The United States of Vinland: The Landing (The Markland Trilogy) (18 page)

Eskil
smiled and offered his greetings, alongside Gudrid, the Godslander asking,
“Forgive me for asking, but where?”

“Lakeland,
of course...our hall and vale.”

As
they spoke, Eskil’s mind turned over with thoughts of what Faraldr had said. He
wanted very much to know the details, but there would be another time for that.

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T
he
Godsland hall was full of people, warmth, laughter and song that night.

Alfvin
spoke of what had happened at Guldale, of the meeting of the skraelings, just
as Eskil recounted the tale of Torrador deciding to go after Seta.

In
all this, the arrival of Faraldr and his people could not have been better
timed. Now, when they returned to Guldale, they could take dozens by ship,
although Eskil was determined, along with Alfvin, to see what could be done to
claim the vale without bloodshed.

Torrador
spent the rest of the day trying to follow Seta’s trail. When they had talked
the night before, the two of them side-by-side at the campfire, she spoke about
how the lands ahead, beyond the crest of the gentlest part of the slope, opened
into the first of a series of broader inland vales.

She
described how most of the valleys nursed narrow lakes that fed into each other
by way of fast flowing streams. The waters eventually joined to become a river
that flowed strongly to find the fjord even further up the channel. Another
lesser network of vales headed in the opposite direction to end near Lakeland.

He
could choose from several tracks and trails leading from the shore, but only
one looked to be wide and fit for a person, with the shrubs and trees farther
back. He stood at its beginning and looked up the green and shadowed tunnel that
stretched ahead. Compared to the others, it also had the gentlest climb.

With
a nod to himself, he started his jourey, remembering what she said about the
gentle path. Hoping for the best, he offered a prayer, “Odin, lead me to her,
to find her whole. Seta may not be of our lands, but I think she has the heart
of a Valkyrie.”

And
so he began, watching for any sign of the woman he chased.

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S
eta
walked along the jagged ridgetop, with the fjord half-a-day to her back, and
the first vale she sought ahead. She knew several spots where her extended
family had often camped in spring, so she watched for any sign that they might
be occupied before choosing which one to head down. The paths would be clear,
in places slippery with mud because of the previous night’s rain, but easy
enough.

The
vale itself was quiet, holding only the sounds of the birds and the wind
passing through the trees. Looking down on it all, she had a feeling the land
was largely empty, for she saw or smelled no telltale signs of campfire smoke.
At least, she told herself, the birdsong meant no obvious threat lurked under
the canopy spreading before her.

She
thought of Thoromr.

She
gripped the blade tightly, the iron that Torrador had given her, leaving
himself unarmed. The handle felt good in her palm. With a thought of Aris and
his murder, she hissed a curse and hoped Thoromr had died in agony, from a
wound gone bad.

Or
if not that, she might find him out here.

She
imagined how surprised he would be to run into her; how pleased with himself
that he could torment her afresh. She would let him approach, but she of course
would run from him, feigning a fall. Once on the ground, she would pretend to
be hurt and lost to cowering as he closed in on her. Then, as he reached her,
so close that neither could get away, she would plant Torrador’s iron into him.

She
smiled at the thought as she walked, beginning to stray down from the vale’s
top, towards one of her people’s favoured camping sites.

Her
smile broadened, but it was one built of dark memories and a demanding anger.
Oh yes, she would plant that iron in his belly and then watch him pull away in
horror. Once he looked at the wound she put in him, she would then kick him
down as his life began to bleed away. She would then sit astride his chest, pin
his arms down, and cut his throat.

Seta’s
knuckles showed white as she tightened her grip on Torrador’s blade.

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T
orrador
reached the crest of the ridge late in the afternoon. From there, he looked
down upon the vale opening up before him. The woods started not far down the
rocky hillside, and in the distance, the shadowed green canopy revealed
glimpses of water.

He
knew he had found the vales, but which way would Seta have travelled?

The
sun was low, soon to sink behind the snowcapped mountains farther inland. At
the same time, a wind, with a chilled edge, stirred to suggest a cool night.
Thankfully, the clouds that were scattered about did not look to be heavy with
rain or sleet.

He
contemplated what lay ahead. Seta had not mentioned much about her people’s
campsites, only giving the impression of sheltered places, by rock outcrops or
besides streams. Torrador knew he could call out to her for she might be close
enough to hear. But would she respond? She had made it plain, after all, that
she did not want him here.

Besides,
who else might hear his call?

No,
he would call when his search was at an end, when such a risk was necessary,
but not before.

He
looked about again.

Here,
unlike on the coast at Godsland, he could see down the vale and across expanses
of land beyond, more than he could cross on foot. With that land came vast
woods – no doubt more hazards – and probably many skraeling camps. Simply
looking at it made his heart sink.

How
was he to find Seta and get back to meet Eskil and Ballr in just two days?

He
did not see any sign that anyone was near, in the foreground, but in the far
distance, fully the length of the vale before him, a lone twisting column of
smoke began to rise, thin and white, probably from a cooking fire.

He
wondered if Seta had seen it?

The
smoke was too far away for her to have reached, perhaps a full day’s walk. No,
Seta would not have reached it yet, even if she had seen it and headed that
way. But it did tell him that he was not alone and that Seta had been right: He
was the stranger here, the one in danger, not her.

The
smoke also gave him an idea. He would look for a sheltered spot to camp
tonight, a place with good visibility, amongst the rocks poking through the
soil at the ridge’s crest. He would not light a fire, but instead would spend
what time he could looking around him for any sign of a nearby fire that Seta
may have either lit herself or be attracted to.

While
the light remained, he got to work looking for a suitable campsite. He would
have to sleep at some point tonight, but he would also spend a good part of the
night doing what he could to keep searching, either by walking along the crest,
or by watching over the vales for signs, smells or sounds that might giveaway a
nearby camp.

He
would find her – maybe not tonight – but he would find her and make sure she
was safe.

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S
eta
headed down into the vale, taking the easiest path. It soon followed a stream
flowing through a series of pools, stepping down to where an age of rains and
thaws revealed buried rock. The woods about her thickened the farther she went,
the sounds and smells bringing back memories. The recollections sang to her of
happier times, of laughter, of the promise of youthful love and of the warmth,
comfort and company of family.

She
stumbled over a root and fell forward.

The
fall was not drastic, but set her tumbling down the path and through leaves,
mud and shrubs. She careened into a thicket, finally stopping in a cluster of
sapling trees. She lay bruised and sore amidst the bent and broken young
trunks.

Slowly,
she sat up and gathered herself, shaking her head. Looking back up the path,
she could see where, lost in memories of play and laughter, she had tripped
over a root and then slipped on the damp earth.

She
cursed herself.

Seta
was quick to rise, but quiet as she did. She was listening to what the vale had
made of her loud tumble.

Nothing.

The
birds had been silenced by the sudden thrashing of the wood and shrubs, but
nothing else sounded or approached in answer.

Again
on her feet, she looked to the saplings, noting the tallest and thickest one.
The sapling stood askew, but unbroken.

Seta
looked about, listening again to the valley, wondering if anything or anyone
nearby had heard her fall.

Was
she in danger?

How
close were her people?

These
vales had always held several family groups who moved along them with the
seasons, ranging about to hunt.

Could
she really be alone?

She
listened again, this time holding her breath and searching for anything,
absolutely anything.

She
heard nothing, not even birdsong.

She
turned back, with a frown, toward the skewed sapling and put Torrador’s blade
to work. She cut it free and then stripped off the branches before striking off
its top, making it a stick she could use for walking. The sapling was still
green, but strong and thick. After all, she had the bruises as proof after
ending up sprawled against it.

Now,
as she continued her journey down the trail, she worked on sharpening one end.
She knew she could harden the point in fire, but she needed a safer time to try
that, not today, as sun and day waned.

The
birds restarted their song as she walked on. Memories of happier times
returned, of a larger, extended family and of other groups, again reminding her
of a life spent in this vale and the others running off it.

Until
Thrainn had burst into the hall at Lakeland, flashing the whites of his eyes,
mad with grief. He had charged in and lashed out with his cursed axe, cutting,
hacking and slashing, even killing one of his own kind. Even his own people had
not been able to comprehend the horrible, blood-drenched murder of Leif.

What
followed next in the hall had been just as harrowing.

Blood,
fury and violence were what Thrainn had delivered to her and her family.

The
memories continued to work her, like the fast, rushing flow of a thaw-filled
creek rising as melting ice dams broke, increasing the torrent, pummelling the
remaining ice, while drowning the shallows.

She
cursed at the memory.

Seta
continued down into the valley, haunted by reminiscences that more and more
drifted from childhood games in the vales to a more recent season of blood.

Lakeland,
a time of terror and violence, thankfully ended with the move to Godsland. Now
she left all of that behind and returned to the valleys of her childhood, even
if so far she had only discovered a growing sense of loneliness, as if she had
arrived after everyone had gone.

She
shook her head, cursing herself as she continued the journey.

Why
had she left Frae and her children behind?

And
what of Halla, someone she had begun to build a close friendship with, despite
how alien each had been to the other in the beginning?

And
what of the others?

She
sighed.

What
of Torrador?

What
was she doing?

She
stopped for a moment and pondered why she was here.

Why?

To
get answers and to find truths, the things needed to help her settle, one way
or another, into a new life here in the valleys, or even back at Godsland.
Perhaps even a life that might include Torrador, the man who loved her enough,
despite her icy reluctance, to break Eskil’s rules and give her his blade.

Visible
through the leaves, the sky above spread, dotted with golden clouds that glowed
as the sun sank in the west. The bright globe itself was lost to the woodlands
and no doubt, soon enough, to the mountains, as the day headed towards its end.

Seta
began to move again, realising with frustration, that she was wasting valuable
daylight. There was nothing to debate; she was now here, so she would continue
her task. Then, if there was nothing to stay for, she would return to Godsland.
She might even let Torrador into her life.

He
was a good man and she knew it.

Torrador
did not come robed with the grim memories of Thrainn and Lakeland as Ari had.
He had not been there. Although Ari and Alfvin had not been as knee-deep in
blood as Thoromr and Trion, they had both been a party to the violence. That
was what Seta had never been able to forget or come to terms with, unlike Frae,
who had found not only peace with Alfvin, but also love and security.

She
again shook her head and tried to focus on what she was doing.

Farther
ahead, not too far away, should lay some of the campsites her family had often
used. Clearings by rocks or groves, upslope from the stream before it reached
the narrow lake’s waters that marked the bottom of the vale. If she hurried she
would reach the first of those before sunset.

Beyond,
down by the lake were the larger campsites where families had often gathered.
She would see those tomorrow.

Seta
hurried on, determined to at least reach the first of the old camps.

As
she moved on, the wind increased in strength, filling the wooded vale with a
chorus of noises – the rustling of leaves, branches knocking against each
other, the groaning of boughs and trunks – making it harder to detect any approaching
people or animals.

Yet
this was what leaving Godsland and searching for what was left of her extended
family meant. She had left the sanctuary of the hall and traded it for the
possibility of finding something similar, with her family, if they still lived.

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T
orrador
found somewhere to camp, a place on the ridgetop, some large rocks standing out
amidst shrubs and stunted trees. The spot offered shelter in its nooks from the
rising wind, but would be mostly open to the rain and sleet if the weather
turned. It was not perfect, but had good visibility on its approaches. Simply,
for one night and his purposes, it would do.

Before
he settled in, he checked the surrounding area, ranging down both hillsides,
looking for any sign of resident beasts or skraelings. As the light died with
the setting sun, Torrador retreated to his camp and did what he could to make
himself safe and comfortable. He would not have a fire, but he did have a fur
to sleep under and dried fish to eat. While he chewed through his meal, he
worked at sharpening the ends of various lengths of wood he had collected from
the forest, grinding them on the rock faces that made up his meagre camp. By
the time it was fully dark, he had turned the broken branches into half-a-dozen
stakes. One of them held enough length and strength for him to keep it
separate; that would be his spear.