Runestone (13 page)

O
din was assaulted with many mixed feelings. He led the way down the dim game trail, dodging low-hanging branches and brambles. Behind him, the two Norsemen followed closely. It had taken only moments to gather their pitifully few possessions and leave the hiding place that had sheltered them for a day. They must be far away by dawn.

Why am I doing this?
the Skraeling wondered to himself. It would have been easier to leave the two whose lots had fallen with his. Their presence would probably make it more difficult to survive. He could not answer the reasons for his action, only that it seemed to be something he was compelled to do.

He had first sought the help of the Norsemen at their walled village because he was being pursued. Chased by these same enemies who had kept him prisoner and had blinded one of his eyes with a burning stick to teach him obedience after he tried to escape.

His second escape attempt had been successful, and that was good. He had no more eyes to spare if it had not been. His strategy had been to flee in the opposite direction from that which his captors would expect. Downstream, away from his own people. This had confused his pursuers, but not for long. Not long enough to lose them. He stole a boat and headed out into the sound, knowing that they could overtake him, with two paddlers to each craft instead of only one.

But then another idea had come to him. He was headed in the general direction of the settlement of the outsiders. He knew nothing of them, except by hearsay. Some were said to have white hair and light-colored eyes like those of old persons, though many could see quite well and appeared young. They might be dangerous, but so were the men who followed
him, those who gouged out eyes as punishment. It would be no worse, to throw himself on the mercy of these light-haired strangers, rather than be caught.

And so he had made his way to the village of the Norsemen. Just in time, too. His pursuers were close behind when he reached the stockade. He had never been completely certain why the Norsemen let him in. Maybe it had been only idle curiosity. Whatever the reason, it was a fortunate thing. His erstwhile captors quickly decided that further efforts to recapture the escapee were useless. They disappeared, back the way they had come.

He had tried to make himself useful around the compound in any way he could. It was apparent that to many, even to those who availed themselves of his help with small chores, he was a lesser person. A nonperson, almost. He was called Odin, which he had not understood until recently. It was only a name, one to which he answered quickly to appear helpful and cooperative. It was in his best interest to do so. If these people shut him out, he was alone and virtually helpless again, separated from his people by distance and by the barrier posed by his enemies.

He longed to find a way to return home, but that could wait. The time must be right. Meanwhile, he had settled into a sort of temporary existence at Straumfjord, helping with menial tasks and keeping himself as unobtrusive as possible. He learned the strange tongue of the outsiders quickly. He had always been quick with languages, and this stood him in good stead. He pretended to understand less than he actually did. There was no special reason, except that it provided him a small bit of control over his life that he did not have otherwise. It also enabled him to learn more. People would carry on a conversation in his presence as if he were invisible. A nonperson…

When the young leader Thorsson had come to the settlement, Odin had seen an opportunity. A double chance, as it were. Here was a man who was sensitive and perceptive. In age, not much different than Odin. A bit younger, maybe, but his immaturity seemed tempered with tolerance and understanding.

Even better, the two ships of the newcomers were headed
inland. It was a way past the dangers of his previous captors, back to his own people.

The decision to hide in one of the ships had been carefully considered. Odin compared his impressions of the two leaders. The one was dominant, bold, and had a charisma about him that would make his warriors follow him anywhere, no matter what the danger. But that one also seemed impulsive. Maybe a little dangerous, even. He considered the leader of the other ship by comparison.

This one, whom he now knew as Thorsson, had come to talk to him back at Straumfjord. He had talked to him as a man, not as something lesser. Thorsson would not be as showy a leader, not as dynamic, but he seemed more thoughtful. Steady. Yes, that was it. In an emergency the decisions of this one would be calm and sensible. Besides, he seemed less impulsive, less dangerous. Yes, Odin decided, he would hide in the ship of this one.

For a little while, when the stowaway was discovered, he had thought that it was over. He did not quite understand the anger and the threats that came pouring on his head. Was there something that he had missed?

But things had quieted. Odin was glad, of course, that he had chosen the ship of the more quiet and sensitive of the Norse leaders on which to hide. Had he been on the other, his flesh might already be feeding the fishes.

Which, of course, might yet happen. Things had gone from bad to worse, and then worse again. The burning of both ships … ah, that was too bad. Thorsson had not fully realized, maybe, the warlike nature of the enemy. Or their persistence. Odin could have told him. But no, Thorsson would probably not have understood. Some things must be learned by experience. Hopefully, that experience would allow for one’s survival, so that it would be useful. Experience gained at the cost of one’s life is certainly worthless, at least to that one.

Odin pushed on through the night, trying to put distance between the three fugitives and their pursuers. He was still not certain why he was risking his own life to try to save these two. Maybe just because he was stubborn, himself. But he had
liked
these men. The young leader would be great some day, if he survived, as he gained maturity. Odin felt a sort of responsibility
for him, to bring him along with gentle help, seeing that he was properly guided.

It was a strange feeling, one he could not have described. Like the thing of the sun-stone, for instance. That was obviously a very special object, yet Thorsson, with much else on his mind, had forgotten it. Thorsson
needed
someone to think of and take care of such things, and Odin had done so.

The other man, Svenson, was one whom Odin had respected, too. Here was a quiet man who did what was needed, with strength and skill. A steady, dependable warrior, Odin thought.

There was one thing about this one that was quite striking, though. His hair. The Skraeling had become accustomed to the wide variety of colors found in the hair of these Norsemen. Many were almost white, as he had heard. But from there, the colors ranged through all shades of yellow and brown or black, sometimes. Some even showed highlights of red, but never had Odin seen such a head of hair as that on the Svenson man. Svenson’s hair, by contrast to the bright yellow of Thorsson’s, was fiery red, redder than the reddest fox or even the noisy red squirrels in the trees. In the sunlight, flames seemed to circle the man’s head. At least, so it seemed to Odin. He had seen many things that were new and strange since he had been with the Norsemen, but this may have been the strangest of all. Except for the sun-stone, of course. That, thought Odin, was like a thing of the spirit. A stone that knew the direction of north!

He paused, about to take the next step, startled by a noise in the bushes.
I must be more careful
, he thought. He was annoyed at himself for having been lost in thought instead of paying attention to the possible dangers in the night. Such carelessness could get them all killed. Some small animal scurried away, a rabbit or a fox, maybe. Odin relaxed.

“What is it?” whispered Thorsson.

“Nothing. Some small creature. It is gone. Come, we must go on.”

He was concerned that even at their best pace, the three were traveling ever so much more slowly than their pursuers could.

“Could we find a boat?” asked Thorsson.

Odin was startled for a moment. He had been thinking the same thing. This yellow-hair was quite perceptive, and that was good. Maybe these two were well worth helping. He would like to take them back to his people, to show the Norsemen where he had grown up. Also to show them off to his people, maybe brag a little, exchange some stories. It would greatly expand his prestige.

He paused, both in his thought and his stride. An idea…Yes, of course! Those who sought to kill them would expect the surviving Norsemen to try to return to the village on the sea. They would probably be unaware that a Skraeling was helping them. Yes, it had worked for him before! When he escaped, he had headed in the opposite direction from the one they expected. And he had succeeded. True, they had discovered the ruse, and had come after him again, but it had given him time. Time and distance.

Now here was a similar situation, though in reverse. The enemy expected the fugitives to flee downstream, and that was what they were doing. In the morning, the trackers would be hot on their trail. But why not double back? Confuse the trail, gain a little time to travel upstream, and try to rejoin his own people. True, it was not the direction that the Norsemen would wish. But, from the safety of Odin’s own tribe, they could then plan their return to the Norse settlement.

“What is it?” Thorsson asked again, more impatiently this time.

“It is a plan, Thorsson. Until now we are just running, but I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

“I will tell you later. For now, we go on as we are. But let us leave a plainer trail.”

“Leave a
trail
’?”

“Yes. To confuse them.”

“It confuses
me!”
the Norseman protested.

“I know. We will double back later … try to lose them.”

“But, I…”

“I will tell you, Thorsson, later, when we have time. But for now, we must keep moving. And leave a trail.”

Odin reached out to break a twig that protruded in front of him. He almost chuckled at the consternation he hoped that this plan would bring to the enemy trackers.

S
hortly after daylight they came to a small stream. It was little more than a rivulet that came trickling down the rocky hillside to tumble into the fjord below. But the Skraeling seemed pleased. He halted the others at the point where the path crossed the flow of water.

“Let us wait a little,” he suggested, “for more light.”

Nils did not understand, but was willing to stop. Even though he had considered himself in moderately good physical condition, he was nearing exhaustion. Svenson, too, was showing the effects of the past two days and nights. Nils looked at Odin with a new respect. When he had first seen the one-eyed Skraeling, his impression was of a ragged wastrel, a savage. He had assumed that the man had attached himself to the Norse settlement because he was unable to function on his own. That was a life of comparative ease for the Skraeling, doing menial tasks in return for the opportunity to beg from the settlers.

Only now had Nils begun to see how wrong he had been. This was no ignorant beggar, but a clever and inventive man. The Skraeling was much younger than Nils’s original impression had told him, and far more intelligent. Odin was largely responsible for keeping them alive thus far.

The sun’s rays were striking through the trees now, and scraps of scattered fog hung in the low places. It would have been a fine morning under other circumstances. Birds sang in the trees, and there was little in the beauty of the rocky fjord
that told of the imminent danger that stalked the three fugitives.

“Now I will tell you,” Odin began. “First, they will think we mean to return to your town.”

“But we do!” Nils protested.

“Yes, it is so. And they can easily follow us, because they know that. But what if we go the other way, upstream, to confuse them?”

Nils frowned. “And be farther from where we want to be?”

“At first, yes. With
my
people. We will be safe, and when the time is right, we will bring you back to the village of your people. Down the river, in boats. But first, we must escape those who follow us.”

“How do you know we are followed?” asked Nils.

The Skraeling chuckled. “I
know
. Besides, they found our boat. They chopped it.”

“So, what is next?” demanded Nils, not quite convinced.

“I will show you. Watch what I do.”

Odin walked to the stream, and carefully planted his foot so that it was mostly on a flat rock at the edge of the rivulet. But the toe of his moccasin protruded, and as he stepped forward, it touched the mud, leaving a partial track.

“You do not need to do that,” Odin said. “One is enough for them to find. But now, see what I do.”

The Skraeling stepped into the water and out onto the other bank, striding confidently down the trail a few paces. There the dim path seemed to disappear among a heavy growth of ferns, shrubs, and grasses. Nils knew that somewhere beyond, the trail would reappear, but what?