The Saga of the Lost
PROLOGUE i
Excerpt from the Saga of the Greenlanders
Now began people again to talk about expeditions to Vinland, for voyages thereto appeared both profitable and honourable. Then it was that two brothers, Helgi and Finnbogi from Iceland, arrived on the shores of Greenland. Freydis sister of Leif Ericson and daughter of Eric the Red, approached the brothers and proposed a voyage to Vinland and to split the profits in half. The two agreed, and Freydis and the brothers set sail in two boats, each carrying 30 men and as many women. The voyage was ill-fated, beset by argument before it had set out. And the brothers sailed ahead of Freydis in an attempt to reach land first. But as their ship neared Vinland, a mighty storm arose, and the brothersâ boat was blown to sea, never to be seen again.
Bjorn sat and sharpened his axe slowly, carefully examining the dense forest that surrounded the little Norse village for the men he knew were watching. The whet stone made a soft rasp as he circled it back and forth on the nicked steel as the sun fell below the horizon, and the cold began to set in. He pulled his thick woolen cloak tightly about his shoulders and laid the deeply chipped blade across his knees. It was sharp now, but the deep scars would not come out with the stone.
The axe had been a gift from his father; they had walked to the waterfall outside of town, and he had sworn on it he would come home one day. Bjorn's mind drifted across the endless sea and the plunging cliffs back to a warm fire, and a straw bed, where the men spoke languages he knew, and the world made sense.
The shadows lengthened, the cold snapped him out of his dream, and he saw it in the distance. A soft shape, a spot darker than the shadows behind it. It shifted in the trees and moved back into the unknown. Bjorn stood and turned his back on the forest. He walked with a slight limp, an injury from the shipwreck that had stranded them here on the edge of the world. Slowly, he walked back towards the rough palisade that sheltered the little village of Norsemen, perched precariously on this foreign shore. He stopped at the gate and touched the pitted, scarred wood. The men on duty prepared to shut the town for the night. They said nothing; their eyes were tired, so were his.
âSee anything, Bjorn?â Erik the sentry, called from the lone watchtower. âAye, two scouts.â He took a deep breath and looked to the forest. âTheyâll come at dawn when the rising sun is in our eyes." Eric clutched his spear tightly, looking down at the old veteran, âWill you tell Helgi?â âAye.â "And there's nothing we can do? Nothing you can do." Erik's voice wavered at its edges, the smallest hint of pleading.
Bjorn said nothing, and the two stood silently as the men on duty closed the rough gate. What little Bjorn could have done had been scuppered by Helgi; now, all that was left was to fight or flee. Erik turned his eyes back to the forest.
âWeâll meet in Valhalla then,â he said, trying to make it sound humorous or brave, but his voice wavered like a sapling in a storm âAye,â Bjorn sighed.
The raid came, as they always did. The painted men attacked as the sun crested over the treetops and blinded the men on the palisade.
The horn sounded, the men and some of the women were already armed, Bjorn led them to the walls. The Norsemen swarmed to the palisades and barricaded the gates; their steel glinted in the sun as stone-tipped arrows, most a dull orange, others black glass, flew through the air in an endless dark cloud till each warriorâs shield was torn and covered in a black mat. Stone heads sparked and split when they struck steel shield bosses and created a storm of razors that caused terrible cuts to any skin not protected by armour.
Some of the raiders tried to breach the palisades and were repelled, their light armour no match for the steel spear and axe of the Norse. The sun rose, and some of the Norsemen retrieved bows to return volleys. And with the advantage lost, the Skraeling with their intricate stone weapons and woven armour melted back into the forest.
The men cheered their victory, but Bjorn knew this was not a serious attack, young men hoping to win glory before the real battle. When the real Skraelings arrived, they would bring hundreds if not thousands of men, and all the steel in Norway would do nothing for them.
Bjorn limped through the town. His axe dripped with blood; the freshly sharpened blade now bore more chips and scratches telling the tale of his every swing. Bjorn looked around. Many men limped, but none were dead, he thought with satisfaction. He waited for Erik to sound the all clear from the tower. No sounds but the shuffle of feet met him.
Bjorn slowly climbed the watchtower's ladder, black with arrows. Erik sat slumped back on the platform, his fair young face and body had been so torn by the arrows as to be almost unrecognisable. Bjorn grabbed the boy's shoulder, whose eyes slowly lifted to the old warriorâs face; Erik opened his mouth slightly and slumped back.
Night brought safety, and the town gathered tightly together in the longhouse; the beams of the ship that formed the roof hung over them. Bjorn gazed upward, admiring the craftsmanship. In the hull were the names of the expedition carved on their long journey. That was a lifetime ago. The glow of the log fire threw great and terrible shadows across the dirt walls. Bjorn dropped his eyes to the few dozen of his countrymen at his feet. âWe need to leave,â he said, addressing the three score settlers. âWe cannot fight; there are too few of us." There was a murmur of agreement in the crowd. âHow would we flee, and where?" Helgi, the leader of the expedition, said quietly. "Our ship is not fixed, our stores not replenished, we cannot leave." "The ship will last at least in the coastal waters," Bjorn responded firmly. "We can sail north and try to find Freydis or other Norse in Vinland or Markland.â
Bjorn knew he had made a mistake as soon as the name Freydis left his lips. Their expedition had left Greenland with two ships, each carrying three score men and women, one commanded by Finnboji, Helgi's older brother, the other by Freydis, planning to sail to a settlement somewhere far North of them, left behind by her brother Leif.
It was Bjorn who had defected from Freydis' crew on learning about her murderous intent. He had warned the brothers that she had hidden a crew of mercenaries among her people and was intent on murdering the brothers and claiming all riches for herself. And it was in attempting to beat Freydis to Vinland that the brothers had run into the storm that blew them off course, far to the South of Vinland to some dark and unknown land.
Helgi's eyes flared in anger, and he turned on the older man, rising from his chair.
âAre you a coward, Bjorn?â Helgi said softly, and the hall fell silent. âYou would face your family, your clan, as a failure as a man who ran from a fight?" Bjorn looked at Helgi carefully; in his soft voice was a killing intent. The older man carefully rested his hand on his belt, where he could more easily grab his seax if it came to it. Bjorn didn't think it would, but Helgi was a young man, and young men were rash.
"Do you forget we have allies, Bjorn?" Helgi spat the name. "Allies desperate for our goods, who will aid us and enrich us. Who will return us home laden with treasures?" Helgi was no longer speaking to the old warrior; he was making his case to the room. "They are not coming," Bjorn said slowly as if to a child. "How would you know? What would you know, old man, except cowardice?"
There was a sharp intake of breath from several in the room. Two accusations of cowardice, Bjorn was within his rights to challenge the man. Helgi's hand fell near his seax, subtly inviting the challenge. Bjorn eyed him. He was confident he could win, but to what end? To have one less fighting man? Perhaps it was worth it, Bjorn mused; he would become leader, and he could take them home, save all their lives. But would the others follow him, he wondered.
Finnbogi had been a wise and careful negotiator, and Bjorn had respected him. When the Skraelings first appeared, he appeased them with gifts, though with many of the best supplies and the livestock, with Freydis, they had had to compromise on what they were willing to trade, losing weapons and steel, which they could not afford to part with.
Helgi had disapproved, and when Finnboji died from a fever soon afterwards, he had dismissed the partnership and instead demanded goods from the Skraelings; instead of trading, he threatened them. That had ended any hope of partnership with the locals.
The memory of the arrogance that had caused all of this sat in Bjorn's mind as he considered his next move. He clenched his teeth, then forced himself to relax. He had promised Finnbogi he would protect Helgi and guide the crew home. Bjorn kept his promises.
Helgi was a would-be Viking from the frigid mountains of Iceland, where the plunder had dried up long past, so he had moved West with his brother to seek a fortune. But there was no gold in the great icefields of the northern islands. Only sheep and rocks. He had almost given up on his dreams when the stories of the Vinland appeared, and it enflamed his heart with a vile and passionate greed. One that quickly undid the diplomacy of his brother.
Bjorn slowly stood, and he saw several men tense as he did. He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture to make clear he was not making a challenge. There was no talking to this man, no making him understand, no steel that would overcome odds a thousand to one.
His mind flashed to sinking his axe into Helgi's skull. He reminded himself of his promise to Finnbogi. Bjorn had never liked killing anyway. âYouâre a fool,â Bjorn said quietly. âGo, Bjorn.â Eric gestured to the door and threw his hand at the amassed families, âWe will stay and fight for what we have built.â
Several men and women looked to the older man to see what he would say. Bjorn wondered how many would follow him if he asked? âThe Skraeling will come again, and again, and again. Now they are toying with us, young fools looking for glory, like you. But they have decided we are no longer welcome, and not with all the men in Norway could we push them from this land." The fire had gone out of his voice.
Before Helgi could respond, Bjorn turned and walked out of the long house into the night. The cold wind cut through him, and he leaned back on the dirt wall and passed a hand over his head. Would they follow him, he wondered, if he asked, if he ordered? Many of them respected him, but he was no leader, and enough were blinded by greed that they could not see death looming over them. No, none would follow, even those who wanted to would be too afraid of Helgi's men. But there was one option left open to him, one tiny prayer thrown to the winds that maybe would save some of them. The only question he thought was if he was brave enough to risk it.
Bjorn walked to the village gates and leaned on the deeply driven posts to catch his breath. Age was catching up to him. Drawing himself up, he pulled himself to the top of the palisade and vaulted to the other side, landing heavily.
The moon illuminated the trees and left the forest a pitch black maw that waited to swallow him. He stared into it until a shadow shifted across the edge, a patch blacker than the rest. A young man, a Skraeling scout, came out of the black and knelt facing the village. His long, flat bow rested on his thighs. Bjorn swallowed his fear and walked towards him, every step taking him from the safety of the town. As he approached the kneeling figure, He raised one hand to the Skraelingjar who stood pulling a club from his belt. Several more young men emerged from the forest behind him, holding knives and axes at the ready. And Bjorn held out both hands, wrists together to indicate his surrender. They led him into the forest, and he prayed he was doing the right thing.