Runestone (10 page)

Around a shoulder of the shoreline, from out of sight, came two of the Skraelings’ skin boats, each with three or four warriors. As they watched, there appeared a third, then another, and more and more.

“Hurry up,” called Helge. “Prepare to cast off!”

Men stumbled up the plank, helping wounded, carrying dead.

“Bowmen!” Landsverk barked, “Be ready!”

Archers scrambled to the rail to be ready for the boats as they drifted past. Just as the first of the boats drew within range, there was a yell from shore. In a new attack, warriors pressed forward, pausing to loose arrows as they advanced. Then came a shower of arrows from the advancing boats. The last men were straggling up the plank now. Landsverk stood at the rail, watching the Skraelings run across the clearing, oblivious to the arrows buzzing past him.

“Come on, come on,” he kept saying to the stragglers.

“For God’s sake, Helge, get down,” Nils yelled at him.

Just then Helge Landsverk straightened to his full height, spread his arms wide, and fell backward into the belly of the ship. Nils scrambled to look down. His friend stared back at him with a startled look of openmouthed wonder, through eyes that would never see again. An arrow’s feathered end protruded from the base of his throat.

Nils’s first impulse was to go to him, but he quickly realized that it would be useless. It took a moment longer to realize that he, Nils Thorsson, was now in command.

“Cast off!” he yelled. “To the oars!”

Slowly and clumsily, the ship began to swing into the open, as the few remaining oarsmen bent to the task. A handful of bowmen continued to return the hail of arrows that fell on the
Norsemaiden
, both from the boats and the shore. Nils saw one bowman drop his weapon and turn, grasping at his face, where
the shaft of an arrow protruded between his clutching fingers. The man spun half around, and fell backward over the ship’s side into the water.

He looked upstream again. More boats were still coming. Dozens, maybe hundreds, he thought. They
must
get the ship moving.

“Raise the sail!”

While sailors were trying to release the ties on the furled sail amid a swarm of arrows, a new danger threatened. An arrow thudded into the short foredeck, burning fiercely. Some sort of pitch or other inflammable material had been used to create a firebrand. It blazed and sputtered, melting and spreading on the planks of the deck, flames creeping outward. Nils yanked the shaft loose and threw it overboard, stamping out the blazing pitch. Another firebrand arched through the air and landed on the deck, and another in the hold. An oarsman jumped down to beat out the flames.

There were more thuds on the outside of the
Norse-maiden’s
hull. Curls of dark smoke indicated that the outside of the ship was in danger of burning, too.

“Get the sail up!” Nils yelled.

The oarsmen were beginning to fall into cadence now, but they needed the greater speed that the sail would afford to escape the swarm of boats that circled them. With agonizing slowness, the great sail rose and filled. The
Norsemaiden
creaked as she leaped forward in response. The steersman pulled her around toward the open water. Her prow sheared through the clutter of Skraeling boats that snapped at her flanks, and she broke free, still burning at a dozen places.

“Ropes and buckets!” called Nils as the Skraelings fell behind. “Stop the fires!”

They had headed downstream and across the lakelike body of water. This had allowed the most favorable wind for use of the sail. The steersmen kept their course down the middle of the channel, but there seemed to be no further pursuit. The oarsmen, now no longer needed, scrambled to help with the buckets. One by one the fires were drenched. The last one, below the curve of the stern, had burned nearly through the planking before it was discovered. The
Norsemaiden
would never be seaworthy again without major repair, even if they could get her back over the rapids.

At least, Nils thought, we have the
Snowbird
. He could bring the survivors home, perhaps less than half those who had sailed from Stadt so confidently, many months before. He must take stock of casualties now, and assume the duties of commander.

One thing was certain. The expedition was over, and they were going home. They had failed.

N
ils gathered the survivors on the shore beside the scorched and blistered
Norsemaiden
. There had been time, on the voyage back down the lake, to think about their predicament. He had begun to formulate a plan.

Now he paused to take a final count. Including the three men now left to guard the
Snowbird
, there were twenty-three, plus the crippled Rafn and the one-eyed Skraeling, who were of no practical use on the ship. There were not enough to man the oars in a thoroughly efficient manner, but they could get by. And of course, it might be possible, once they had managed to reach Straumfjord, to recruit a few crewmen.

He had mourned the loss of his friend Helge, silently, deeply, and personally. Even though in recent days Helge Landsverk had exhibited symptoms of irrational behavior, he was a friend. Nils kept thinking of him, not as he led the raid against the Skraeling boatmen, but as his childhood playmate. In his mind’s eye, he could see the wide boyish grin, the mischief in the eager dark blue eyes. Eager, yes, that was it. Helge
was a man who had always been eager for adventure, for new experience. He had been so until the last day of his life, when he had died directing the battle to save his crew and his ship.

What a responsibility, to fill the shoes of such a man. Nils was appalled by the enormity of the task. First, a decent burial for his friend. Then somehow, he must take the survivors home.

One thing was certain. They did not have the manpower left, at only a third of their original strength, to move the
Norsemaiden
around the rapids again. That thought had led him to the other part of his plan. They actually were ill prepared to bury their dead, even with many of the bodies missing. To dig decent graves for just the bodies on board the
Norsemaiden
would be a huge task for the two dozen men available.

There seemed a logical answer, then, for a useless ship and the burial problem that faced them. Why not combine these given factors to their advantage? They could stage a ceremonial honor for the dead, burning the ship as a funeral pyre. It had been a common thing a generation ago, to honor a dead chieftain in this way. As he thought about it, Nils came to the conclusion that Helge Landsverk would have relished this sort of departure. Yes, it was good.

“Tomorrow,” he told his assembled crew, “we will burn the
Norsemaiden
as a funeral pyre to honor Viking dead. Then we will sail home on the
Snowbird
,”

There were nods of approval.

“Then let us move all the cargo we can down to the other ship. And, on the return, carry brush and dead wood back to the
Norsemaiden
,”

The crews turned to. Bodies of the dead were arranged properly on the foredeck. Everything useful that could be moved from the hold was brought out and taken ashore. There, the sacks, barrels, and bales were picked up by others and carried down the trail to stow in the belly of the other ship. As the
Norsemaiden
was emptied of cargo, her hold was filled with inflammable material, sticks, brush, and branches.

Odin joined the others at the task of carrying cargo. He seemed uncertain as to the purpose of all this, but willing to help. Once, as he passed Nils, he paused a moment.

“Why do we do this, Thorsson?”

“The supplies?”

“No, the dead.”

“When we burn the ship with the dead on board, it is a way to honor them.”

Odin’s one eye widened. He still appeared puzzled.

“This is your way?”

“Yes, an old way of our people.”

“It must take many ships, to carry your dead to the Other Side.”

“It is not always done, Odin. Usually just for chiefs.”

Odin nodded, understanding.

“So now, you honor your chief.”

“Yes.”

Odin nodded.

“He was a brave man,” he observed. “A little crazy, but a brave man. I will honor him.”

Now the Skraeling really began to work with a will. He brought logs and brush to help fill the hold, carried cargo, and more fuel on the return trip.

The work went well. The men moved up and down the trail, between the boats, like a caravan of ants, marching busily in single file. Nils began to see that they would complete the work by early afternoon. It would be well to proceed with the funeral, and be done with it. If they could sail some distance downstream with the
Snowbird
by nightfall, so much the better.

The crews reassembled on the bank, and Nils and Svenson prepared to board the
Norsemaiden
. The captured skin boat would be towed behind to allow them to return to shore.

“Odin, you come,” Nils commanded. “You can row the little boat back for us.”

The Skraeling nodded and trotted up the plank ahead of them. The three pulled the plank aboard and cast loose the lines.

Rowing the
Norsemaiden
would be out of the question.
They must unfurl the sail and catch the brisk breeze that was in evidence. Nils and Svenson estimated the angle and trimmed the boom, tying the sheets fast. Then they loosened the ties and began to unfurl the sail. As they tied off the lines and the
Norsemaiden
swung away from her last mooring, Svenson moved aft to his steering oar. He brought the ship about and headed her up the lake while Nils dropped below, taking a small pot of coals from the fire on shore.

As he poured the coals out and began to add tinder and small sticks, he heard chanting above. Flames began to lick at the fuel he was adding, and Nils tossed brush and more sticks from the waiting supply. His eyes watered as smoke began to fill the ship, and he quickly climbed out, beginning to cough even as he did so.

Svenson was tying his steering oar in place to keep the ship on her course. The singing or chanting continued, and Nils turned to see the Skraeling standing in the bow among the dead. Odin’s arms were raised over his head as he sang, a sad, emotional dirge that could be nothing but a song of mourning in the tongue of his people. He was honoring the dead in his own way.

But now, flames were licking hungrily through the branches in the hold, leaping upward, fanning themselves as they grew.

Nils could feel the heat from below.

“Odin! Come on!” Nils beckoned.

The three men quickly assembled at the side and slid over into the skin boat. Odin took his paddle and Sven cut the craft loose from the ship. They sat for a moment, watching the ship draw away. Smoke poured from her hold, growing thicker as the larger timbers and then the ship itself began to burn. They watched, fascinated, as the dying
Norsemaiden
ran with the wind, carrying her cargo of dead toward their final reward, retreating into the distance.

There was an exclamation from Odin, and they turned to see him pointing downstream. Nils’s first reaction was that of surprise at the distance they had come. He could barely see the crew on shore. More important, however, was the sight at which Odin was pointing. A gray plume of smoke rose from
behind the trees, beyond the Talking Water. It greatly resembled the plume that retreated in the other direction.

“The ship!” Svenson exclaimed.

“Odin, get us back there!” Nils ordered.

“No, Thorsson, they would kill us.”

“Damn your soul, I will kill you myself if you don’t!” Nils snapped.

The Skraeling looked at him with calm resolve.

“There is another way around the Talking Water.”

“Then take us there!”

Odin picked up his paddle and began to propel the craft downstream, working across the current, heading for the other side. It was too far to clearly see the crew waiting at the landing. Nils could not be certain whether they could see the smoke or not, from where they waited. If not, they soon would know. Just now, however, he felt that he needed to determine the fate of the
Snowbird
.

After what seemed an eternity, the little boat grounded on the other shore, and the three leaped out. Odin dragged the boat ashore and expertly flipped it over, pulling a leafy branch across it for partial concealment. He beckoned, and plunged into the forest along a little-used game trail.

They burst into the open below the rapids a little later, panting from exertion. Odin pointed. There in the distance against the other shore lay the
Snowbird
. She was dead in the water, burning fiercely along the entire length of her hull. Nils wondered for a moment what had become of the few men on board. For only a moment, of course. It was quickly apparent that they were either dead on board the burning ship, or had attempted to go ashore, where they would have met the attackers. Yes, beyond a doubt, they were dead.

Of the others, he was not so certain. It was possible that they had managed to mount a defense. Possible, even, that the survivors would scatter in the woods, some of them escaping. He felt an urgency to find out, to rejoin them, make plans, to find a way to survive.