The United States of Vinland: The Landing (The Markland Trilogy) (20 page)

“If
the skraelings begin to resist and escape, as you have said they have already
done, how long until they tire of your presence, murder and mistreatment? How
long until they come seeking blood?”

Thoromr
flushed red with anger, but thought for a moment on those words. After a long
pause, one in which he dropped the two blades into the dirt at his feet, he
said, “I do not think it will be a problem.”

“What
do you mean?”

“The
sickness: Your man, Bersi, had a kind of pox, not that he was so sickly
himself, but when the thralls tending him caught it, they all came down with it
and were affected differently from him, as if it was a kind of poison.”

“What
happened?”

“Most
survived, although some carry scars, but two did die. The survivors were
terrified; that is when we had a few escapees.”

“It
is another reason for the skraelings to hate us.”

“Come
the thaw, we began sending groups out to hunt and get fresh meat. While we have
not yet ranged far, the one time they did go into the deep vales, they came
back with tales of abandoned campsites peopled only with graves and rotting
bodies. That is why I am not frightened of them; Bersi’s fever is killing and
scattering them.”

“Are
you certain?”

“Yes,
they are terrified. We cannot even get a thrall to touch Bersi now without them
crying and pissing themselves. And out there in the vales, they no longer face
us; instead, they run away.”

Faraldr
thought about that, mixing it with the knowledge of what Alfvin and Eskil had
shared with him the previous night in Godsland. He began to nod his head, as
what Thoromr
said
made some sense. There was indeed some kind of sickness travelling the vales of
Markland, but it did not seem to be affecting the Norse and was perhaps even
sourced from them.

Aldis
cleared her throat and spoke into the silence, “What of the building outside?”

Thoromr looked to her
and glanced back to Faraldr, prompting the Greenlander to introduce them, “Thoromr, this is my widowed
sister, Aldis.”

The
big man looked at her, noticing the familiar features and also her noble, if
stark, beauty. “We are preparing another hall. Your summer hall was never meant
to house so many and certainly not over winter.” With a glance to Faraldr, he
added, “Also, some of the thralls are pregnant.”

Aldis
gave a nod and smiled her thanks for the answer before surrendering the
conversation back to her brother.

Faraldr
said, “To build such a hall is a good idea, a matter made more urgent with the news
I bring.”

“And
that is?”

“I
am not merely delivering words, but also new settlers. There are five couples
here, but also some single men and women. I will be staying in Lakeland and
Godsland with them, until the end of summer, to oversee their settling-in. By
autumn, I shall leave to take some of those who have already wintered here back
to Greenland.”

“More
people are welcome in the vale, as there is much work to do.”

Faraldr
narrowed his eyes. “Yes, there is, in a vale I own. But I am not blind to the
fact that you are entitled some due for your efforts in improving the hall so
it can be used in winter and the other works you have done.”

Thoromr
lost his
relaxed manner, his jaw set as he waited for Faraldr to finish.

The
Greenlander lifted a hand and indicated those who had entered the hall with
him. “I present new settlers, all of them with tools and skills, seed and
livestock. A few even have their own thralls. They will live here on land the
both of us will agree to gift them, so that they can work it and build their
own farms next to this one.”

“They have
no need to build their own halls; they can join my own.”

“They are
my people and I am not gifting them to you, but the vale to them. They will
have their freedom, and that includes the freedom to build their own halls here
in Lakeland, on land that they own.”

“There is
not that much good land in the vale; the soil is thin and the valley narrow.”

Faraldr
ignored him and pressed on, “We will divide the vale between you and me. From
that division, we will gift land to these and future settlers, matching each
other’s losses.”

In a loud
voice, Thoromr
announced,
“You are giving me something that you plan to steal away!”

Again,
Faraldr ignored him. “In return for your agreement, the settlers here, and those
that come next year, will work to build you a grand hall of your own, to be
finished within three summers. You will receive some livestock. You will have
that, and our respect as the longest settled Norseman in all of Lakeland, a
fact we will honour.”

Thoromr
thought on
that, his face softening as he considered the offer. “How many settlers will
you bring next spring?”

“I think
it will be as many couples. Again, they will come with skills, livestock, seed
and faith in the gods of Asgard.”

“Your
offer is
almost
tempting.”

Faraldr
glanced at his sister, who gave a slight nod, the movement almost
imperceptible. He then stood, catching Thoromr off guard, but the
Greenlander did not draw a weapon or step forward to threaten. Instead, he held
out a hand to his sister, Aldis, who also rose.

Into the
quiet, as Eskil and the settlers, the thralls, and the wintered Norse who had
now returned to the hall, listened, Faraldr said, “Aside from making you one of
the wealthiest men in all of Markland, I also offer marriage to my sister.”

Aldis
smiled at Thoromr, letting her long, blonde hair and blue eyes woo him as her
smile reminded him of what he had not seen for such a long time.

A
Norsewoman.

Thoromr
sat
speechless for a moment, his mind weighing all he would be giving away: half a
valley to which he could only lay a dubious claim, and could not defend in any
case. In return, he would be a central figure in a growing settlement, one that
would generate wealth and deliver him a new hall and livestock, while he retained
land and won a Greenlandic beauty.

The offer
was so much more than his father could ever have achieved.

He
answered, “I agree.” He then smiled at Aldis, his mind racing, as he added, “I
shall do it not just for me, but for the good of Lakeland.”

Faraldr smiled.
“Then I welcome you as a brother, and remind you that you will show Aldis the
same respect you will show me and demand for yourself in our new land.”

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T
hey
planned to hold the wedding that night, after an afternoon of hurried
preparations for a feast. One of the newly arrived goats was slaughtered as a
sacrifice to the gods, and added to many other foods being prepared, most
coming from the stores of Faraldr’s ship, including smoked lamb and delicacies
such as the shark meat hakarl.

But a
wedding feast was not the only thing that needed readying.

Both the
bride and groom needed to be cleansed, as tradition demanded, though they had
to make do with what Markland had to offer for the task; a dip in the lake
their vale was named after.

After
Aldis washed in the chilled waters, with her attendants of married women drawn
from amongst the settlers, she was robed and returned to the hall to be
properly dressed and have her long blonde hair combed out.

While
Aldis and her attendants went to the hall, where the feast preparations were
also underway, Faraldr led Thoromr and the married men to the lake, where the
groom stripped and washed, as part of his own cleansing, before being given
fresh clothes. During the chilly ritual, the married men advised the young man
on how to be a good husband, a conversation he politely tolerated.

Faraldr
watched him, occasionally prodding with questions or repeating some advice. He
made it clear this was no game, but an important lesson.

Aldis
would not be ignored, taken for granted or mistreated.

Meanwhile,
Eskil, left to himself, spent time looking about the hall and its gardens,
while attempting to speak to the toiling thralls. He found Seta and Frae’s
surviving cousin and asked her if there was any message she would like passed
on. The woman, weary and worn by almost two years of harsh thraldom, was not
only stunned and suspicious of the request, but also disbelieving of what he
said about the Godsland skraelings being granted their freedom. In the end, she
feigned that she did not understand. Sadly, Eskil nodded and left her.

By late
afternoon, they were ready for the ceremony, in front of all the wintered
Greenlanders and new settlers gathered in a clearing between the birch groves
at the base of the bluff and the lake. Thoromr was almost unrecognizable in
fresh clothes. Aldis was a stunning beauty.

Faraldr
himself spoke the words, of a man and woman leaving behind their old selves and
stations to be joined in union, not only before the community they were
founding here, but for the people with which they would live.

A serving
of mead from the ship was poured into a bowl, a few drops of blood added to it
from the sacrificed goat. Faraldr dipped a bundle of fir twigs in it and then
shook the twigs, sprinkling some of the liquid over the couple and assembled
guests, thus delivering the gods’ blessings before Aldis and Thoromr both
sipped from the bowl.

Aldis
offered Thoromr an axe as a gift, and he reciprocated by giving up his own axe,
a crude thing of bog iron. She would hold it in reserve for their future son.

They then
exchanged rings, as Faraldr spoke of vows to each other, the vale and their
people here. Aldis agreed and repeated the vows, as did Thoromr, the young man
beginning to grow weary.

After the
ceremony, Thoromr led Aldis into the hall, helping her cross over his axe that
lay across the threshold, guarding the door against evil.

Once
inside, he lifted the axe and swung hard, slamming it into a supporting post,
as tradition demanded, showing how powerful a man he was, and how strong his
weapon.

Bridal ale
was then brought out, and Faraldr again led Thoromr in tradition, toasting the
gods, particularly Frey, the goddess of fertility and marriage. Then Thoromr
shared the ale with his new wife, Aldis, leaving them married and the hall
ready to feast.

Food was
served and the night became an uproar of eating, merriment and drink. Lakeland
had never experienced anything like it.

Eskil kept
out of the way during the celebrations, and while Faraldr did what was required
in the way of speeches, he found time also to talk to his own people and make
sure they would watch out for Aldis until his return in a few days, after he
had helped Eskil deal with matters in Guldale.

––––––––

I
n the
morning, before going back to his ship, Faraldr and Thoromr agreed on a plot of
land for the Lakelanders' new hall, and on several for the settlers. They
agreed to work out the division of the remainder of the vale upon the
Greenlander’s return. With that, and a heartfelt goodbye to his sister, Aldis,
Faraldr and his crew–and some of the wintered Norsemen–were keen to get away.
The ship headed back out, first to Godsland for midmorning, and then on to
Seta’s Landing and Guldale.

Torrador
came to a stop along the forest trail. Last night’s ridgetop camp and the
morning’s descent into the vale were now well at his back, as was a good part
of a day’s walk farther into the unknown.

Too
much of the day.

He
had followed a stream that often pooled and stepped down into small waterfalls
and sets of rapids meandering through the woodland. Seta had mentioned the
watercourse or one like it. On that night, as Eskil and Ballr had slept, he had
hoped she might change her mind about seeking out her people, but she had not.

He
hoped she was safe.

Torrador
tried to move quickly as he searched for her, but at the same time, he was
thorough in watching for any sign of her passing or possible danger.

Looking
up to the sky, he knew he had travelled as far as he could for the day, as the
light was beginning to fade. Tomorrow morning, at first light, he would need to
turn around and head back to the fjord if he wanted to make his late afternoon
meeting with Eskil and Ballr.

But
he still had not found Seta.

Earlier
in the day, he had found the stand of broken saplings and saw where one had
been cut and flenched. With a nod to himself, he quickly concluded it was
Seta's work and with his knife. Only a metal blade would produce such a cut,
and only one person in the vale had such a weapon. The discovery reassured him.

Yet,
despite his determined pursuit, he never got close enough to glimpse her or
even hear a hint of her presence.

As
the sky bled out the day’s light and gave into gloom, he also found his mood
sinking.

Torrador
had passed four abandoned skraeling campsites marked by cold fire pits. A few
of them hosted graves. The last one he had seen during the midafternoon held
three mounds that rose from the dirt, the soil still settling.

The
sight, for the first time, stirred his own fears, not only for Seta, but also
for her people.

For
now, with the daylight dying, he had no choice but to choose the safest camp he
could. He would listen and watch the night for any sign of her, but if he saw
or heard nothing, come dawn, he needed to turn back and march as quickly as he
could for his meeting with Eskil and Ballr.

––––––––

S
eta
awoke, quietly cursing herself for falling asleep, but it had been a long day
of walking down the vale and of checking empty camps for any sign of her
people. In all of them, she found nothing, aside from some abandoned shelters
and cold, ash-filled campfires. At one site, around noon, she also found three
graves that looked recent.

The
discovery had chilled her.

Later,
after more walking, and as the sun set, she again found a place to settle in to
ride out the dark. Tired and downspirited, she began to wonder, and not for the
first time, whether she should have stayed in Godsland.

With
Torrador.

But
then she fell asleep.

Now,
around her, the wind sang out as it passed through the tree branches above. The
night spread cold, lit by the stars and moon. It was then she realised that she
had not just woken up, but had been disturbed.

Something
was wrong.

Seta
tensed and focussed, thinking hard.

She
had heard noises, in addition to the wind, noises, with a call mixed in.

Or
had she?

Yes,
she had. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain. There had
been a yell of surprise or warning.

Tensing,
she listened for it again.

Nothing.

The
wind eased for a moment, and with it, the noise of its chorus, as it raced
through the leaves and branches above. In that pause, a distant voice sounded,
sung out to wail, full of grief

Seta
listened, not certain if it was what she had originally heard, but that did not
matter, not now.

The
voice was of a man displaying the pain of great loss.

Seta
did not know of the cause, but knew of the emotions behind it, of what powered
such a wail and cry.

The
caller had lost something very dear.

She
shivered.

Oh,
how she knew that feeling, even if she was not the kind of person, so cold and
aloof, to give it voice.

The
wind rose to bluster again, drowning out the cry with its own as it whistled
through the woods. The lament briefly repeated, rising to overwhelm the world,
before once again being taken under.

Seta
found tears in her eyes. Someone out there mourned for the very thing she was
searching for; a sense of belonging, and their family.

The
call rose again and then wavered, growing weak.

In
the distance, a wolf lifted its own voice in ominous answer.

She
began to stir, rising from her hiding place. With a pat to her side, she
checked that Torrador’s iron was at hand.

She
would go and investigate. She had to. She knew the person who owned that voice
could give her the answers she needed, even if on this very night, he was
losing the same thing for which she searched.

––––––––

T
orrador
had dozed off at one point, but had been awakened by the wind. What had been a
rising breeze now blustered, occasionally as strong as a gale, while also
breaking to unexpectedly gift the night’s rare moments of peace. During those
quiet times, the land spread, illuminated by the moon, a silver world of calm
respite, but also poised, as if waiting for grave matters to unfold.

Torrador
marvelled at the sight, but also grew tense.

In
the distance, soft but unmistakeable, a voice cried out, a long and forsaken
cry, one of loss and grief. The voice came from a man.

The
Norseman's first thought was of gratitude to Odin that it was not Seta’s, but
something in the cry told him it came from a skraeling throat. These were
Seta’s valleys, and that meant the man out there was not just a skraeling, but
perhaps her kin.

Torrador
shrugged off the need for sleep and rose, grabbing a wooden stake to stick into
his belt and picking up his spear.

––––––––

S
eta
held her spear tight as she moved down the path. The night spread deep, but
moonlight played through enough of the woodland, over the stream, allowing her
to see. She walked into a swirling breeze, the wind carrying the mourning call
down the vale to her, along with the smell of a campfire’s smoke. She made good
progress, trying not to take any careless risks, as she could not afford to
fall and injure herself when the answers lay so close.

The
cry continued on, coming loud and long.

She
had camped close to where it came from, perhaps only a few hundred paces,
around a bend in the valley.

Another
sound arose close by, but not of the wind, though it also howled. Rising clear,
to cut through the night’s chorus, pierced the call of a wolf.

She
hurried on.

––––––––

T
orrador
followed the path running beside the stream, only detouring where the trail
swung upslope as it meandered around pools, rocks or thickets. He took the time
to pause when the wind quietened, listening to check for the call, also making
certain nothing stalked him as he passed through the woods. On his first stop,
he could still hear the call. On his second, a good while later, he heard a
different call that chilled his blood – a wolf’s howl.

With
a frown, he gripped his spear tight and continued.

––––––––

S
eta
went on, closing on the mourning voice. The call persisted, breaking only
occasionally, as it sang out and into the night. She followed a bend in the
stream, coming around to spot the glow of a campfire ahead. The flames were not
yet visible, but they illuminated the trees, shrubs and rocks crowding about
the rugged landscape that nursed the clearing.

The
snap and growl of a wolf cut through the gloom. The beast sounded nearby, and
unlike the tales she had heard of the old wolf in Godsland, she knew this one
was not likely to be alone. The mourning cry itself suggested death, and the
pack would have caught the scent of it in the wind–if they were not the cause.

Seta
worried; previously wolves had rarely come so far into the vales. She knew
continuing on might be the last thing she would ever do, but she needed
answers.

Where
were her people?

Seta
tightened her grip on Torrador’s blade, the handle reassuring in her hand. She
grasped her spear tightly in her other hand, knowing if it came to fighting or
defending herself, the spear was better, since it would keep both wolf and man
at a distance.

Determined,
she closed on the distant campfire.

––––––––

T
orrador
knew his actions were foolhardy and quite likely doomed, but he was committed
to it, and so he continued. He constantly listened to the forest for clues of
what might lay ahead–or behind–while his eyes searched the moonlit path for
anything useful.

Whenever
the wind stilled and the silence settled, even if only for a heartbeat, he
would stop and listen. Such breaks confirmed the direction of the mourning
voice and, that he was nearing it, just like the wolf.

He
continued onward.

––––––––

S
eta
rounded the bend in the vale and could finally see the fire’s flames ahead.
Relief flooded her, doubling when she saw a small encampment of her people’s
shelters, though they looked tired, with one leaning precariously.

At
the centre of the camp, the fire blazed unexpectedly bright. A man stood beside
it, with his back to Seta, holding a burning brand in one hand and a spear in
the other, tense and ready, as he peered into the woods.

He
watched for the wolves.

A
twig snapped near Seta, breaking uphill of the path and well to side. She
turned in time to hear a rising snarl, and the rush of movement, as a beast,
seemingly built of fangs and shadow, launched itself through the air at her.

She
stumbled back a step in surprise, one of her feet slipping out from under her
in mud, dropping her to a knee. The clumsy move startled her almost as much as
the sudden attack. But it also put her temporarily out of reach of the wolf, as
the beast flew through the night, aiming to land on the path where she would
have been if she had taken another step forward.

Seta
cursed, but worked to right her balance.

Seta
brought the spear up and swung it around. The angles were all wrong, so she was
not in a position to stab the animal with the makeshift weapon. Instead, she
brought it about, fast and hard, trying to club the beast and stun it. As she
poured her strength into the swing, she let out her own growl.

She
needed some luck, or she would never see her twins again or get her answers.

The
blow hit the wolf across the back of the skull with a loud crack, coming hard
enough to throw the beast off balance as it landed. The wolf rammed face first
into the dirt, one of its shoulders also hitting the ground. Carried by its
momentum, the beast tumbled over itself to roll down the slope towards the
stream.

Seta
sprang to her feet and raced for the campfire. She heard the wolf crash into
the water behind her.

Other
snaps and snarls arose from the woods around her.

She
was not far from the camp now, so she sprinted straight down the winding path,
past trees, shrubs and rocks, her spear out on one side, blade on the other.

She
would soon reach the safety of the fire and her own people.

Step
after step, she closed the distance, the flames not just a beacon of light and
warmth, but a weapon against the dangers hidden by the night.

Just
before she reached the clearing, her eyes fixed on the back of the man, who
continued to face off against something in the woods on the other side. He
seemed exhausted, his shoulders slumped, his back exposed by torn furs and
marked by bloody rakes from a previous fight. Grey streaked his dark hair,
marking him as an older man, as weary as his fading, mournful cries that now
only came as a whisper.

The
treeline in front of him erupted; a fierce growl accompanying the flash of
claws and teeth as a wolf launched itself at the man.

Seta
hissed in anger as fate tried to steal him, and the answers he might have, away
from her.

The
wolf leapt for his throat, claws ready to tear him up at the same time it
sought to knock him down. As the wolf reached him, his spear was knocked aside,
but he managed to bring the burning brand up between the wolf’s maw and his
throat. It was not enough. He took the hit of the beast’s weight and began to
fall backwards.

As
Seta charged into the clearing, she could see some of what had happened to
throw the man into grief: Two bodies, one a young man, and the other a little
girl, both with gruesome wounds, were scattered about the fire. The girl looked
like she had been sleeping and still lay half wrapped in furs. A dead wolf lay
near a corner of the slumping shelter made of skins and branches.

The
man went down under the wolf’s weight, but the old skraeling managed to keep
the beast’s teeth at bay with the length of the brand.

The
wolf easily avoided the sputtering flames at one end of the brand. The hungry
beast knew the man was drained of strength and was beaten, as it raked his
chest with its claws and reached forward, trying to lock its jaws onto his
throat.

Seta
threw herself at man and wolf, casting the spear’s length impulsively across
the wolf’s face. She hit it hard over the nose, distracting it, the beast
ducking its head back.

The
move spared the man another snarling attempt by the wolf to rip out his throat.
But only briefly.

Seta
tightened her grip on Torrador’s blade and jumped straight over the man’s head
to get behind the stunned wolf. She spun about, grabbed a handful of the wild
animal’s hair and skin at the back of its neck and jerked it hard, while
leaning in to use her weight to pin it down.