Legend of the Mist (5 page)

“Think of Siri
. They could take Hvaleyrr next. Where would that leave Siri? The mistress-slave of some beast in Harald’s employ? Perhaps Harald himself, for she is a renowned beauty. He knows of Hvaleyrr, surely he knows of Siri, and would consider her a prize to be won. Do you really want your sister to be whore to that demon?”

Torsten’s shoulders collapsed
, and he released a sigh. He could withstand any amount of badgering, bullying and cajoling from his brother and father, but when it came to Siri he was helpless. Einarr exaggerated, of course, but there was a grain of truth to what he was saying. Harald did know of Hvaleyrr; he did know of Siri. And if it weren’t Harald that took Hvaleyrr, it could be any one of his followers in his stead.

Torsten was defeated; Einarr was right.
There was merit in showing Norway the ferocity of Alfrad Greybeard and his sons. It was a pre-emptive strike against those that would openly contest them.

“Alright,” he agreed. “But I want your word that you will stop your men from killing unnecessarily. And no women or children are to die.”

“You have my word,” Einarr promised. Then he smiled and clapped his brother on the back.

Torsten shook his head, unable to share in his brother’s enthusiasm. He wanted to believe Einarr. But a nagging feeling in his gut told him he would be proved wrong.

Four

The
two snekkja longships of Einarr’s fleet, both immaculately kept and painted in red, gold and black, slithered up the Bjarma River like silent, deadly water snakes ready to strike at their unsuspecting prey. Each snekkja carried forty-one men: forty to row and one to lead.

Standing at the helm of
the snekkja which his brother had given him to command, Torsten gazed out over the land as they passed, his face grim and his mouth set in a stony frown. The people of this peaceful place had no idea what was about to happen.

Snekkja longships were the lighter of the Norse battle ships. They were perfect for navigating fjords and deep rivers, could be beached rather than docked, and could be carried over land if necessary
. They were nothing to the dreaded drekar longships, carved with fearsome dragons and painted in bright colours to frighten their victims.

The plan which he, Einarr and a few of his other trusted raiders had devised was that
Torsten would take the two snekkjas up the Bjarma River and around the main settlement of Bjarmaland. From there they would land at the farms surrounding the northern borders of the port town, and cut south to meet up with Einarr’s main force.

Einarr’
s two drekars would be the instruments with which the raiders would strike terror into the hearts of their Ormsdalr enemies, and carried the more than two hundred men who would deliver Einarr’s idea of justice. The men under Einarr’s direct command would attack at the port, their first strike of the raid bold, brutal and swift.

They had likely already reached the docks, Torsten thought. The fight had probably already started; men were probably already dead.

When they’d gone far enough up river, Torsten pointed to a sandy bank that could accommodate the snekkjas. He waved his arm high so that the commander of the second longship would see, and then watched as his snekkja slid into the sandy bottom where the river met the land. The forty men behind him, seated on the twenty rowing benches, were tensed and ready for the attack.

Torsten felt sick as he waited for th
e second longship to pull onto the sand, and ran through the plan again in his head to distract himself. It was a simple plan, hardly needing any real, tactical leadership when one’s foes were weaponless farmers. But it would be effective. The Bjarma River was shallow, scarcely travelled by fishing vessels and trade ships. These vessels were wider, lay lower in the water, and so could not navigate the narrow river. Dagfinnr’s men would not have considered stationing guards this far into the heart of the land. They would meet little resistance on their way south.

With his ears cocked and his mouth dry,
he listened for any sounds that might indicate they had overestimated Dagfinnr. There was nothing.

And no
excuse to wait any longer. Reluctantly, Torsten tilted his head, indicating that his men should disembark, and then jumped out of the snekkja onto the sandy bank himself.

His b
ooted feet sunk into the sand with each step, and with an effortless bound he cleared the grass embankment, landing with a dull thud. His axe and sword were strapped firmly to his back, their handles ready to be retrieved the moment he encountered resistance. Looking left and right, and then behind him to ensure his men were following, Torsten trotted into the open fields which were lush and green with low-lying crops. The muted sounds of his men grunting and their feet swishing through the greenery twined with the sound of his elevated breath and his heartbeat in his ears.

The first Bjarmalander to see them was a young girl. She was dressed in her simple peasant’s
garb: a wool tunic dyed a pretty blue with a basic band of needlework decorating the hem. Her golden hair was tucked under a crisp, linen cap. In both hands she carried a wooden bucket with twigs and small branches gathered for kindling.

For several moments
she stared at the men advancing on her family’s farm, her blue eyes wide with terror. Then, dropping the bucket, she ran to the hut, shouting for her mother to come.

Their interest piqued by the young girl’s
ruckus, several of the men made for the dwelling into which she’d run, but Torsten called them back. There would be nothing of value here.

“Oh, I rather think there is,” laughed one man, and he
clutched himself between the legs in illustration.

Stopping mid-stride, Torsten rounded on the man, grabbing the collar of his leather vest. The man was heavier than Torsten, but Torsten was taller. He stared the man down, his eyes burning with loathing, and his lips curled over his teeth in a vicious snarl.

“Einarr has forbidden the women and children to be harmed, and I will uphold his command to the letter. If you rape a woman or a child, I will not wait to deliver you to my brother, I will kill you myself.”

The man glared back, but made no argument. Disgusted with the brute, Torsten shoved him away and continued running.

“It’s not worth it,” he heard another man say to the first. “After we’re done, you’ll have enough plunder to buy whatever tail can be found at port.”

“
Ja,” said a third. “And they’ll give you their pox and sores for free, too.”

Torsten did not
join the round of laughter that followed. His blood was still up over the man coming so close to disobeying Einarr’s orders. Thor’s balls,
why
had he come? He knew Einarr would not be able to enforce his command. Please the gods that he would not be a part of any raid that lead to the deaths of innocents.

In less than an hour
they had crossed the distance between their northern entry point into Bjarmaland and the port at the south. More farmers and their families ran as they encountered the Viking raiders, and as the homes closer to the town’s centre showed signs of greater affluence, Torsten could no longer prevent his men from entering and plundering for riches. It was not often that they found anything significant, but the occasional discovery of a silver goblet or a bejewelled necklace was encouragement enough for all to keep trying.

Torsten turned away from the destruction and the pillaging, listening for the sounds of
forbidden attack by his men so that he could run the blade of his sword through whatever devil had disobeyed his order.

None dared attempt it after the first confrontation.

It was not long before the evidence of the carnage upon the town became visible on the horizon. Billows of black smoke surged upwards as buildings burned to the ground. Screams echoed on the wind, and the sharp clanging of steel upon steel rang out, spurring Torsten’s men onward.

“
Faster, men,” he called to them. Reaching to his shoulders he gripped the protruding handles of his weapons and pulled them out of their sheathes in a mighty arc. His feet moved with a will of their own, covering greater distance, pounding the dirt beneath ferociously. The sound of the footsteps behind him followed suit, sending a sound like thunder up into the air to meet the battle in the distance.

Ordinary townspeople, fleeing for their lives, tore past him with whatever belongings they could carry bundled in their arms. Women tugged
the hands of their young ones, meeting Torsten’s eyes with a terror so acute it pierced his heart. He let them pass and did not look back. They would be safe. He needed to believe they would be safe.

And then his first enemy was upon him. The man, older than Torsten but not yet old, might have been one of Dagfinnr’s men, but then again he might not have been. For all Torsten knew, he might be a simple Bjarmalander trying to protect his property, his possessions, his family
from yet another raid. He charged Torsten with a brutal cry of hatred, his sword drawn and raised. In one swift motion, the man brought his ropy arm down, swinging his sword in an arc at Torsten’s head. Torsten ducked and swiped at the man with his axe.

His aim
was precise, his timing perfect. He caught the man in the chest with the blunt end of the axe, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the ground. The man stared up at Torsten, his eyes wide with fright as he watched his impending death.

Torsten raised his axe ... and caught the man in the temple with the handle, knocking him unconscious. When
the man woke, he would be nursing a mighty headache. But he would live.

Torsten
moved on. He was aware of the destruction his men caused behind him, could hear the sounds of doors breaking, and women screaming as their houses were looted and their possessions with little or no value senselessly burned. He would have stopped them,
wanted
to stop them, but could not. More men advanced on him and he had to fight for his own life. For most of them, he could not tell whether they served Dagfinnr or were mere Bjarmalanders. Nevertheless, he managed to dispose of them in the same manner as the first, slicing at a leg here, breaking an arm bone there. Killing no one.

“There you are,” said Einarr jovially when Tor
sten’s raiders finally met up with his brother’s men. He raised a powerful arm and slashed at a foe with one decisive motion. The man fell forward, blood turning the dust beneath him to mud.

Torsten tried not to see the man
, tried not to look at his face in the gruesome agony of death. He lunged at another which moved to strike him, knocking the teeth from the man’s mouth and slicing the flesh at his thigh. Then he kicked the weapon from the man’s hand.

“You are ridiculous,” Einarr
scoffed, watching the performance. But he left the man alone and attacked another, cleaving his skull open with a sickening crack.

“Must you kill every man that attacks you?” Torsten grunted as he dislocated the kneecap of the next attacker.

Einarr rolled his eyes and left his brother, moving further into the crowd of fighting men, thrusting and skewering any that opposed him.

At last the town was in ruins. The
lesser buildings had been ransacked and burned, save a few near the water that would act as the raiders’ base overnight. There, they would take stock of their victory and their plunder, and partake of a night of wine and Bjarmaland food before they set off again for Hvaleyrr. A number of the townspeople had been captured, rounded up to be sold as slaves overseas. Most were women, many attractive, and would fetch a good price on the markets. For now they were huddled together in a guarded root cellar until they could be chained and transported.

So much for making Bjarmaland their allies; Einarr and his men had decimated the town worse than Dagfinnr had in the first place. Whoever was left would hate them to their core.

With the main battle over, Torsten had time to take his own stock of the carnage that he’d shamefully been a part of. Damn Einarr, he never should have let his brother guilt him into this.

Why had he, then
? Why could he never manage to resist? One of these days he was going to say no and stick with it.

Angry with himself, h
e made his way down to the docks where Einarr’s two drekar longships were beached. The mud of the streets was a sickening dark brown where the dirt mixed with blood. It had a smell to it, a thick, foul scent that followed death but preceded decay. Torsten breathed as little as he could as he strode towards the port and onto the wooden docks.

Bending down, he dipped his hands into the
water to wash the sweat, dirt and blood from his face and hands and forearms. The water was crisp on his skin, cool and soothing to his senses. But it did nothing to soothe his conscience. Einarr was wrong: Dagfinnr’s taking of the town was not a reason to counter attack it, to burn it to the ground. The people of Bjarmaland had not deserved either raid, yet they were the ones who suffered the greatest for other men’s ambitions, for other men’s wars.

He hated the Viking way.

Perched on the balls of his feet and wiping the water from his face, Torsten rested his forearms on his knees. Glancing to his left towards the beach, he noticed a flash of colour at the water’s edge. It floated up and down gently, following the motion of the waves as they lapped at the shore.

When he realized what it was, he didn’t know whether to kill the closest man to him or vomit into the water.

Dazed, he moved closer to the burgundy cut of wool, and gazed into the blood-streaked face of a young woman. A young woman guilty of nothing but fleeing from the beasts who landed on her shores. Her blue eyes were wide open, staring but not seeing. A fatal gash was visible across her back.

Into the crook of her neck was pressed the face of a small boy no more than three years. His mother held him in her arms, cradling him to her breast as if to
protect him against the force of the weapon which threatened him. She had not succeeded. The small face was white in death, the tiny body still. Mother and son had been brutally murdered in this barbarous raid which Torsten himself had helped carry out. Horrified, he pressed his hand to his mouth. It trembled uncontrollably.

Great Odin, what had he done?