Paths of the Norseman Read online

  PATHS OF THE NORSEMAN

  By

  Jason Born

  Works Written by Jason Born:

  THE NORSEMAN CHRONICLES: THE NORSEMAN

  THE NORSEMAN CHRONICLES: PATHS OF THE NORSEMAN

  THE NORSEMAN CHRONICLES: NORSEMAN CHIEF

  COPYRIGHT

  PATHS OF THE NORSEMAN

  Copyright © 2012 by Jason Born

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  COVER

  WORKS BY JASON BORN

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  NORSE LANDS MAP

  PART I REVENGE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  STRAUMSFJORD MAP

  PART II EXPLORERS

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  LEIFSBUDIR MAP

  PART III ENKOODABOOAOO

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  HISTORICAL REMARKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Grandparents – thank you for living a life worth modeling

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Getting a work of fiction published involves more than just a writer writing. As such, I have some folks to thank for their partnership, expertise, and friendship.

  For the cover I again partnered with Michael Calandra in Sylvania, Ohio. With just a couple minutes of background, he works hard and accurately captures the spirit of Halldorr, the Norseman. His expertise and abilities make it so that I consider no others for painting the third cover as well. Sorry Michael, but you’ll be busy again!

  I did the work on the maps for The Norseman on my own. That was not a wise idea and so with the lesson learned I found someone with a far more practiced hand and eye than myself. Thanks to Mike Brogan for lending his electronic drawing world and bringing the lands traversed by Halldorr and his Viking pals to life. I know whenever I read a work of historical fiction, looking at the battles and villages from a bird’s eye view always helps me visualize events, large and small.

  Finally, because I so thoroughly abused my last editor with constant badgering, I had to find someone else this time. I thank Kirk Ross, himself the author of the soon-to-be-published, The Last McKenzie, for invading his writing and family time to read and punctuate my work. He did so even after I candidly admitted that I had no intention of doing the same for him, nor would he want me to.

  Thanks to you all and thank you readers for giving me another chance at storytelling!

  PROLOGUE

  Destiny must be seized, of that much I am certain; won by savage force of will and body. I had no appreciation for this when I was a youth or even a young man because my fate was thrust upon me. I undoubtedly had to exact grim force throughout my life, but the situations more often than not came to me. I did not seek them – until now.

  The treachery of which I had learned near the end of my last tale helped teach me the primal importance of yearning in action. I have said I longed for peace and quiet. I have said that I wanted a soft woman in my bed with our children scurrying about a longhouse like mice in a rich man’s granary. For a brief instant, I had the love of a woman and for an even shorter time, the flicker of an eye, had a son. They were gone, and with all the rage and sorrow in my heart, I sought one man on whom I could lay the blame for my ills. I ignored the fact that without him and his lies, I never would have known my now-dead wife. He was responsible for deaths, the deaths of Norsemen and women, and for my wrongful exile. He would die. By my hand and by the One God I swore, he would die.

  NORSE LANDS 1,000 A.D.

  PART I - Revenge!

  1,000 – 1,001 A.D.

  CHAPTER 1

  The westerly headwind into which we sailed made the going slow. Men leaned back while tugging oars with powerful arms as the blades pitched us through the waters. Their calloused hands gripped the pine handles worn smooth from countless repetitions of the same pattern. The hands dipped, the blades rose, torsos leaned forward, all to take another bite out of the sea, to propel us further west from Norway.

  Leif was at the helm pushing against the raw power of the sea with the stout rudder of his longboat Dragon Skull. I had known him for most of my life since his father, Erik, had adopted me following the murder of my own father. He had grown into a strong, wise, and moderate man from the scrawny, yet certain, youth I once knew. And I had grown to love him, doing his will – all the while believing I served myself.

  We hadn’t seen Erik, my second father, in thirteen years, not since we were banished from Greenland for the deaths of thirteen fellow Norse – ten men, two women, and one child. One year for every death, we were banished by Erik himself because he saw no other way to punish us for the killing. We didn’t kill them, of course. The skraelings did that nasty business when they attacked during our Thing, or assembly. Everyone, including Leif, was convinced that he and I had invited the attack, however, when we confronted and killed several skraeling men days before.

  For years I had suffered under the curse of a fate spun by the three norns who lived at the foot of the Yggdrasil Tree. My mother disappeared after my birth. My father, who never spoke of her, was killed when I was a child. I was exiled from the home of my second father, Erik, for crimes I didn’t commit. Freydis, my one-time betrothed, cursed me and went off to the beds of other men to spite me, groaning loudly as they plowed her like the spring soil. My one true love and wife, Kenna, died just days after giving birth to our son, little Olaf. Little Olaf died days later. Just weeks ago at the Battle of Swoldr, though, I learned that much of my fate was a consequence of a single act of treachery. At Swoldr, we fought mightily against overwhelming odds. Only three of us survived. One, Einar, fled with his family to the far reaches of Norway. The second, Olaf, former king and my third father, fled with men aboard my ship, Charging Boar, to the Holy Land. The third, I, Halldorr Olefsson, did not flee. With purpose I ran headlong into battle, toward revenge. Toward Greenland.

  When that arrow pierced Cnute’s lung on the steering deck aboard Long Serpent at Swoldr, he and I both knew he would die. Through spattering, gurgling blood and amidst the chaos of war he gave me the secret he had carried for thirteen years since he left with us on our exile. Bjarni Herjolfsson lied all those years ago. There were no other skraelings skulking about who had witnessed our first confrontation. Our Greenland settlement would have been secure had Bjarni not deepened his betrayal. But he approached the skraeling village and instructed them when and where to attack our own people. He knew we would have no weapons at the Thing, so the skraeling warriors stayed hidden amongst the rocks until the time was right and the killing harvest began. We were exiled following the attack. Bjarni simply profited, I was sure. He had been safe, fat, and warm for thirteen years. Soon he would find that he was secure no more.

  It had been six days since we left the Fjord at Agdenes in Norway and I had parted ways with King Olaf. We did not see any land in all that time and I realized that for as many years as I had been at sea, my whole life, that was the longest I had ever gone without seeing the forests or mountains or rocks that sprouted from the shores. The breeze which blew at our stern the first night of our escape quickly gave way and we rowed as I have already said. We took turns at the benches of Dragon Skull for though we were young and fit, hours of the toilsome labor at a single stretch took its toll on our shoulders and backs. Leif decided to avoid the first two stops normally made on the trip west across the Norwegian Sea. He was anxious to return to his father and mother in order show off his own family; Thorgunna, his tall, striking wife with her wheat colored hair, and Thorgils, his five year old, red-haired son. So we passed by the Norse occupied Hetland Islands and the Faeroe Islands with their scattered, celibate Irish monk communities and prolific sheep populations.

  I had just finished a turn at the oars and walked back to Leif to speak. “Despite the recent slow going, we should be at Iceland sometime tomorrow.” Thorgunna and Thorgils both slept at Leif’s feet in animal skin sacs called hudfats which were usually used to store equipment. Other women and men, including the priest King Olaf sent with us, called Torleik, were scattered about the boat sleeping on the raised deck of the prow, or in the hold, or even between the rowing benches, so we whispered.

  “We should see the shores tomorrow, but I don’t mean to come ashore.”

  “Why wouldn’t we pause?” I asked, leaning on the gunwale, listening to the light splashing of the oars.

  “Why would we?” he retorted. “We have plenty of provisions, strong backs, and good sailors.”

  He was right, of course. The only reason we had to stop in Iceland was for supplies, but since we had no need, the only rationale for the stop now would be, well, tradition. It was late in the season for our trip, so the sooner we arrived in Eriksfjord, the safer we would be from foul weather. I shrugged saying, “Sounds good.”

  The new moon came and went in the past several days and now I looked up at the sliver which grew larger by the night. Except for the rare gray-black cloud the sky was clear, which meant it was cold at this time of year. I remained silent while the men continued their grinding, grate-slap at the oars. My thirty-four year old back was sore from the rowing and so I stretched it by twisting at my waist. After a time Leif as
ked, “Why did you come back with us, Halldorr?”

  Good question. I wouldn’t answer it directly today. Leif didn’t know about Bjarni’s deceit nor my plan for revenge and wouldn’t for now. I had told Leif in the spring past that I would serve Olaf for as long as he lived. “In a way, Olaf is dead,” I said cryptically. Then I added, “At least the world thinks he is dead.”

  “Aye, there’s truth in that. Not the whole truth, I know, but you’ve decided not to share it with me. You loved the man like he was your father and he loved you like a son. You wouldn’t abandon him so readily if not for something else.”

  “I didn’t abandon him!” I answered with raised voice, anger flashing. Leif hissed slightly at my loud voice, indicating with his head that his family slept.

  Ever since I knew the man, Leif had been good at seeing truth lying in the shadows or tucked between the lies. He had become adept even at seeing the future following his sleepless night atop a barrow mound. Leif knew there would be blood at the Thing alongside Fridr Rock. He knew fate would bring me back to Greenland. Did he know that it was the chance for revenge that brought me back now?

  I continued with more control, “I didn’t abandon him, Leif. Don’t say that. I did love the man as my third father. He had no use for Berserkers any longer and what am I, if not an instrument of death?” I had been among Olaf’s most trusted bodyguards, named after the Berserkers of legends. At last, I added, “Remember I love your father, my second father, and plan on rejoicing when I see him once again.”

  “You’re right, friend. I’m sorry for suggesting you abandoned anyone. I know you are the most loyal friend, son, or husband anyone could hope to have.” The first breeze in days tussled his thick, red hair for an instant. We both involuntarily looked into the direction from which the wind had come. There was nothing to see in the black night in the open sea. “What will you do when you see Freydis?”

  Freydis? His sister, my enchantress. My once-betrothed, who now hated me for a senseless reason. The woman who found another man’s longhouse immediately after she gave up on me. The woman who I spent years pushing out of my mind and then at last succeeded when I met, loved, and married Kenna. I imagined Freydis now. I hadn’t seen her in thirteen years and so I thought of her as I had last seen her – long, fiery red hair cascading down to her rounded ample breasts with a seat to match. I thought I loved her then. The sickly-thin Kenna taught me otherwise. The brilliant, engaging, beautiful Kenna taught me that I lusted after Freydis, but never knew love with her. Kenna, who instructed me in the art of language and writing and true love, was the mother of my son, Olaf – both dead. Freydis? “I hope to ignore her.”

  That comment made Leif laugh a belly laugh. He doubled over while holding the rudder, guffawing. The men, who faced us on their benches, just looked at us in the dark with expressions of puzzlement. Tyrkr, the thrall whom Erik gifted to Leif who became the thrall who bought his own freedom using plunder from our raids, sat at the nearest bench and said in his German-accented Norse, “I hope to plow her!” Leif thought this was funny too and continued laughing. I thought it was uproarious, because it reminded me of a conversation Tyrkr and I had many years before. I joined into the laughter and soon it was like one of the evil spirits which cause sickness. Tyrkr laughed. Haki, the Scottish thrall on the bench next to Tyrkr, laughed. Soon the entire fleet of men rowing their oars laughed, though most just laughed at their comrades for they couldn’t have heard what we said. Haekja, Haki’s sister, woke up from the noise. Other women stirred. Thorgunna awoke and sat up shaking her head, feigning disgust at her husband and the rest of his men.

  The laughter slowly died away as the very first suggestion of an approaching dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, to our rear. The women on board began to awaken more thoroughly and stretch their stiff limbs. In their own ritual they went to the hold and peeled away tarpaulins to reveal bundles of salted pork and hard bread for breakfast. Several wooden dishes were unstowed and groups of men were served breakfast while the rest continued their work at the oars.

  A breeze from the fore rose again to ruffle the hairs on our heads. The true seafarers among us noted it immediately. This wind was cooler than the air around us and carried the smell of a storm, maybe the first winter storm of the season. The relatively insignificant light from our stern showed that clouds sat and swirled and billowed several miles to the west. They were low with more shades of gray and black and dark blues or violets than I am able to adequately describe.

  Tyrkr looked over his shoulder at the storm into which we rowed and said with relief, “If we pull hard, maybe we can at least put to shore on Iceland’s lee side before taking on too much of the storm.” Most of the Norse settlements of Iceland were on the more habitable and fertile western shores, but Tyrkr was proposing to land at the nearest point of land to wait out the storm. Grunts of approval from the other men and women rippled out from Tyrkr like a stone had been tossed into still water. They all knew that storms this time of year can be treacherous and last for days.

  This time, however, I had no reason for worry because fate was on my side. Months ago Leif had seen in a vision that we would return to Greenland when I thought there was no way for that to happen. I responded to Tyrkr, “We needn’t put ashore. We’ve excellent sailors on board and plenty of supplies.” Any other time I would have spoken up as to how foolish this plan was, but not today.

  Leif and I had built so much trust among these men over the years that they accepted the folly without protest. In their hearts they had to worry, but the commander’s word was final. Some even had to remember Bjarni’s fateful voyage fourteen years before where Arne the navigator was but the first to die from a terrible, early winter storm. Many more died the following days due to Bjarni’s dismal leadership. I justified my belief that such events wouldn’t occur on this voyage, because Leif saw our safe return beforehand.

  We rowed for two more hours as the day broke, but the light never came. It was gradually snuffed out by the clouds brought toward us by the quickly stiffening, sharp wind. The calm sea was transforming from a waveless platter into slowly rolling swells. Soon those swells would have caps of white tumbling down toward us. Depending on the height of the waves, five or more men would have to unfasten some of the planking from the deck, bailing water from the bilge, so now women calmly went about tying the buckets in place. Rigging was fastened and any loose items stowed.

  I had taken the rudder from Leif so he could see that the ship was adequately prepared to receive the tempest. He had Thorgils retrieve several of the men’s axes from the baggage in case the air turned cold and ice began forming on the hull or deck. The only way to clear the instantly forming ice was to hack it away. While they scurried about like rats in the bilge, I steered us so that we scaled a swell and then slid down the other side at a right angle to its path. Ahead past the dragon-headed prow, a darker mass on the horizon told me that Iceland was there receiving the storm first. Sparsely scattered snow flakes gently floated down around us to disappear into the sea.

  We had a choice to make: progress directly into the storm by moving around the island’s south side or let the island absorb some of the gale’s force and curve to the north. It sounds as if the choice were a simple one, but to those experienced in the mysteries of the sea, especially the frigid northern seas, there were other factors to consider. Our forefathers quickly learned that the southeastern coast of Iceland received a warm water current from some unknown world to the south. This current meant that there would rarely be any ice to contend with taking a southern route. The northern side of the island was filled with peril. It was early in the winter for floating ice packs, but the summer had been somewhat cool in Europe. Perhaps we would find icebergs if we went north away from the storm. One brush with an iceberg would likely mean that we would be lost. But then, as I calculated our odds, I gained confidence. I couldn’t die on this voyage, I reminded myself, the norns showed it to be so. Without consulting anyone, I turned the rudder and pointed the ship northwest.