayed on the pier walking around, even though he was on the second patrol. He watched as the first patrol had gathered itself on the pier. Was everything worth the silver coins that would be saved? Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to pay than lie on the bottom of a ship with a stab on your side? Those men were truly incomprehensible stubborn with their principles. Torvaldsson couldn’t avoid nor understand these thoughts, no matter how he tried. Time seemed to have stopped and Ingeborg had disappeared from the pier without Torvaldsson even noticing that. The boy fell into deep thoughts, he stood there as in a shock without noticing the cold sea wind. He didn’t even realize it when first patrol ended their shift and men on the pier changed. Hours went by and Torvaldsson started to doze off while still standing. He opened his eyes and wasn’t sure if he was still asleep or was it time for third patrol shift. He watched as men were running towards the Northern end of the pier. A lot of folk had gathered there. Some of the men turned back. They started to wake up rest of the sleeping men who stormed to the pier from their ships. Suddenly the pier was crowded as it would’ve been the New Moon’s festival. All of a sudden a ship caught on to fire on the Northern end of the pier. »They have Greek fire!!« shouted someone a bit further away, near the fire. Immediately as another ship went on fire and as two men on the pier were burning like torches, the chaos was ready. Fresh breeze from the sea spread sparks to other ships and suddenly the whole harbour was lit up. The fire swallowed, even gorged ships into its vortex. The judgement day of Ragnarök.

Others attacked those pyromaniacs, deck boys tried insistently to extinguish fire on ships, but all their efforts were useless, because Greek fire couldn’t be extinguished with water, it burned even on surface of the sea. Sailors were cutting ropes to prevent fire from spreading. They cut the ship ropes with axes and knives in the same time as boys were desperately trying to flip over their water barrels. Torvald stood on the pier with his axe and without his shirt. His side was bound with xanthic toe rags, through which the blood was still dripping from the wound. He ran growling towards the Northern end of the pier. Torvaldsson was relieved seeing his father running towards the danger, fires and murderers. Everything would be like it used to be in his world, even for a while. He squeezed the dagger harder in his hand and ran after his father.

SECOND CHAPTER

DOOM

On the following morning there were only charred half-sunken shipwrecks everywhere. Six of earl’s Varangian guards marched to the pier. They asked for information on what had happened from some of the people who were standing there and look grim and worried. One of the former ship owners pointed to Torvaldsson, who had a dagger in his hand. The blood had already dried and was slowly falling off from the steel blade. Guards started to walk towards Torvaldsson. They reached him and asked: »Torvaldsson, where’s your old man?« Torvaldsson didn’t answer immediately, and one older Varangian guard became irritated and snapped: »Whatever, orders apply to you as well. Take the boy with us!« They took Torvaldsson’s dagger and promised to give it back later. Guards helped Torvalsson to stand up by supporting him from his armpits. Torvald stood on the pier couple of yards away with his shiny and bloody berserker’s war axe in his hands, shaft standing on the ground. He had a red scarf on his head. Red beard made him look like he was made of the colour red. The sun had already high in the sky and it warmed up slightly the spring morning. Seagulls were screaming in the sky. The sun gleamed on the water and waves swept over charred shipwrecks. The sound of the waves was calming. The air smelled like tar and smoke. Like an ancient pine forest was burning in the neighbouring village. Torvald didn’t say anything, but he was smiling tiredly. He didn’t think it was necessary to hide his feeling nor weariness. He didn’t have actually any reason to smile, and the smile didn’t express anything else about his feelings but the fact, that he had given up the battle for his life long time ago. He was tired of this world of everlasting wars.

The Varangians flinched as they saw Torvald and the oldest of them encouraged himself and said: »Torvald, hand over your axe and come with us to the Thing.« Torvald’s face lost all expression and he clenched his war axe on which he leaned with both of his hands. »You just had to go and rage like a berserker. Torvald, you’ve been given a subpoena. You know what it means. Don’t make this any harder for your family as it is already.« said the older Varangian. He couldn’t hide his respect towards this berserker veteran although it was mingled with fear. The respect was partly hatred, it was common to hate people with whom one couldn’t identify himself. At last Torvald threw his axe with one hand to the nearest guardsman, who almost tottered under its weight. The younger Varangians grabbed immediately Torvald by his hands. They chained the berserker with shackles that would have held a furious bear at its place. Only then they had the courage to tell him the bad news. »Torvald, your farm has been burned to the ground, your wife and slaves died as you were raging in the harbour. I’m sorry Torvald, you messed with the wrong people.« said the older Varangian and seemed that he was really sorry for what had happened. They put a gag to Torvald, knock him down and put shackles to his ankles too. Finnbog had tamed old berserker with the Fjordland’s law, berserkers weren’t allowed to rage during peacetime.

The Thing day was busy and lots of people had gathered together to watch public punishments. It was a great entertainment indeed, when you got to see someone who had everything gone sour and even got to throw him with a rotten cabbage. Sentences were passed and subpoenas were read out loud, but the accused ones couldn’t defend themselves. They didn’t have the right to speak out when they were judged. Earl Olav wasn’t there, but he had already made his decision, and there was no way to change it in front of the spectators, no matter how fine words the accused one would use. Torvald was following the trial intently. Standing there with his shackles and mourning he didn’t even care about the rotten cabbages that were thrown out of the audience.

A beardless man with a gnarled nose stood on the podium and read passed sentences out loud. He had a white mullet, his hairline had receded ages ago. As a representative of the court he was dressed in a silk tunic with silver sheaths, it had been brought far from the East. His voice was very loud as he was reading out passed sentences from the podium. Even though his voice was very intense his words got lost in the audience. People who had gathered to the market square were making a ruckus and even the accused ones had difficulties to hear their sentences. Torvaldsson had a very good hearing, he picked up every word and remembered his father’s sentence.»Torvald the Red, according to witnesses you have murdered four men with your bare hands in a trance. And maybe a dozen more during the night as you were raging in the harbour… The earl has pronounced his judgement! Torvald you have been banished, you’re an outlaw… And your son as well! If you decide to stay in Fjordland, anyone has the right to kill you as an outlawed berserker. From now on you have no rights here in Fjordland. Fire and salt will be declined from you in every village in this realm!« As the sentence had been passed, fear stroke harder than any berserker axe, it crushed Torvald’s existing world for a second. Torvald thought at first he had gotten a death sentence. He was told later that he must sail out to the sea and can never come back to Fjordland. The truth didn’t make it any easier for him, everything that he had built so far, was lost and gone. He had to start all over again from the scratch. He had to flip over the draughts board and organize men and kings back to their squares. It was the life of a berserker and it wasn’t that bad in the end.

»Torvaldsson, let’s go back to the home farm. I want to see everything with my own eyes, every piece of crap that Odin has shovelled on my shoulders. Does life have a meaning? Religious ones keep asking that… Son, I tell you the meaning of life, it is constant misery and the ultimate purpose of life is to die.« said Torvald as he walked along a cobblestone path to home acres. People living along the path were closing their shutters and others ran into their houses without windows. Only dogs had the guts to bark on the yard when berserker returned to his home. Home farm looked austere, charred log house governed the yard. Longhouse had partly collapsed, but a bronze weather vane was still rotating on the wooden shingle roof. Slaves had escaped and females murdered and raped. Luckily corpses had been gathered to rotten elsewhere. Torvald watched Torvaldsson’s watery eyes as he looked the lonely weather vane. Torvaldsson didn’t remember much from this home farm, he had been most of his young life on Viking crusades robbing southeast Britain. Maybe it was this weather vane that he remembered best, it portrayed a dragon from a drakkar boat. Torvald had expected more traumatic visit. If females had lied in a blood pool on the yard, the boy may have found his inner flame of hatred to smoulder in him for the rest of his life. Found a meaning for his life. But no, neighbours had saved him from that destiny as they had feared the pestilence that could arise from corpse’s stench. »Torvaldsson, let’s take down with us everything that we can use for building. That last standing corner, beneath it there is a big corner stone. A granite boulder, which will follow your adventure. Let’s dig the boulder and take it with us.«

They started to work and persevered as they took down the ruins. Neighbours came to help them. Some even borrowed them a mule with a cart, and charred logs and corner stones were taken down to the harbour that was also burned to the ground. Torvald wrapped the weather vane in a cloth. The weather vane was valuable bronze and it was from a drakkar of the fierce bandit leader Guthrum Brewbeard. Torvald had once been at his service on his ship.

THIRD CHAPTER

THREE YEARS LATER

IN THE REPUBLIC OF ICELAND

Torvald did what bandit leaders, fortune hunters, petty swindlers and rabble who was never in the same areas longer than a few summers, did. The lowest social class who meant trouble in many ways immigrated to Iceland. Torvald wasn’t the first immigrant who had decided to travel to Iceland. And he had a great opportunity to be successful. He wasn’t broke, his ship and silver had been saved from the fire at the pier. He had a slave named Timbuk on his ship. The slave had stolen the ship as soon as things had gotten heavy. The crew had feared their captain Torvald so much, that they had returned as sunlight had relieved the charred harbour. They listened as they were told about Torvald’s sentence, waited for their captain and gave him a silver chest. Honourably robbed Viking fortune was also still safe.

Torvald would be able to rent animals and build a small farm, maybe even get couple of slaves to saunter on the yard. But most of all he had his ship, a knarr with eight rowers. An islander hardly ever had more valuable possession than that. That little knarr enabled to gather some asset to buy land. A ship and a piece of land guaranteed, that Torvald would be a lower chieftain among other clan leaders in Iceland. Iceland was a republic, that was laughed at in kings houses and the island had isolated itself from other world on purpose. And no wonder because citizens were bandits, exiles and murderers. But because they all had lived different kinds of troubling times, together they would strive for a better life on their island, or so they hoped. The volcanic island was very fertile at first and people got good crops. It was arbereous, although they cut the forests, some of the trees were even burned to the ground to produce fertile ash. They didn’t need that much wood just for building. Not a single tree was planted. It was really short-sighted, as one could expect from those low-lives. They might have left some birches in some deserted fjord bank by accident.

Torvald bought quite large piece of barren land. Together with Torvaldsson they buried the cornerstones they had brought with them from Fjordland into ground and graved some runes on a big cornerstone to tell their tale. They built their house entirely from big logs, which was considered a bit flashy on an island, where wood was always needed. Guthrum’s weather vane was attached on the roof of longhouse, nobody could miss the fact that they had arrived. Torvald wanted to be a chieftain in Iceland.

For Torvaldsson it was a proper place to grow up and become a seaman. He could learn in peace how to sail the Arctic sea. Most of his time he was at sea. Why should he been on the island running circles like poor kids and their dogs, who ran with their tongues out and chased their own tail. Torvaldsson was already with eleven a skilled seafarer. He could easily navigate with the help of Northern stars to Ireland and Jorvik, even to Jutland and from there to Birka. He didn’t have permission to sail to Volga, because Russian lands were unpredictable. Torvald didn’t hire any crew to his knarr. Farm slaves were rowing and doing the hardest physical chores at sea. Torvaldsson was a great help for Torvald, because the boy could sail wood shipments with the knarr from Jorvik or pick up hemp for ship ropes from Dublin. At the same time Torvaldsson had always the opportunity to taste local beer that was brewed in oak barrel. One had to be careful with it. There were lots of people who would swindle the wood cargo from the boy if they got the chance. Or he could follow wrong stars if he was too drunk and they couldn’t find the way back to Iceland between ice-packs and shoals. Luckily there was Timbuk to look after the boy. Timbuk the factor slave Timbuk looked a bit like a lizard, he had thick skin and big bones. His eyes were moving like the eyes of chameleon, constantly observing. He had been kidnapped from Far East or south. As a slave Timbuk was special because he was good in calculating things even though he was a slave. He must have been much respected among his own people earlier. Torvald had bought him for three hundred grams of silver at a Russian market in the east. Timbuk was holding the casket, and they were bargaining about the silver that was in it. They were used to do business together. Torvalsson was an impatient haggler and switched often sales booth if he couldn’t convince Timbuk to put more silver on his scale. The price always dropped when the master wasn’t interested in buying anymore. Timbuk cut silver coins into pieces to get the right amount on his scale. Traders didn’t need change because every silver piece went to melting furnace and silversmiths as they recycled it. Silver rings were most popular but some people didn’t like to chop them. One could carry them on their wrists. Seamen like Torvaldsson and Torvald favoured earrings, because they couldn’t be easily lost when getting shipwrecked and they could be traded for a burial site when stranded.

The market place was an exotic world as such, it had everything if one just had the silver to pay for it. There was a scent of cinnamon and glove in the air, Timbuk showed Torvalsson a huge cinnamon bar that was long as a spear. »Did you know boy that this is a bark from a cinnamon tree. I had cinnamon trees in my garden.« said Timbuk the slave. Torvaldsson shook his head. »I didn’t know that, or is it the same bark from which we make bark flours?« Timbuk got slightly irritated, he thought the boy was stupid. »Bark flours. They wouldn’t get slaves bread flour from my back yard to sale it back here.« Torvaldsson was already anxiously sniffing star anises. Trader drove him off. »Are you buying or what are you fiddling there?« snarled the trader. »We are looking for hemp!« said Torvaldsson to the trader. The trader had bushy walrus moustache that were tickling. He always scratched them when he was curious. »Well do you have assets to pay?« Timbuk became also interested and squinted slowly his reptile eyes. »Do you have the hemp or not?« Timbuk kicked Torvaldsson secretly and showed him a sign that meant: pay attention when I’m teaching you.

Torvaldsson got bored of haggering before they even knew if they had the proper goods to trade. Timbuk was swinging his head obnoxiously like an oriental trader. Also the trader looked attentive. »If you have silver you can get rope in no time.« Timbuk raised his hand. »I don’t want rope, I want raw hemp fibre. We make our ropes by ourselves.« Torvaldsson went on sniffing other booths. Timbuk also realized that this trader could pick up the product far too far. He raised his head to see where Torvaldsson had disappeared. Timbuk went after Torvaldsson and trader yelled some insults out in the air. Timbuk wondered: would it be enough if they would only buy salt and forget the hemp? He rolled his eyes and bemoaned about the lively boy. Where had he gone? There were quite a lot of people on the market and eleven year old boy wouldn’t be easily found. Timbuk stopped at a booth that had walrus hides in stacks. He asked about the price and uttered laughter when he heard it: fifty grams of silver per hide.

»I’m not going to pay that! Three grams of silver at most.« said Timbuk and felt resentment. He was already in the bad mood because of Torvaldsson’s disappearance. Trader snorted, that kind of haggering was outrageous. He knew oriental traders very well and their teatimes that took hours. You couldn’t do that here in the North, one didn’t put teapot to simmer on fire while trading. Trader pursed his nose and snapped: »Bugger off with your cheap tricks.« Timbuk experienced yet another cultural shock, Fjordmen were so outspoken and rude. One can’t talk like that to a customer. Timbuk flashed his arm where he had eight thick silver rings. They shone up against dark skin. »If you’re not interested in silver, I can buy walrus hides somewhere else, eh?« Trader’s interest rose as he saw those silvery rings. »Not with the price you said earlier. Walrus is nearly extinguished from these waters, and silver can be seen around every man’s wrist. The price is fifty grams, and I’ll smack you with my axe if you’re not going bugger off. Trader’s axe will cut deeper than chimney sweepers insults.« snapped the trader and laid his axe on the table to emphasize his words.

Timbuk started to feel insulted. A threatening and racist trader, who didn’t even care about the silver rings. Usually Timbuk was very good in haggering and paid never the price a trader had said to him at first. So Timbuk turned his back and hid silver rings into his sleeve. He started to walk away when the trader suddenly changed his mind and shouted: »You’ll get two walrus hides with one ring!« Timbuk swiped his hand neglectfully, he was really upset and worried about losing Torvaldsson. Where in the world was the boy?

»Very well chimney sweeper, twenty grams per hide is my final price.« As Timbuk heard that he turned around and tried as best he could to hide the satisfied grin off his face. He put his own scale on the table and started to balance weights. His silver rings were thick hundred gram rings. The trader insisted to use his own scale. Oh man, how boring this visit was. Of course trader’s scale showed different measures than Timbuk’s scale. Now he would have to spend his whole day arguing about whose scale is going to be the right one to do business. They had no stone what would’ve weight the same no matter whose scale they would use. Sure, every trader had some kind of coin or iron nail to show them how the other scale was tampered. Timbuk dropped a pendant on trader’s scale, he knew that it would weight twenty-three and a half grams. Timbuk’s expression tightened into an angry frown, as he saw trader’s scale showing only twelve grams. The same pendant weighed on Timbuk’s scale thirty-three grams today. Luckily Torvaldsson wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have the patience for this.

»Let’s adjust our scales again, you should adjust your scale ten grams higher and I’ll adjust mine ten grams lower.« suggested Timbuk. The trader didn’t agree to that immediately, but finally they reached an agreement. The trader put his scale under a table and Timbuk adjusted his own scale fifteen grams lower. Timbuk put six silver rings on the scales and got twenty-four walrus pelts with him. They were quite heavy, and it was annoying to carry them in a full market square. There was still no sign of Torvaldsson.

FOURTH CHAPTER

THOUSAND AND ONE STORIES THAT ALL END UP AT HAVING A BREW AT THE CORNER TABLE

At the same time Torvaldsson had found an Irish public house, where people were dancing and slapping hands loudly. The bartender looked at Torvaldsson suspiciously. »I wonder how old you are boy?« asked the bartender as Torvaldsson tried to trade his silver coin for a pint of an unfiltered wheat ale. »I’m already thirteen.« Torvaldsson lied. The bartender uttered laughter. »I bet you’re not even twelve years old, come back when you’re twelve and grown into a man in war. I don’t serve ale for under aged boys in my public house.« The bartender turned his back to Torvaldsson and started to wash a clay tankard in a dirty sink, he didn’t even notice the boy anymore. A seaman with a bushy hair rose from a nearby table. »Give a pint to the boy, he’s got silver pieces in his hand and even earrings. Boys under twelve don’t own silver pieces.« said this hair god. The bartender rose his eyebrows half unnoticing and said: »Whatever, I think it’s relatively indifferent if the boy is nine or ten, or even thirteen, but if his father comes in here, you will be responsible for him, Grim Windyhair.« Grim laughed and had a big smile on his face. Then he beckoned Torvalsson to sit at his table. The bartender gave Torvaldsson a foamy pint from the barrel draft. Torvaldsson smirked and gulped his beer like a grown man. The bartender slid boy’s silver coin from the counter on his hand. Torvaldsson sat down to Grim Windyhair’s table. At the table was sitting also Herjolf, the fifth son of the local boat maker, they were in the same crew. Grim was combing his bushy hair, it looked like a lion’s mane. Torvaldsson noticed that both men had swords sheathed at their side. Obviously they weren’t some poor seamen if they could afford valuable swords.

»Well lad, where did you stumble into this public house from?« asked Grim Windyhair. Torvaldsson slopped his beer and answered: »From Iceland. I came to get some ship ropes.« Torvaldsson wondered: How old were these men? They didn’t look very experienced seafarers, they were probably also under twenty years old. Their beards were still a bit slight and their hair line hadn’t receded yet, they were healthy and bushy. Herjolf’s hair was under a leather helmet though. Herjolf scratched his temple, it was sweaty and itchy, probably some louses there, thought Torvaldsson. »Are you all by yourself here with your silver coins?« asked Herjolf with a cracked voice, he seemed to have been silent for a while because his voice cracked that badly. All of a sudden Torvaldsson got a little scared, those men could have a hidden agenda, only a crook would ask such a question. What should he answer? »I’m not on my own, slaves of my ship are trading goods as I sit here and enjoy my ale.« said Torvaldsson with his sharp boy’s voice. Such precociousness made those young men smile. Grim Windyhair laughed and asked: »What was the war that made you a man?« Herjolf couldn’t hold back his sarcastic laughter. Torvaldsson understood that men were mocking him and was a little offended, but he answered right away. »I fought the Finnbog clan in Fjordland. I killed green-caped Varangians with my dagger.« Both young men giggled to the boy’s defiance. Grim Windyhair slapped Torvaldsson on the back so hard that Torvaldsson coughed. »Finnbog clan is like a plague. It’s a good thing if you are their enemy, then you’re a friend of ours.« said Grim Windyhair. Herjolf was a bit doubtful about the story. »I bet you got your arses whooped because Finnbog clan is still ruling Fjordland, they have been spreading out to here, Ireland, and also to Iceland. What is your family boy?» said Herjolf and coughed a large gob of mucus on the floor to get his voice smoother. The bartender remarked that: »Herjolf don’t you spit on my floor, while you aren’t the one who is going to clean it up.« Herjolf laughed sarcastic: »I’m bringing you a coffin full of silver, I can spit on your floor, your lousy public house wouldn’t make it without me. Give us pints, would you bartender.« Then Herjolf threw some silver coins on the counter. One of the coins rolled to the floor, and the bartender looked at Herjolf malevolently. He bemoaned the youngsters, who offered pints to a minor and spat on the floor, from where he, an old man, had to pick up silver coins. He knew those fellows and didn’t dare to oppose them, because they had swords sheathed on their sides and silver in their purses. Those young men were a part of a crew on a Viking ship, they were robbing the English coast and carried their silver to his public house here in Ireland.»I am the son of Torvald, and you were right, Finnbog clan won the war that made me a man.« said Torvaldsson with his sharp boy’s voice, the others started to grim again. A man, whose voice hadn’t broken yet wasn’t an extraordinary sight in this culture. Boys were full grown men already with twelve and girls were mature enough to be wed at that age. But Torvaldsson wasn’t full grown man yet. The boy might have ended up in a war or a smaller encounter by some unlucky accident. Yet that precociousness and the name Torvaldsson made others think. »Torvald the Red? Eh?« asked Herjolf and his eyes widened up, like he had woken up from a dream, scared, as he had realized he knew this red berserk.

Torvaldsson got a grip on himself, he was quite tall for his age. His hair was red and a few of the hair of his puberty moustache were reddish on his upper lip too. Grim Windyhair realized that he couldn’t swindle those silver coins from the boy after all. They had introduced themselves and Torvald had belonged to Guthrum’s old crew.

»In that case we are going to tell you a secret. We are going to rob the royal mint of Maldon.«, said Grim Windyhair. Herjolf got frightened, anxious and hit Grim with his fist on the face. »Frigging long-haired sea monkey, shut your gap!« Grim Windyhair fell down from his chair and wondered with his hair all messed up on the floor what had just happened. Grim was actually really gentle with his good character and he didn’t get upset, he realised he had said too much. »Torvaldsson come with us to Maldon. Now that you know where were going, you’re going to get there, wanted or not.«, said Grim on the floor and started to comb his bushy mane.»Stand up and drink up.« said Herjolf placatingly, he calmed down quickly although as a young man he got upset really easily too. Now it was Torvaldsson’s turn to start stuttering: »My father is waiting for me to get home.« Herjolf put gently his arm on boy’s shoulder. »You’re already thirteen, your father was an experienced berserk at your age. He doesn’t wait for you to get home, on the contrary he is waiting for the day when the sea won’t bring his prodigal son back.« Grim stood up and gulped down his pint. »Drink up and let’s head out to the sea.« said Grim Windyhair and belched at the same time having drunken down his pint too fast. Torvaldsson didn’t have any other choice than do what the others and he gulped down his second pint, although the first one had gone straight into his head.

There were several knarr and only a few drakkar boats in the harbour. One drakkar was owned by Guthrum Brewbeard and it was ready for taking off from the pier. Our happy trio had to run down the pier. The wind went through Grim Windyhair’s mane as he ran as fast as he could and started to jump and wave his hands. He yelled: »Captain! Captain! Don’t leave us!« Herjolf urged Torvaldsson to run fast and grab some rope before the ship would set off from the pier. Torvaldsson was a quick runner with his long legs and he managed to grab a rope that yanked the boy on his stomach on the pier. He schlepped to the sea hanging on the rope, water splashed on the pier and Grim’s boots as he came to the pier after Torvaldsson. Rowers on the ship noticed them and started to back the oars to turn the ship. Guthrum Brewbeard shouted with his booming voice: »Swim to the ship rats!« Brewbread was already drunk, even though the ship hadn’t even left the harbour. He was an old Viking, in other words a sea bandit, and he didn’t have time to wait for every sailor, and his main goal was to get enough brew on the ship. Torvaldsson pulled himself along the rope and got on the side of the ship, he didn’t let go of the rope. Sailors helped him over the drakkar’s gunwale. Torvaldsson was coughing up water from his lungs, he had gulped some when he had lost the tug of war with ship rowers and fallen into sea. Grim and Herjolf had to jump also into the water from the pier to get into the ship. Brewbeard growled and commanded: »Stripes for these three for getting late.« He was so drunk that he didn’t realise that only two sailors were missing and the third one wasn’t even part of the crew.

All three got stripes, nobody had the guts to tell old Brewbeard that he himself had decided to set off earlier from the harbour and he hadn’t told anyone about it. Luckily there weren’t anyone else left on the pier. Torvaldsson tried to hold back his tears as good as he could, his wounds were stinging still long after the punishment. He thought it was unreasonable, but he also knew that Torvald would only have said he had deserved a beating after drinking ale with the Vikings. Torvaldsson started first that he had become a slave on this Viking ship, he was the oldest son of Torvald and he would inherit his father’s lands. He wouldn’t need to become a Viking as usually happened to younger sons in a longhouse, they were left without anything. Why had he gone into a public house under aged, it would only lead into troubles and now he really was screwed. Rowers persevered and their sweaty backs gleamed against the sunlight, drakkar floated along the coast, and the air war so mild that sailors were without shirts. It was really rare on these Northern waters. Waves hit the gunwale lightly. The surface of the water was so bright it hurt the eyes to look and seagulls were gliding in the sky. They were screaming annoyingly all day long. Guthrum had already passed out and he was snoring in his tent. His crew was talking about this and that and Torvaldsson hung around near Grim Windyhair. Herjolf was next to him too and was spreading grease on his wounds. Herjolf started to get a bit sentimental, homesick even and said: »I have a woman in Fjordland, we haven’t gotten married yet but she was definitely knocked up when I left. I wonder if my son Bjarni has already born? Did you say Torvaldsson that you are now living in Iceland? Are the shipping markets good there?« Torvaldsson got puzzled about all the information and questions, and he wondered about shipping markets, how would this bandit benefit from them? »Finnbog clan burned down our farm and expatriated us to Iceland. My father had some silver coins left in his trunk that he had robbed with Brewbeard years ago. With the silver we got a piece of virulent and stony soil that we are now trying to cultivate.« Herjolf and Grim Windyhair uttered laughter on boy’s destiny. »Torvald should have stayed on the ship, Viking crusades have been profitable, and we have valuable swords even though we are only seventeen. Torvald could be our captain by now, now that Brewbeard is half drunk half Mad.« said Herjolf cunningly. Torvaldsson lifted his shoulders and said: »The clan of Reds is going to be even bigger than Finnbog clan, if I only get off this ship. Where the heck are you taking me to?« His head had sobered up ages ago, sometime between hanging on the rope and getting striped. »We are going to Maldon to rob the mint, don’t you remember that Torvaldsson.« said Grim Windyhair and his hair really was flowing in a current of maritime air. His hair was constantly getting into his mouth and eyes, and he had to comb them with his greasy hands.

Drakkar swung on the waves for a week before their sails reached the waters of Maldon. Brewbeard commanded men to lower the sails and row a bit further from the shore. They must not be seen from this distance yet. He didn’t have a whole fleet to command anymore, like he used to in good old days when he was young and ambitious Viking chieftain. Guthrum plucked fleas off from his beard, put them into his mouth and poured some brew after. He was a bit nervous. »Is it now clear to everyone that we attack at night and kill as many men as we can with our axes. Then we thrush ourselves through mint’s oak doors, grab silver coins into barrels and roll the barrels to the ship. Is that clear?!« Men also started to get a bit anxious and even scared. That old Viking was really defiant, could they really succeed because in these days victorious Viking crusades were starting to be part of history. Englishmen weren’t as sissy as they had used to be and they had already some Fjordland’s blood in their veins. After all, hundred years had passed after Jorvik had been founded. Well usually bare insolence was an asset to a thief.

The sun started to set, it turned into a blazing red star and finally stopped glowing. It didn’t warm up men’s back anymore, and they had to put on woollies. Torvaldsson’s own clothes were in his knarr and all he had on was a thin tunic that had dried hard from sweating. His stomach started to growl with hunger. He looked at other seamen, who curled up sleeping like dogs. A first officer commanded others to lower the anchor, and they grabbed a wooden anchor, that had large boulder as weight between the wooden arches. They threw the anchor into water with a splash, pulled the rope tight and knotted it around a pole. Drakkar was tied up firmly with ropes although it was swinging on the waves. Brewbeard walked stiffly towards his tent, he faltered out some words as an encouragement to his men on his way. He didn’t remember anyone’s name. Sometimes he tried really hard to remember some names and he called men by their names with his loud voice, but usually he used a wrong name belonging to some old shipmate who hadn’t served him for decades. Brewbeard lurched into his tent and soon all they could hear was a wheezy snoring. A mate as a highest officer stayed up and ordered younger shipmates to roll a barrel of lard to the deck for a night snack.

Torvaldsson didn’t like the smell of lard at all, didn’t they have better food here? He asked this from Grim Windyhair. Grim smiled gently and answered: »There’s nothing better than lard.« Herjolf was wondering the sour look on Torvaldsson’s face. »Lard is the best thing what a seaman can hope for, it warms you up in cold nights. And it can be preserved from a father to a son, although it can become rancid in between.« And so the men hoarded hardened lard on their fingers and licked them. Torvaldsson was wondering if this barrel of lard would be his last supper. On last supper one had to eat everything what he had gotten. He took lard on his hand and it started to melt immediately in his hot fingers. In the end it didn’t taste that bad, actually it tasted like fingers, thought Torvaldsson and sucked lard on his fingers. Sweat and dirt on his hands gave a salty taste to otherwise tasteless lard. The life of this young boy has altered and forced him to adjust. Would he ever get back to home farm from here? Timbuk and Torvald must be worried for sure, and he would surely get his arse whooped if he ever got home again. But now he was freezing his arse off.

»Grim could you lend me a woolly?« asked Torvaldsson. »Torvaldsson, the only one I have is on me, but I’ll give it to you. You have to give it back to me a few hours before sunrise, when lard won’t warm me up anymore.« said Grim. He yanked the woolly off and gave it to Torvaldsson. Torvaldsson whiffed the woolly and it smelled horrendously, it also looked like it was too small for Grim Windyhair. It fit perfectly to Torvaldsson, but the stench was really revolting. Herjolf startled: »Damn Torvaldsson! You put it on the wrong way, it means bad luck! Oh my oh my, what’s going to happen to us.« yelled Herjolf, terrified. »Spit over your shoulder and start to sing immediately a praise to Odin, otherwise we aren’t going to make it.« Herjolf stood up and started to pull Torvaldsson’s sleeve, he obviously meant what he had said. Torvaldsson was surprised how superstitious this boat maker’s son was. Did he really have to start singing, Torvaldsson couldn’t sing.

In that same instant some sailor started yelling: »Alarm, everyone hit the deck!« Herjolf looked terrified at Torvaldsson, who still had the woolly on the wrong way. Grim Windyhair grabbed his sword and watched as another ship with a black flag glided next to theirs. Unknown sailors jumped and climbed onto their ship with sabres in their mouths. Brewbeard didn’t even wake up to the ruckus. His first officer grabbed an axe and yelled alarm and attack commands into the black night. Torvaldsson had only his dagger, he was annoyed that Torvald hadn’t taught him how to become a berserk. Only berserker’s rage could save him now. Luckily it was so dark that all arrows that were shot passed him.

A big sailor raised his sabre to kill Torvaldsson, but boy’s dagger was quicker than the sabre and he managed to cut man’s thigh with it. Grim Windyhair jabbed this unlucky sea bandit with his sword in the throat and blood gushed on Torvaldsson’s face. Grim’s upper body was naked and he ran with his hair flickering in the wind towards the gunwale. Intruders keep coming over it constantly. He slashed with his sword, cutting limbs. Cries of agony filled the air and drakkar’s planks were soon slippery from the blood. Herjolf ran and slipped into a pool of blood, he fell on his back and his leather helmet fell off. He didn’t let go of his sword, but the huge intruder who was like a giant or troll from stories, raised his axe to kill Herjolf. Torvaldsson realised this was his chance to attack, he jumped on the back of this huge man and stabbed him several times with his dagger. Blood was gushing and the man screamed with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, that didn’t match his appearance at all. The giant didn’t have time to hit Herjolf with his axe. Herjolf stabbed the man in the stomach and silenced him. The giant, on whose back Torvaldsson was hanging and stabbing with his dagger, fell over and Torvaldsson hit his head against gunwale. He lost his consciousness and black night sky was covered with a light veil. The cries of pain and the clash of swords were the last thing that Torvaldsson heard, then everything went black.

FIFTH CHAPTER

DEVASTATING SORROW

In Iceland Timbuk was handing over a letter in his trembling hand to Torvald. Torvald’s eyes were bloodshot, he had cried several weeks for the loss of his son. He had experienced all kinds of misfortune and he had swallowed every piece of crap Odin had poured on him. No one could’ve thought Torvald would ever cry, but this berserk was a gentle man if one knew him better. Son’s death was too much, even for a berserk. How the hell he could survive this, better start drinking, how else could he cope with this devastating sorrow? It felt like he had lost everything, and more. What was the point of having a longhouse that had no son to inherit it. Torvald knew he had deserved every bit of this and he must face the consequences. He had killed so many fathers and sons during his wars that it had been only a question of time, when Odin would start to take something back from him. And now when that day had come, the price was higher than Torvald had ever been ready to pay. Torvald raised his watery and reddish eyes and looked at his slave Timbuk, who was still holding the letter. »Where did you lose my son!« yelled Torvald and knocked over the table, at which he had been sobbing. A pot of oak meal flung on to floor and it rolled on the floor planks. House slaves fled to the corners and even outside. It wasn’t wise to be near the old berserk, nobody knew how he would react. Would the old berserk get a fit of rage or could he keep it inside him to wait for the moment when he would have to fell into trance. By that time sorrow would be changed into strength. Anyone who knew Torvald was certain he would kill the slave, Timbuk. Torvald didn’t know anything else to do than kill. Tears started to dry in Torvald’s eyes and they had a glaze of fury instead. He grabbed Timbuk by the throat. Those frog-like eyes of the slaves bulged as he couldn’t breathe anymore. But Torvald breathed heavily and he started to lose his grip. He thought it was no use to kill a good slave. Even Torvald wasn’t that bad. If people would have known him better, they would have said that he was a conscientious and even quite nice