The United States of Vinland: The Landing (The Markland Trilogy) (8 page)

“They
are no threat; look at the sad bitches here. They are nothing to me, and
neither were their men, from what we saw.” He gestured to the skraelings, who
all sat cowering along the back wall.

Gudrid
bristled, and though she answered him, she kept her cool, “You were lucky, that
is all. You would be a fool to expect to be so lucky again. This is their land,
and yes, we will be taking it, but they start with the advantage.”

“They
are nothing but wretches!”

“But
they no doubt outnumber us in the hills and vales about, and they also know
what is good to eat and where best to hunt. We stand in peril, not them. We
must settle ourselves and learn how best to farm this land so it can feed us,
while also raising defences and increasing our numbers.”

“You
talk not only of a lifetime’s work, but that of my children–and their
children!” contended Thrainn.

Thoromr
frowned and shifted uncomfortably as he sat by his father’s side.

“And
that is the truth of it. We came to claim the land for Odin and his kin, and
the price was always going to be a lifetime enslaved to the task. We all knew
that. Even some of your own, such as Leif, spoke of it.”

The
Lakelanders froze at the mention of the dead man’s name, Alfvin going as far as
to wince.

Eskil
noticed the expression.

Thrainn
frowned before his eyes half-closed and he fell into a sneer. “Now the truth of
it comes; thraldom for all! And you, the witch-queen of Markland, will be the
slave master over us!”

Gasps
sounded from around the fire pit. Even the thralls shrank back, perhaps not
understanding the words spoken, but hearing the hostile edge.

Eskil
got to his feet and hissed, “Look at you, Thrainn, coming into our hall as a
guest, yet spewing nothing but evil and lies. You worried last night that we
were the returned-dead coming to deceive you, but that is a charge more fitting
for you!”

On
the other side of the fire pit, Thrainn also stood, his extra height taking him
almost half-a-head over Eskil, despite the Godslander’s own solid build. “You
defend your wife as though bewitched! How do we know she did not pull you all
from the sea as corpses and then fill you with malicious spirits? You are
gutless after being blooded not by war or battle, but by the birthing bed!”

Others
got up from the fire pit now, stepping back to keep clear of the violence sure
to come.

Eskil
shook his head. “Thrainn, after listening to your tale, I can say there is only
one person here who is possessed. You show signs of madness, have inflicted
bloody violence, and raged with a cruel lust since your landing. You! When your
ship wrecked, I bet you were at your worst, as your body clawed its way free of
the sea, powered not by the man we all knew in Iceland, but by a malevolent
shade come to wreak havoc. You stink of lies, rape, blood and murder!”

Around
the circle of faces, Eskil was not alone in noticing that Ari, one of Thrainn’s
own men, nodded.

With
a curse, Thrainn pulled his axe and bellowed as he leapt over the fire pit’s
flames, swinging for Eskil’s neck.

Eskil was
not afraid to fight, but he was no fan of needless blood. He had been preparing
himself for a confrontation with Thrainn since the big brute had begun to sow
doubts in his mind with the changing tales of the Lakelanders’ landing.

The
Godslander kicked out to knock Thrainn off balance, landing his boot on the big
man’s thigh. Eskil hit the side of his adversary's body, opposite to that
holding the axe, the brute already swinging it down.

Once
Eskil's boot connected, the Godslander threw himself out of the way, using
Thrainn’s own bulk to kick himself out of reach. He landed at the head of the
fire pit, while Thrainn turned with the impact of the kick, landing off balance
on the edge of the fire near where Eskil had earlier been sitting. The axe
sliced down harmlessly, cutting through the air.

Eskil started
his defence off good, but he needed a weapon better than his small blade. He
reached out and grabbed at a long piece of wood, a branch longer than his arm
and two-thirds aflame.

Thrainn
quickly stepped away from the fire pit’s edge, his boots uncomfortably close to
the flames. He then spun about to face his enemy, cursing under his breath,
“Gods, do not dare desert me again!”

Eskil
despised fights. For him they were the resort of animals, the desperate and
fools, but he did not fear them. Grunting dourly to himself, he went after
Thrainn, striding toward the turning giant, already swinging the burning length
of wood.

Thrainn
turned just as Eskil closed. He tried to step back to give himself space, but
with the fire pit on one side, Eskil in front, and his balance still not
settled, he could not. Cursing, he raised his axe, its previous swing spent,
and moved to get the weapon in position.

Eskil’s
burning branch, aglow in yellow and amber, came in hard from the side as it cut
through the last of the space between them, leaving a trail of smoke.

Thrainn,
unable to dodge out of the way, tried to shift the axe to deflect the blow.

Eskil let
out a roar of satisfaction as the burning timber hit the Lakelander in the side
of the head, sizzling as it did, sparks flying and flames billowing. He poured
his strength into the swing, hoping to force Thrainn to the side and into the
fire pit.

Those
around them called out.

Thrainn
realised too late that he could not avoid the blow, his reaction too slow. The
branch had already landed against the side of his head, flames flaring and
sparks flashing before his eyes. His nostrils filled with the scent of his
burning skin and singeing hair. Amidst the burst of pain, he gritted his teeth
and tightened his grip on his axe, as he went with the momentum and clumsily
leapt back across the fire pit.

He landed
again at the edge, kicking embers and burning wood across the hall, the sparks
and swirling smoke adding to the chaos. He jumped clear, one of his boots
smouldering, as he worked on gathering himself and regaining his balance.

Eskil knew
he needed to press the advantage, so he was already in the air, flying over the
fire pit, flaming branch in hand.

Thrainn
steadied and brought up his axe, ready this time. With a roar, he swung at
Eskil.

The
Godslander brought the branch up in front of him, knowing it was not enough for
either a killing blow or for deflecting the axe if it hit. But his motivation
for leaping across the fire pit was not to continue the fight, but rather to
get to the wood axe sticking in the chopping block.

Thrainn’s
axe landed, biting so closely to the branch near Eskil’s hand that Gudrid,
Halla and some of the men cried out.

But the
axe had not merely come close; it hit him, striking the edge of his hand.

Eskil
hissed but, even injured, he managed to keep the lethal weapon’s passage away
from his chest as the branch broke, sending sparks and embers flying.

Blood
began to pepper the floor in the firelight around Eskil, earning a cheer from
Thoromr and Trion, but the Godslander had already moved on. His leap meant he
also crashed into Thrainn, forcing the bigger man back a step. While Thrainn
regained his footing, Eskil grabbed the wood axe and then spun back around,
already swinging with it. As he did so, a trail of blood spots followed his
progress, dropping on the dirt floor.

Thrainn
glowered. “You bleed!”

Eskil,
coming to a halt, stood long enough in the firelight for all to see he had lost
his little finger. He clasped the axe tight, his blood running along the handle
and dripping into the dirt. “A wound, but nothing compared to your burnt and
blistered head.”

Thoromr
growled, “Finish him father!”

Thrainn
nodded and stepped forward, his own axe raised.

Gudrid
held little Ulfarr close and said, “End him like the wolf!”

Eskil
stepped forward, the two men glaring at each other and studying the other’s
wounds.

Their own
people watched in tense silence, occasionally shifting to get out of the way,
and the skraelings watched in horrid fascination. The violence of these strange
people stunned them, but at the same time, every one of them wanted Thrainn
dead.

Eskil
stepped in and lunged once, feinting a swinging with the axe.

Thrainn
stepped back, moving awkwardly on the foot wearing the smoking boot.

Eskil
feinted again, advancing on Thrainn, trying to force the Lakelander back into
the ruins of the burning branch, hoping Thrainn would be distracted enough to
provide an advantage.

Thrainn
stepped back, hissing at Eskil and his latest lunge.

He backed
into the field of smoking embers and sparks. The Lakelander did not notice them
until he stepped on a section of Eskil’s discarded branch and slipped, setting
his already-smouldering boot to smoke more.

The big
man glanced down to check his footing.

Eskil
grabbed the chance and charged in, axe up, eyeing Thrainn’s ribs.

Thrainn
reacted to the movement, bringing his own axe up and around. He cried out in a
strangled gasp of pain as Eskil’s small axe got through and briefly tasted
flesh, before the bigger axe knocked it away.

Eskil
backed up to evade Thrainn’s lethal swing.

He was
frustrated that he had gotten so close and blooded his weapon but not been able
to make the most out of the attack. But as he stood there, he noticed the dirt
under Thrainn begin to darken from the speckled blood running from the fresh
wound to his side.

Eskil
charged in again.

Grimacing,
Thrainn ignored his pain and swung wide with his axe.

Eskil
dodged the blow, but failed to land another.

Thrainn
followed through when Eskil was exposed, but luckily for the Godslander, it was
not his axe that he had let swing. A solid shove sent Eskil off balance and
wheeling, causing him to fall backwards into the dirt.

Thrainn
stepped forward, roaring, as he brought up his axe.

The giant
Lakelander loomed over Eskil, stumbling closer as blood continued to run from
his side. He glared as he looked down on him. “I will enjoy this far too much!”

Eskil took
a deep breath and tensed, ready to scramble out of the way.

Thrainn
frowned and lifted his axe high, but groaned as he did, a flow of blood raining
down onto the dirt floor.

Eskil
kicked out with his legs and struck one of Thrainn’s knees.

The
Lakelander fell back, while Eskil jumped up.

Eskil, axe
in hand, shook his head. He then shoved Thrainn over and onto his back. He was
soon astride Thrainn’s chest, his knees and legs pinning his foe’s arms and axe
to the ground. He hissed, “It did not have to be this way!”

Thrainn,
angry, his face burnt and blistered, with blood running from his nose and his
side, spat at Eskil. “A curse on you and your hall...may winter come one day and
never let go!”

Eskil
raised his axe.

Trion
watched, his eyes focused on the small wood axe. He whispered under his breath,
“How many blows?”

Eskil,
grim-faced, brought the axe down to end the matter.

Blood
sprayed up to coat Eskil, running down his neck and cheek. The wound was deep
across Thrainn’s neck, causing the Lakelander to spasm and gurgle, but that
soon ended.

Steinarr
said, “You have to remove the head in case he is draugr or some other accursed
dead.”

Eskil gave
an exhausted nod and brought the axe down again. Another blow followed,
spattering more blood over the weary Godslander, and then Thrainn’s head
finally rolled free.

It was
over.

He got up
and glanced for the first time at his missing finger, but he did not stop,
instead turning to seek out Thoromr.

Thoromr
stood still and silent, his face pale, Trion by his side.

Eskil
crossed to him, with his bloody axe in his wounded hand, held down by his side.
Behind him, surrounded by glowing embers and a circle of swirling smoke,
Thrainn’s body and head lay, as a pool of blood spread to darken the ground.

Thoromr
took a step forward to meet Eskil.

Eskil
locked his gaze onto him, Thrainn’s blood evidenced on his cheek and neck.
“Your father was possessed. It was not your fault.”

Thoromr
was pale, and started to shake his head. “He was my father.”

Trion
stood nearby, watching,

Eskil
nodded. “Choices become difficult. Kin cannot turn on their own, let alone a
son against a father, particularly when matters are blurred after a shipwreck
and so much death.”

Thoromr
stilled and then swallowed. Finally, he gave a slow nod, willing to grab at the
absolution Eskil offered.

The
Godslander continued, “We need to work together to keep ourselves safe. All of
us. It is the only way we will survive the trials of the winters to come and
any skraeling threat.”

Eskil’s
people, as well as Alfvin and Ari, nodded in agreement.

Thoromr
began to frown, an expression typical of his father’s face. “I serve Thor, it
is true, and I agreed to come west with my father in search of new lands to
devote to the creed. But after arriving and surviving its long winter, I have
come to the conclusion that this is a frigid waste of barren wilderness.” He
sneered. “And worse than that, one filled with cowards and fools who let
themselves be ruled over by...” he paused for a moment as he carefully chose his
next word, “...women!”

Gudrid
said, “We have spoken of nothing but caution and planning!”

With
words sounding like his father’s, Thoromr snapped, “You have silenced your own
men in this!”

Eskil
sighed, while beside him, Steinarr shook his head. Yet Ballr was the one to
speak. “Working together is the best way for us to survive in Markland.”