I, Eyvindur: To the Land of Wine (III - Taiga at Markland)

Preface & Glossary: https://www.abctales.com/story/fabiandekerck/i-eyvindur-land-wine-preface-glossary

TAIGA AT MARKLAND

‘This taiga bears no wine-full trees,’ Thorvald told his brother. Obvious at a glance. Only snow-ridden pines damp in their cloudy sheen dressed that wood, no wine nor joy for a lone man or pair of men to tell home in their sincerest.

‘No, brother mine. But this, for which we will bless the name Markland, where the whales gave us fair passage, is rich in lumber and in animals of the snow,’ Leif stated, blunt.

‘White foxes?’ Thorvald asked.

‘Wolves, boy,’ Eyvindur interjected. ‘Dire creatures that eat foxes, and bears that eat them,’ He had his hand tight to a side-axe, his round-shield around his forearm. Such a stance was no comfort to anything Thorvald had heard, though he painted no fear to see.

Thorvald snapped back, ‘I know of bears and wolves, húskarl.’ A smirk of smug fell upon his densely furred face of ginger. Eroded were his cheeks and eyes so that any man or woman might agree he was seasoned and strong, but amongst those thirty-five, he found no such appraisal. And Þōrvaldr Eirikssonr felt erosion to his spirit for it.

‘What do you know of them white in fur and disguised amongst the woods? Perhaps you should scout for our safety if you’re so certain. I can tell you a bears swipe is far worse than a whale’s spit,’ Eyvindur gloated to the jaw-clenching Eriksson.

‘I don’t think we plan on sending any of our own to their deaths, do we Leif?’ Árni said, a voice of peaceful reason. Ásbjörn grunted in gruff agreement.

‘Of course not, but it may prove a fair test of strength for brother,’ Leif remarked in jest. ‘Though I am not Erik, who would have demanded it. My God seeks life, not hells.’

‘What of Valhöll? The glory of the heads of beasts?’ Eyvindur asked, ‘a test to prove fealty amongst those still unsure of your brother’s right to stand at your shoulder or theirs, as it should be. Erik is harsh, but these ways are proven.’

‘Enough of your pagan travails. When will you come to, dear Eyvindur, my húskarl?’ Leif replied. The calm in his voice proved the strains of serenity were strong in whatever his southern faith was. Eyvindur grunted, and though his rationale agreed it best not to spill blood on a wasteful task, the voices of the Aesir, the Æsir and the Ásynjur, disputed Leif or logic. The húskarl had faith, and gods should never be wrong, he mused.

All four disbanded, dividing into their pairs and with the remainder of the companions, crunching through the bog-mire of snow, soft to observe. But soft it was not, for any bare shins or peering skin felt the scratches of the edges of each glass-ice claw, burning if not biting. At least one trip more would find their Vinland, and with any catches of snare or line-and-hook in hand, the companions trudged back to the longship.

‘A man is in those woods, Leif,’ Thorir of Iceland exclaimed, beckoning eyes to turn again to the Taiga. A shade was there.

Eyvindur and those with their shields raised them in front of any deployed polearms. Four bore their bows to the back and flanks, so that some amalgam of a formation was made. Leif was centred, beside Thorvald. Not a word was spoken. Arrows were nocked.

Leif made gaze from between a spear and halberd, glittered azure eyes scanning above his húskarls’ sworn shields. Sweat froze on men’s cheeks. The silhouette flickered in the treeline.

‘As I call so, we will step back to the ship,’ Leif hushed around the group. ‘God hold you men in highest safety.’

Another dark reflection of being materialised beside the first, though neither had made any notion that they were interested in the Norsemen. And Leif the lucky pulled his maul back.

‘Stíga,’ Leif commanded. The agglutination of men sifted back through snow, united as they might row.

Tendrils of mist-glossed sun trickled through the treeline. ‘Stíga,’ He called. Again, they moved as one. A brush of the sun’s platinum glow stroked the shadow of a man in furs, so that Thorvald could see their face. Leif saw it too. Skin of the svartr, a south man’s hue. But the face of something more. Eyvindur thought in that moment that truly this place was some branch from Yggdrasil; a purer place than home, but of the creatures that old stories told.

Leif gawked as the second face came aglow. They were more distant than he had realised, wrapped in the furs of smoky pewter, but wearing the skin of men he had never seen. ‘Skrælingjar,’ both of Erik’s sons whispered. Murmurs stirred amongst the group at the word; for a Skraeling were the vile men that burnt holdings and stole children in folklore of northern Greenland. The clutch of Norsemen was tight then, awaiting Leif’s word, watching in an awestruck horror the aliens amongst the reaching pines. Frosted leaves blowing at the sea’s breath were the only semblances of movement for some time.

A brisk gust rattled the trees, and the Skrælingjar vanished.

‘We capture, or we kill,’ Thorvald hollered.

Thorvald broke line; arrows loosed, and the húskarls made chase. Leif called to halt their advance, but a screeching in the woods told him in moments a feud had broken through. Leif made orders to reload the ship in the chaos.

Eyvindur was beside Thorvald as he rushed them with an axe as long as his arm, its head decorated in feather and smooth mould, where with it he split the head of the first man he saw. A rushed lunge of a Skraeling man side-swiped Eyvindur, who parried and pushed him off, giving a lunge of his own to crash the skull of the man in force enough to down him.

Árni followed the attack, dazing him with the blunt of his knee. Two more sought to prevent the killing, but a thrust of one spear cut the leg of one down and spilled the stomach of the other. Blood froze atop the snow.

Six Skrælingjar were freezing in the dying of their corpses, and the Norsemen were decisive in their slaughter. There was no hope for a counter-push with the remaining onlookers, who fled deep into the wood. But two remained, a boy and a woman, who together slashed Árni at his shoulder, tearing his cloak down and forcing him back. A second strike was to pierce his heart as the woman drew away Eyvindur and Steinnþór, and the boy thrust, but Thorvald lunged at his throat, throwing them both into the snow.

In that second, the woman changed tack; it became clear that was her own boy, and she armed her harpoon through the neck of the invader. Eyvindur split her head in half to save Eriksson, who choked the boy down to his final breath, crunching his neck as he might.

Eyvindur gazed at the culling. Senseless, but that was not the thought a sworn-shield could have. Thorvald had turned brute, hacking the rest of the vertical cut Eyvindur had started, until the snow turned black in upturned mud and the lake of blood. Árni was against a stump, holding tight to stop the bleeding of his shoulder, and no words were spoken before Leif rallied them back.