(no subject)
On the subject of university, it has forced me to write again. I am not entirely sure on my feet, really, but I have enjoyed it. This is my submission piece for my Creative Writing module, copyright Fiona Stygall 2010. Let me know if the cut tag doesn't work, it's been a while!
Dragonskin settled onto the ground, each hard scale clinking as it came to rest on the cobbled beach. Ejnar watched from a distance as his mother threw her thin arms around his father. He laughed, picked her up easily, swinging her high and letting her drop back into his arms. There were furs round his shoulders, salt-crusted and stained dark with old blood. He laughed, a boom like empty ships in a squall.
Ejnar's father turned to look at him, watching him appraisingly. The other men, their arms full of of women and meat and furs, tramped heavily up the beach, carrying or chasing their children back to the township. They would eat well tonight, and even the little ones would sleep a hearty, beery sleep.
With a nod of his head, his father invited him to help unload the boat. Ejnar's chest swelled with pride, measuring stride against stride as they loped easily back to the boat. They waded through the shallow sea, legs heavy in the cold water. Nearly a year gone raiding, and the longship was full; thick glossy furs bound roughly into bundles, green wood strapped carefully round strips of salted meat as long as Ejnar. Tucked away safely, too, were metal goods, their grimy gleam reflecting the sky. Helms and swords, huge and scarred from battle, rested along cups and goblets and rough, thick cooking pots. Ejnar filled his arms, until his shoulders strained with the reach and his hands shook with the weight. He carried load after load back to the village, where they were laid with care and precision, and where the townsmaster was dividing up the goods with just as much thought. No family would be forgotten. Anders' mother waited silently for her lot, her head bowed. Anders' father had not come home from the last raid: his helm waited patiently in an alcove above the fire, for the day Anders could wear it without it slipping slowly off again.
The ships had arrived late in the day, and already dusk was shaking cold over the village. Dew settled on their cheeks and hands as they worked, and women bickered amiably for the coveted positions near the fire, tending meat and adding logs. A cool sea wind whipped up the flames, scorching the crackling skins and sending glowing flakes high into the darkening sky.
The raiders, warriors, with their thick shoulders covered in fur and shielded by dragonskin, began to call for ale. They settled on long benches under thatched roofs held high on oak pillars, watching their wives and children work. The boys, Ejnar and Anders and huge hulking Bardo, who for want of a brain might one day have been the best dragon hunter on the coast, fetched foaming ale, carried lots to their appointed families, bore carcasses for the roasting pits and benches for the feast. Each of them strained and stretched, eager to please their returning, glorious fathers. Jory and Joen, again grown indistinguishable in their father's absence, rolled barrels carefully down to the feasting halls, tapping them with precision. Ejnar and Anders watched from a distance, envious of their adult ease, mocking of their fate as brew men, never to know the glory of battle or the hot stink of raiding, with all its blood and fire.
Jory, a half-inch taller than his brother, began to serve the first warriors, tipping the golden foam into tankards. Ejnar's sister Inger watched her father shyly from behind a pillar until he turned his gaze upon her, beaming at his funny, delicate daughter. She ran to him, all bruised white legs and tightly-bound pigtails, squeaking with delight as he squeezed her, smothering her face with his huge beard, kissing her flushing cheeks and forehead. Further down the bench, Lise was greeting her uncle kindly but formally. Lise's father, like Anders', had never returned, and bitter rumour said he had not died in good battle, but fallen for a dark, stunted islander, and chosen to stay. Lise looked up, along the line of warriors, until she saw Ejnar. She smiled her particular smile, small but intense, as though she were sparkling at him, and turned away. Ejnar's heart pumped fiercely. She would be his wife, he knew it, just as soon as he was man enough to join the raids.
Night fell, hard and cold, but by now the fires were blazing and the men's faces were hot with excitement. Inger danced in the firelight, laughing and falling on the cold cobbles with her friends. Her face bore smuts from the fire and her skirts glinted with salt from the beach, and their mother laughed and called her a waif and a goblin. Lise smiled at Ejnar from her uncle's shoulder, and he felt his chest constrict until he couldn't swallow, and had to look away or spit out his beer.
Morning washed in with the sea, a cold yellow sky warming to clear, bright blue. The last bright days of autumn, and the wind washed the leaves from the trees. Smoke still curled from the biggest fires, and the whole village smelled of wood smoke and soot and fat from the roasting. Round the empty barrels, the smell of yeast was heady even in the cold, clean air, and Ejnar held tenderly onto his stomach as he picked his way past them and up towards hills.
Winter had dusted the first frost over the grass, brushing each blade with white. Winter was always long, and bitter, and cruel. She iced over babies' toes and crept into old men's lungs, froze over their wells and streams. Ejnar woke Anders, calling quietly to him outside his cottage, and the two boys made their way into the hills. They filled their pockets with juniper berries and mushrooms, though the girls would collect far more than they could. They clutched knives and rough arrows and short, hard spears, which they would never throw, but instead jab and drive home. Anders carefully set up the silent, springy traps that would snare rabbits, but he would not kill them, looking into the tree-filled distance while Ejnar snapped their necks, feeling their blood pulse briefly under his hands. The boys took turns carrying the rabbits they caught, each enjoying the fading warmth and fur around his cold fingers.
By the time they returned, morning had dissolved in the sparkling sun, and even the weariest of men had risen to survey his family and land. Jory and Joen's father was berating their mother while the boys watched in cold-eyed silence. He was getting old, and neither his wife nor his sons looked forward to the days when he would stay with them when raiding season began. Anders quietly said that the only reason the twins would ever take to sea was the prospect of living all four seasons with their father, and Ejnar chuckled quietly, but he exchanged nods with the boys. They were friends of his, and would soon be good men, and Ejnar and Anders enjoyed their company.
Inger and her friends emptied their pockets, squabbling over the last, crinkled little cowberries, sitting eagerly to the job of brushing the mushrooms clean. They took the rabbits to Anders' mother, who would skin them and cure the meat, turning the skins into mittens and boots. Rabbit fur gloves would be good, Ejnar knew, and was glad that he would have a pair from the rabbits they had trapped. Even a lean rabbit had good fur. Anders' mother spooned bowls of congealed gruel for them, thick and grey, and they ate it crouched by the fire, warming their hands, sipping at buttermilk.
The village was busy, now that the men had returned. They were over a week late, and winter was rolling in like a wave. Preparations had to be made quickly. The rough smoking stands were full of skinned fish and long strips of meat, billows of thick white smoke rolling out from under the thatch. The fish turned from white to a deep golden brown, tough and woody, ready to last through the winter. When Ejnar stepped down into his own hut, his mother was sifting grains into baskets, checking for weevils and bigger pests, mice and grubs that might destroy the stores. Her hands worked deftly, flicking insects and dirt from the grains as they tumbled down into the basket, clean and golden. Over the fire, long strings of mushrooms and berries dried and crinkled, becoming strong and pungent.
Ejnar was settling to whittle new hunting spikes when his father called for him. His familiar voice boomed across the little village, and Ejnar hurried to help. The time was almost upon them that Ejnar would have to prove his manhood, and he was eager to make good impressions.
Bardo's family's hut had been damaged in storms while the men were away. Bardo and the boys had patched it up as well as they could, but it was leaky and damp, not packed tightly enough to stay dry. Now nimble thatchers hoisted themselves up, pulling heavy armfuls of reeds onto the beams, binding the bundles tightly so they couldn't be blown away again. Ejnar's father was helping to shore up the side of the house, where the leaking water had begun to rot the wooden walls. Huge planks of pine were strapped to the outside, the bark still on to hold off the horizontal winter rain. Ejnar had to hold the heavy plank upright while the base was packed with turf. The low, new thatch came down to Ejnar's shoulders, and he had to crouch to hold the wood, his back pressed into the sharp, newly-cut reeds. The planks slid splinters into his fingers, and by the time the hut was repaired, he had wet mud from the turf in long, sharp cuts. He crouched at the stream, working the wood from his hands, wincing as he slowly pushed the long slices under his skin, and out, leaving his hands bloody and swollen.
Ejnar slept badly, his hands still raw. He had held them in the cold stream, washing away any dirt from the wounds, the cold holding back the pain, but not they felt hot, the cuts throbbing. His father snored loudly, a long, deep grunt, like sawing wood. Try as he might, Ejnar couldn't ignore the noise, or get used to it, and every time he began to drift into sleep another long snore shook him awake. He woke sore and still tired, his hands tucked in his underarms. By day they looked better, the cuts clean and dry. He ate porridge with a few berries in, drank his morning ale and, feeling refreshed, stepped out to join the preparations. Today they would begin to slaughter any livestock they could spare.
Thorleif, the farmer, and his five boys, had driven the big livestock in yesterday, and the village was noisy with pigs and cattle, confused by the changes. Many of the villagers had geese or chickens, and they were penned in now. Deep stone bowls were laid out, ready to catch the blood, and the smoking stands stood empty, waiting. Thorleif and his two eldest boys wore aprons of smooth, dark leather, and soon they were spattered with blood. They worked quickly, the pigs screaming as they slit throats, hung them from the beams of the feasting hut, slit and gutted and cleaned each carcass. Inger sat scowling with the women, set to the task of cleaning guts for sausages, while Ejnar and his father helped lift and corral, chasing ambitious goats back towards the butchers. By evening, everyone was sore and the village smelled of blood and smoking meat. Blood puddings, coarse sausages and fatty strips of drying or salted meat stood on the rough tables, and Ejnar was deeply grateful when the stew his mother spooned out was rich with chestnuts, mushrooms and juniper. He had seen, and smelled, enough meat today.
As they Ejnar and his father ate, his mother fussed around them, topping up their ale and food, adding logs to the fire, until Ejnar's father snapped at her. She retreated, sitting at the back of the hut to polish the long dragonskin tunic his father wore for raiding. He would need it soon, when the low winter sun barely rose above the mountains, and Ejnar set out to prove himself as a warrior.
The days passed quickly. It was going to be a hard winter. Already, frosts lay heavy on the ground, and the remaining hens and geese stopped laying. Teams of men went out into the forest to fell trees, splitting the logs for the winter fires, stacking them on the dry side of huts to season and dry. The meat was all smoked, packed into stone bowls or tightly-woven baskets, stacked inside huts. Bitter little apples were folded in coarse cloth to keep away the rot, and the last of the turnips were hacked out of the cold ground. Hazelnuts and chestnuts, kept in their shells, were stashed away in rough bowls, tucked either side of the fire, where the warmth would keep them dry. At last Ejnar rose to find that the morning sun had not yet climbed the mountains. It was time.
Six of them would go this year. Ejnar and Anders, Bardo, Jory and Joen, and Thorleif's second son, Olav. The young men of the village, who had made the same quest the year before, stood to wish them well. Ozur, Olav's older brother, with the long ragged scar across his face, Aud, with a finger missing from his right hand, Hugin and Ingemar, grinning, excited, reliving the glory of returning from the quest. Ejnar's father would lead them: he stood, grave and unspeaking, at the top of the village. His dragonskin tunic glistened in the low light, a reminder that he was the strongest warrior, the chieftain. A heavy gold brooch held the tunic closed at the corner; it was said he had taken the gold from the dragon itself. The six boys walked up to the top of the village. Their mothers and sisters stood in the doorways of their huts, not waving, just watching. Anders' mother was briskly wiping away tears; Ejnar met Lise's eyes and she smiled, but her eyes were bright and wet. The boys nodded to their families, to the village, and turned, and walked away. Behind them, a thin cheer rose into the wintry air, before it was whipped away by the sharp sea wind.
Ejnar and Anders knew the low hills well, and the walk through the thin forest was easy enough. The boys muttered between themselves, but the walk was hard and long, and soon they stopped talking, concentrating on where they were walking. The forest began to deepen, the pines becoming high and dark. Fallen needles cushioned their steps and hid roots that stuck up to catch careless feet. Bardo, twice as big as the smallest of them, was breathing heavily already, struggling to keep up with the swift pace. Ejnar's father, always at the lead, headed doggedly onwards, turning only occasionally to check Bardo was still with them. The forest rose and rose until, abruptly, it ended, and there was only rock and scree. Their feet scrabbled in the loose shale, hands coming down again and again on the rough, cold rock, to heave them upright. The low sun began to die, and the temperature dropped. Bardo's heavy feet slid too much on the shale, he was holding them back. By now his breath was thick and shallow. He reminded Ejnar of the last bull to be slaughtered, breath coming in snorts, eyes rolling in fear. Ejnar nudged Anders and the two of the dropped back, pulling Bardo up every time he slipped, showing him the clearest paths, calming him with idle chatter. By the time they had reached the peak, Bardo was smiling, but Ejnar's father looked worried. Below them was a steep descent into the next forest, and the light was almost gone.
This side of the mountain was so sheer that they had to descend sideways, one foot above the other, balancing as they went. Jory and Joen, like a pair of mountain goats, skipped down, light and skilful on their feet. Olav was muscular, already more man than boy, and he wasn't even breathless. He quietly took Bardo's pack, adding it to the food and water he already carried on his own belt, taking the extra weight without a word. With Ejnar below and Anders above, they guided Bardo down.
The last hour's descent was in darkness. A high winter moon rose the wrong side of the range, its cold light not reaching the base of the mountain. They slid and tripped and stumbled their way down, until at last they were once again in the shelter of the forest. After the cold, hard climb, the soft pine-needle floor was a relief, and they quickly bedded down. Olav, Bardo and Ejnar's father had no trouble sleeping, but the rest of them shivered. Their clothes were soaked with sweat from the climb, and now they lay, chilled and damp, exhausted and shaking. By the time they fell asleep, light was already beginning to steal across the sky, a grainy blue-grey that soaked through the air. A couple of hours of fitful, shivering sleep and Ejnar's father was shaking them awake.
It was too risky to lay a fire on the dry pine needle floor, so they breakfasted on strips of dried meat and water. Before they set off again, they refilled their water pouches from a rushing stream, ice cold water startling them awake. They set off while the light was still low, slicing through the trees in long yellow bars. The forest clattered with birdsong, and soon their aching limbs warmed up to the rhythm of walking. They were deep in a long, verdant valley, and animals unused to people scattered and ran from the noise of their walking. A young boar, still striped, ran squealing in front of Bardo, and when they stopped to lunch, Anders managed to trap two rabbits, fat and fluffy. Ejnar picked them from the traps by their back legs, holding them firm as they wriggled and fought, and snapped their necks, while Anders looked away. Once they were still, Anders hung them from his belt: they would eat better tonight.
By mid afternoon, the forest floor began to rise again. They came into a clearing, where a huge fallen pine had pushed two more flat, and through the gap in the trees they could see the next mountain. Snow capped its top, and as they walked, the sky filled with low grey cloud, hiding the range from view. Fine snow began to filter down through the trees, icy crystals in the clear dry air, resting on their cheeks and shoulders. Ejnar was glad of the rabbit-fur gloves, and he and Anders agreed that they wished they had a thick beard like his father, which held the snow off his face. It fell slow and fine, but by evening the ground was covered. They sheltered at the edge of the forest, where a fall of rocks had formed a rough cave. The ground was clear, and Olav expertly laid a fire, surrounding it with small rocks to hold the heat. Ejnar and Joen collected fine, strong saplings, and spitted the rabbits, while Joen stirred grains into water in a small pot. He rested the pot on the embers, and when they had shared out the rabbits, they ate the thick, rough gruel from the pot, sharing one wooden spoon. Joen scraped the pot clean, and they used thick branches to push the hot stones to the back of the cave. The warmth from the fire stones, and the good food inside him, sent Ejnar quickly to sleep, and he was startled to wake and find it was already morning.
They pressed on up the mountain, alternately encouraging Bardo, and taunting him, building him up to a rage that would carry him quickly up the rough rock face. Their feet were sore, and they had to use their hands to pull themselves up almost vertical slopes, until their fingers, chapped and dry in the cold, bled. The snow started again mid-morning, and soon it was whipping around them, obscuring the mountain just feet in front of them. The wind flicked the snow up into their eyes, so they had to squint against it, and by the time they stopped to eat, their patience was worn. They leant their backs against sharp rock, the wind occasionally rushing round the edges of their rough shelter to scatter snow across them. It was uncomfortable and cold, and they were glad to get moving again. By later afternoon, they were once again on the peak of a mountain. This time, instead of descending, they would walk along the crest of the mountain. A brief lull in the wind let them see the long, rough walk that awaited them, to their destination; an even higher summit, three sharp crags of rock spearing high into the evening air.
Morning did not make the summit any less fearful. The air was crisp and dry and bitterly cold. Shallow snow, glittering, crunched under their feet. The sun shone along the mountain, blindingly bright, spearing into their eyes from the white snow. They began to struggle again upwards, panting in the thin air, gasping for breath. Despite the cold, they were hot, their cheeks flushed. Ejnar fought the temptation to take off his gloves, knowing his fingers would quickly be frozen and useless, hating the way the fur stuck in sweaty clumps between his fingers. The path narrowed and narrowed until they were inching their way upwards, sheer slopes covered in scree and snow dropping sharply away on either side. The wind began to lift until it howled over them, and they clung to the paths with feet and hands, leaning into the wind, pulling themselves ever upwards.
Just as Ejnar's father reached the first of the three peaks, the wind dropped, surprising them all. Bardo, leaning too hard against the wind, began to slide off the path. He panicked, his feet scrabbling uselessly at the loose rock, causing shale and snow to slide loudly down the mountain. Anders, just ahead of Bardo, leant back, catching him just as he began to slide down the sheer mountainside. Bardo's weight was too much: Anders' foot, wedged against a rock, twisted painfully. Bardo's eyes were wide, his spare hand grasping at the ground, Anders slowly beginning to slide with him. Ejnar hooked one arm around a sharp outcrop. His other hand grabbed Anders' wrist. For a moment, he looked into his friend's eyes as Anders was pulled inexorably down the mountainside, and then, with a shout of despair, Bardo began to slide away. His hand had pulled away Anders' glove, and now he was holding it, uselessly, as he slipped away.
He slid fast down the slope, rolling and tumbling, his hands bloodied from snatching at the loose stone. He reached the edge, and the horrified boys caught a last glimpse of his face, eyes wide, mouth open, before he plunged off the edge.
The wind wailed over the rock as the boys, frozen in shock, watched the empty air. Ejnar thought he hard a cry, but the wind was loud in their ears. Ejnar's father shouted for them to keep going. Anders was staring at his hands, and Ejnar wordlessly slipped off his glove, sliding it over Anders' shaking hand. They turned away from the gaping air where Bardo had fallen, and made their way up to the peaks, carrying hearts as heavy as the mountain.
The peaks made a sort of shelter, a vast arena full of wind and snow, a bowl in the top of the mountain. The wind and rain had carved little caves into the edges of the arena, and around them the rock was scorched black. Great scars in the rock marked the entrance to the scorched caves. Ejnar's father stood back, taking from each of them the things that would only weight them down: their water pouches, bags of food and gloves. The five boys walked down into the arena in silence, the wailing wind pushing them into the bowl of the rock. They wore their tunics of thick leather, their feet bound in rags and furs, their shaking hands clutching a short sword and a hunting knife, a ragged, long flint bound with leather thongs to a handle of wood. The blade of a man's hunting knife was a matter of pride, and each of their knifes was as sharp as the day it was made, the fine edge almost transparent.
The boys had been in the arena only moments when a long, low roar filled the air. The rock bounced the sound so they couldn't know where it had come from. They formed a rough circle, watching the caves, as another roar filled the air, rumbling through the stone under their feet. It was Jory who spotted the dragon first. A low, flat snout, sidling from the entrance of a wide cave, the ground deeply scored. His scales were almost grey, a dark sea colour like slate, and his nostrils were flared. His body was so heavy it slid along the ground between his thick, squat legs, and they could hear his tail swishing from side to side before they saw it. He was as long as the longboat, longer, and when he saw the boys, his stubby wings flared, flexing above him. A dragon this big could never fly. He snorted, and the boys felt a rush of heat. He padded sideways, watching them, assessing them. The boys spread out, Jory clapping Joen on the shoulder, Ejnar resting his bare hand on Anders' arm. Jory and Joen started to circle the dragon, to try and get behind him. The dragon twisted its head, angry, trying to watch both boys. It snorted little flames, its tail twisting. The boys kept well out of range of it, the heavy, scraping sound enough warning of how powerful it must be. Distracted, the dragon moved forward, still trying to watch the twins. Anders leapt forward, sweeping his sword across the dragon's head. The thick scales clinked against the blade, but his aim was good, and a gash bled hard into the dragon's left eye. Ejnar grinned; his friend had done well. Olav met Ejnar's eye and, as one, they ran forward, each jabbing at the dragon's eye. Olav had the advantage, the dragon's left, bloody side, but Ejnar was quicker., He felt his sword slide in just below the eye, the dragon's thick flesh puncturing under the point of his blade. Thick, dark blood spilled out, and the dragon turned towards him, snorting. Anders knocked him sideways as the dragon filled the space he had been with flame and blood, snorting and bellowing in pain. The stone was slippery and the air was full of the stink of iron.
Jory and Joen forgotten, were either side of the dragon, stood at the base of his wings. They held their blades flat and low in both hands and, at Olav's nod, swept them forward. The fine skin of the wings split easily under the blade, and Ejnar saw the twins hunch their shoulders, putting every muscle into splitting the wings from the dragon's shoulders. The swords severed the bony wings, and they slid, useless, to the ground. The dragon howled and twisted, jetting flame first at Jory and then Joen, but they were too quick, scrambling up above the caves. The dragon jetted blood-flecked smoke and flame, blinded and enraged, a low growling cry ululating across the arena. Ejnar readied himself, sword in his right hand, knife in his left. The dragon jerked forward: Anders stepped back too hard on his twisted foot and fell, and Ejnar was up, running, pushing the sword into the dragon's throat, using the knife to hack a ragged line all the way across the muscular neck. Steaming, boiling, blood spilled out, over Ejnar's arms. His sword was too hot to hold, his knife lost in the deluge of bloody, his hands slippery and scalded. The dragon turned, and for a moment, its right eye was clear of blood. It started at Ejnar, stared into his eyes, one single eye, huge and golden, and then all the brightness was gone, and the dragon sighed, dead, to the ground. Ejnar stood, his arms black, his blades lost, his friend dead, half-frozen on the top of the mountain, the wind whipping at him. Ejnar, the man. Ejnar, the warrior. Ejnar, dragonslayer, new chieftain. He pulled Anders from the ground, and the two of them watched the blood spread slowly from the dragon, blackening the stone.
Dragonskin settled onto the ground, each hard scale clinking as it came to rest on the cobbled beach. Ejnar watched from a distance as his mother threw her thin arms around his father. He laughed, picked her up easily, swinging her high and letting her drop back into his arms. There were furs round his shoulders, salt-crusted and stained dark with old blood. He laughed, a boom like empty ships in a squall.
Ejnar's father turned to look at him, watching him appraisingly. The other men, their arms full of of women and meat and furs, tramped heavily up the beach, carrying or chasing their children back to the township. They would eat well tonight, and even the little ones would sleep a hearty, beery sleep.
With a nod of his head, his father invited him to help unload the boat. Ejnar's chest swelled with pride, measuring stride against stride as they loped easily back to the boat. They waded through the shallow sea, legs heavy in the cold water. Nearly a year gone raiding, and the longship was full; thick glossy furs bound roughly into bundles, green wood strapped carefully round strips of salted meat as long as Ejnar. Tucked away safely, too, were metal goods, their grimy gleam reflecting the sky. Helms and swords, huge and scarred from battle, rested along cups and goblets and rough, thick cooking pots. Ejnar filled his arms, until his shoulders strained with the reach and his hands shook with the weight. He carried load after load back to the village, where they were laid with care and precision, and where the townsmaster was dividing up the goods with just as much thought. No family would be forgotten. Anders' mother waited silently for her lot, her head bowed. Anders' father had not come home from the last raid: his helm waited patiently in an alcove above the fire, for the day Anders could wear it without it slipping slowly off again.
The ships had arrived late in the day, and already dusk was shaking cold over the village. Dew settled on their cheeks and hands as they worked, and women bickered amiably for the coveted positions near the fire, tending meat and adding logs. A cool sea wind whipped up the flames, scorching the crackling skins and sending glowing flakes high into the darkening sky.
The raiders, warriors, with their thick shoulders covered in fur and shielded by dragonskin, began to call for ale. They settled on long benches under thatched roofs held high on oak pillars, watching their wives and children work. The boys, Ejnar and Anders and huge hulking Bardo, who for want of a brain might one day have been the best dragon hunter on the coast, fetched foaming ale, carried lots to their appointed families, bore carcasses for the roasting pits and benches for the feast. Each of them strained and stretched, eager to please their returning, glorious fathers. Jory and Joen, again grown indistinguishable in their father's absence, rolled barrels carefully down to the feasting halls, tapping them with precision. Ejnar and Anders watched from a distance, envious of their adult ease, mocking of their fate as brew men, never to know the glory of battle or the hot stink of raiding, with all its blood and fire.
Jory, a half-inch taller than his brother, began to serve the first warriors, tipping the golden foam into tankards. Ejnar's sister Inger watched her father shyly from behind a pillar until he turned his gaze upon her, beaming at his funny, delicate daughter. She ran to him, all bruised white legs and tightly-bound pigtails, squeaking with delight as he squeezed her, smothering her face with his huge beard, kissing her flushing cheeks and forehead. Further down the bench, Lise was greeting her uncle kindly but formally. Lise's father, like Anders', had never returned, and bitter rumour said he had not died in good battle, but fallen for a dark, stunted islander, and chosen to stay. Lise looked up, along the line of warriors, until she saw Ejnar. She smiled her particular smile, small but intense, as though she were sparkling at him, and turned away. Ejnar's heart pumped fiercely. She would be his wife, he knew it, just as soon as he was man enough to join the raids.
Night fell, hard and cold, but by now the fires were blazing and the men's faces were hot with excitement. Inger danced in the firelight, laughing and falling on the cold cobbles with her friends. Her face bore smuts from the fire and her skirts glinted with salt from the beach, and their mother laughed and called her a waif and a goblin. Lise smiled at Ejnar from her uncle's shoulder, and he felt his chest constrict until he couldn't swallow, and had to look away or spit out his beer.
Morning washed in with the sea, a cold yellow sky warming to clear, bright blue. The last bright days of autumn, and the wind washed the leaves from the trees. Smoke still curled from the biggest fires, and the whole village smelled of wood smoke and soot and fat from the roasting. Round the empty barrels, the smell of yeast was heady even in the cold, clean air, and Ejnar held tenderly onto his stomach as he picked his way past them and up towards hills.
Winter had dusted the first frost over the grass, brushing each blade with white. Winter was always long, and bitter, and cruel. She iced over babies' toes and crept into old men's lungs, froze over their wells and streams. Ejnar woke Anders, calling quietly to him outside his cottage, and the two boys made their way into the hills. They filled their pockets with juniper berries and mushrooms, though the girls would collect far more than they could. They clutched knives and rough arrows and short, hard spears, which they would never throw, but instead jab and drive home. Anders carefully set up the silent, springy traps that would snare rabbits, but he would not kill them, looking into the tree-filled distance while Ejnar snapped their necks, feeling their blood pulse briefly under his hands. The boys took turns carrying the rabbits they caught, each enjoying the fading warmth and fur around his cold fingers.
By the time they returned, morning had dissolved in the sparkling sun, and even the weariest of men had risen to survey his family and land. Jory and Joen's father was berating their mother while the boys watched in cold-eyed silence. He was getting old, and neither his wife nor his sons looked forward to the days when he would stay with them when raiding season began. Anders quietly said that the only reason the twins would ever take to sea was the prospect of living all four seasons with their father, and Ejnar chuckled quietly, but he exchanged nods with the boys. They were friends of his, and would soon be good men, and Ejnar and Anders enjoyed their company.
Inger and her friends emptied their pockets, squabbling over the last, crinkled little cowberries, sitting eagerly to the job of brushing the mushrooms clean. They took the rabbits to Anders' mother, who would skin them and cure the meat, turning the skins into mittens and boots. Rabbit fur gloves would be good, Ejnar knew, and was glad that he would have a pair from the rabbits they had trapped. Even a lean rabbit had good fur. Anders' mother spooned bowls of congealed gruel for them, thick and grey, and they ate it crouched by the fire, warming their hands, sipping at buttermilk.
The village was busy, now that the men had returned. They were over a week late, and winter was rolling in like a wave. Preparations had to be made quickly. The rough smoking stands were full of skinned fish and long strips of meat, billows of thick white smoke rolling out from under the thatch. The fish turned from white to a deep golden brown, tough and woody, ready to last through the winter. When Ejnar stepped down into his own hut, his mother was sifting grains into baskets, checking for weevils and bigger pests, mice and grubs that might destroy the stores. Her hands worked deftly, flicking insects and dirt from the grains as they tumbled down into the basket, clean and golden. Over the fire, long strings of mushrooms and berries dried and crinkled, becoming strong and pungent.
Ejnar was settling to whittle new hunting spikes when his father called for him. His familiar voice boomed across the little village, and Ejnar hurried to help. The time was almost upon them that Ejnar would have to prove his manhood, and he was eager to make good impressions.
Bardo's family's hut had been damaged in storms while the men were away. Bardo and the boys had patched it up as well as they could, but it was leaky and damp, not packed tightly enough to stay dry. Now nimble thatchers hoisted themselves up, pulling heavy armfuls of reeds onto the beams, binding the bundles tightly so they couldn't be blown away again. Ejnar's father was helping to shore up the side of the house, where the leaking water had begun to rot the wooden walls. Huge planks of pine were strapped to the outside, the bark still on to hold off the horizontal winter rain. Ejnar had to hold the heavy plank upright while the base was packed with turf. The low, new thatch came down to Ejnar's shoulders, and he had to crouch to hold the wood, his back pressed into the sharp, newly-cut reeds. The planks slid splinters into his fingers, and by the time the hut was repaired, he had wet mud from the turf in long, sharp cuts. He crouched at the stream, working the wood from his hands, wincing as he slowly pushed the long slices under his skin, and out, leaving his hands bloody and swollen.
Ejnar slept badly, his hands still raw. He had held them in the cold stream, washing away any dirt from the wounds, the cold holding back the pain, but not they felt hot, the cuts throbbing. His father snored loudly, a long, deep grunt, like sawing wood. Try as he might, Ejnar couldn't ignore the noise, or get used to it, and every time he began to drift into sleep another long snore shook him awake. He woke sore and still tired, his hands tucked in his underarms. By day they looked better, the cuts clean and dry. He ate porridge with a few berries in, drank his morning ale and, feeling refreshed, stepped out to join the preparations. Today they would begin to slaughter any livestock they could spare.
Thorleif, the farmer, and his five boys, had driven the big livestock in yesterday, and the village was noisy with pigs and cattle, confused by the changes. Many of the villagers had geese or chickens, and they were penned in now. Deep stone bowls were laid out, ready to catch the blood, and the smoking stands stood empty, waiting. Thorleif and his two eldest boys wore aprons of smooth, dark leather, and soon they were spattered with blood. They worked quickly, the pigs screaming as they slit throats, hung them from the beams of the feasting hut, slit and gutted and cleaned each carcass. Inger sat scowling with the women, set to the task of cleaning guts for sausages, while Ejnar and his father helped lift and corral, chasing ambitious goats back towards the butchers. By evening, everyone was sore and the village smelled of blood and smoking meat. Blood puddings, coarse sausages and fatty strips of drying or salted meat stood on the rough tables, and Ejnar was deeply grateful when the stew his mother spooned out was rich with chestnuts, mushrooms and juniper. He had seen, and smelled, enough meat today.
As they Ejnar and his father ate, his mother fussed around them, topping up their ale and food, adding logs to the fire, until Ejnar's father snapped at her. She retreated, sitting at the back of the hut to polish the long dragonskin tunic his father wore for raiding. He would need it soon, when the low winter sun barely rose above the mountains, and Ejnar set out to prove himself as a warrior.
The days passed quickly. It was going to be a hard winter. Already, frosts lay heavy on the ground, and the remaining hens and geese stopped laying. Teams of men went out into the forest to fell trees, splitting the logs for the winter fires, stacking them on the dry side of huts to season and dry. The meat was all smoked, packed into stone bowls or tightly-woven baskets, stacked inside huts. Bitter little apples were folded in coarse cloth to keep away the rot, and the last of the turnips were hacked out of the cold ground. Hazelnuts and chestnuts, kept in their shells, were stashed away in rough bowls, tucked either side of the fire, where the warmth would keep them dry. At last Ejnar rose to find that the morning sun had not yet climbed the mountains. It was time.
Six of them would go this year. Ejnar and Anders, Bardo, Jory and Joen, and Thorleif's second son, Olav. The young men of the village, who had made the same quest the year before, stood to wish them well. Ozur, Olav's older brother, with the long ragged scar across his face, Aud, with a finger missing from his right hand, Hugin and Ingemar, grinning, excited, reliving the glory of returning from the quest. Ejnar's father would lead them: he stood, grave and unspeaking, at the top of the village. His dragonskin tunic glistened in the low light, a reminder that he was the strongest warrior, the chieftain. A heavy gold brooch held the tunic closed at the corner; it was said he had taken the gold from the dragon itself. The six boys walked up to the top of the village. Their mothers and sisters stood in the doorways of their huts, not waving, just watching. Anders' mother was briskly wiping away tears; Ejnar met Lise's eyes and she smiled, but her eyes were bright and wet. The boys nodded to their families, to the village, and turned, and walked away. Behind them, a thin cheer rose into the wintry air, before it was whipped away by the sharp sea wind.
Ejnar and Anders knew the low hills well, and the walk through the thin forest was easy enough. The boys muttered between themselves, but the walk was hard and long, and soon they stopped talking, concentrating on where they were walking. The forest began to deepen, the pines becoming high and dark. Fallen needles cushioned their steps and hid roots that stuck up to catch careless feet. Bardo, twice as big as the smallest of them, was breathing heavily already, struggling to keep up with the swift pace. Ejnar's father, always at the lead, headed doggedly onwards, turning only occasionally to check Bardo was still with them. The forest rose and rose until, abruptly, it ended, and there was only rock and scree. Their feet scrabbled in the loose shale, hands coming down again and again on the rough, cold rock, to heave them upright. The low sun began to die, and the temperature dropped. Bardo's heavy feet slid too much on the shale, he was holding them back. By now his breath was thick and shallow. He reminded Ejnar of the last bull to be slaughtered, breath coming in snorts, eyes rolling in fear. Ejnar nudged Anders and the two of the dropped back, pulling Bardo up every time he slipped, showing him the clearest paths, calming him with idle chatter. By the time they had reached the peak, Bardo was smiling, but Ejnar's father looked worried. Below them was a steep descent into the next forest, and the light was almost gone.
This side of the mountain was so sheer that they had to descend sideways, one foot above the other, balancing as they went. Jory and Joen, like a pair of mountain goats, skipped down, light and skilful on their feet. Olav was muscular, already more man than boy, and he wasn't even breathless. He quietly took Bardo's pack, adding it to the food and water he already carried on his own belt, taking the extra weight without a word. With Ejnar below and Anders above, they guided Bardo down.
The last hour's descent was in darkness. A high winter moon rose the wrong side of the range, its cold light not reaching the base of the mountain. They slid and tripped and stumbled their way down, until at last they were once again in the shelter of the forest. After the cold, hard climb, the soft pine-needle floor was a relief, and they quickly bedded down. Olav, Bardo and Ejnar's father had no trouble sleeping, but the rest of them shivered. Their clothes were soaked with sweat from the climb, and now they lay, chilled and damp, exhausted and shaking. By the time they fell asleep, light was already beginning to steal across the sky, a grainy blue-grey that soaked through the air. A couple of hours of fitful, shivering sleep and Ejnar's father was shaking them awake.
It was too risky to lay a fire on the dry pine needle floor, so they breakfasted on strips of dried meat and water. Before they set off again, they refilled their water pouches from a rushing stream, ice cold water startling them awake. They set off while the light was still low, slicing through the trees in long yellow bars. The forest clattered with birdsong, and soon their aching limbs warmed up to the rhythm of walking. They were deep in a long, verdant valley, and animals unused to people scattered and ran from the noise of their walking. A young boar, still striped, ran squealing in front of Bardo, and when they stopped to lunch, Anders managed to trap two rabbits, fat and fluffy. Ejnar picked them from the traps by their back legs, holding them firm as they wriggled and fought, and snapped their necks, while Anders looked away. Once they were still, Anders hung them from his belt: they would eat better tonight.
By mid afternoon, the forest floor began to rise again. They came into a clearing, where a huge fallen pine had pushed two more flat, and through the gap in the trees they could see the next mountain. Snow capped its top, and as they walked, the sky filled with low grey cloud, hiding the range from view. Fine snow began to filter down through the trees, icy crystals in the clear dry air, resting on their cheeks and shoulders. Ejnar was glad of the rabbit-fur gloves, and he and Anders agreed that they wished they had a thick beard like his father, which held the snow off his face. It fell slow and fine, but by evening the ground was covered. They sheltered at the edge of the forest, where a fall of rocks had formed a rough cave. The ground was clear, and Olav expertly laid a fire, surrounding it with small rocks to hold the heat. Ejnar and Joen collected fine, strong saplings, and spitted the rabbits, while Joen stirred grains into water in a small pot. He rested the pot on the embers, and when they had shared out the rabbits, they ate the thick, rough gruel from the pot, sharing one wooden spoon. Joen scraped the pot clean, and they used thick branches to push the hot stones to the back of the cave. The warmth from the fire stones, and the good food inside him, sent Ejnar quickly to sleep, and he was startled to wake and find it was already morning.
They pressed on up the mountain, alternately encouraging Bardo, and taunting him, building him up to a rage that would carry him quickly up the rough rock face. Their feet were sore, and they had to use their hands to pull themselves up almost vertical slopes, until their fingers, chapped and dry in the cold, bled. The snow started again mid-morning, and soon it was whipping around them, obscuring the mountain just feet in front of them. The wind flicked the snow up into their eyes, so they had to squint against it, and by the time they stopped to eat, their patience was worn. They leant their backs against sharp rock, the wind occasionally rushing round the edges of their rough shelter to scatter snow across them. It was uncomfortable and cold, and they were glad to get moving again. By later afternoon, they were once again on the peak of a mountain. This time, instead of descending, they would walk along the crest of the mountain. A brief lull in the wind let them see the long, rough walk that awaited them, to their destination; an even higher summit, three sharp crags of rock spearing high into the evening air.
Morning did not make the summit any less fearful. The air was crisp and dry and bitterly cold. Shallow snow, glittering, crunched under their feet. The sun shone along the mountain, blindingly bright, spearing into their eyes from the white snow. They began to struggle again upwards, panting in the thin air, gasping for breath. Despite the cold, they were hot, their cheeks flushed. Ejnar fought the temptation to take off his gloves, knowing his fingers would quickly be frozen and useless, hating the way the fur stuck in sweaty clumps between his fingers. The path narrowed and narrowed until they were inching their way upwards, sheer slopes covered in scree and snow dropping sharply away on either side. The wind began to lift until it howled over them, and they clung to the paths with feet and hands, leaning into the wind, pulling themselves ever upwards.
Just as Ejnar's father reached the first of the three peaks, the wind dropped, surprising them all. Bardo, leaning too hard against the wind, began to slide off the path. He panicked, his feet scrabbling uselessly at the loose rock, causing shale and snow to slide loudly down the mountain. Anders, just ahead of Bardo, leant back, catching him just as he began to slide down the sheer mountainside. Bardo's weight was too much: Anders' foot, wedged against a rock, twisted painfully. Bardo's eyes were wide, his spare hand grasping at the ground, Anders slowly beginning to slide with him. Ejnar hooked one arm around a sharp outcrop. His other hand grabbed Anders' wrist. For a moment, he looked into his friend's eyes as Anders was pulled inexorably down the mountainside, and then, with a shout of despair, Bardo began to slide away. His hand had pulled away Anders' glove, and now he was holding it, uselessly, as he slipped away.
He slid fast down the slope, rolling and tumbling, his hands bloodied from snatching at the loose stone. He reached the edge, and the horrified boys caught a last glimpse of his face, eyes wide, mouth open, before he plunged off the edge.
The wind wailed over the rock as the boys, frozen in shock, watched the empty air. Ejnar thought he hard a cry, but the wind was loud in their ears. Ejnar's father shouted for them to keep going. Anders was staring at his hands, and Ejnar wordlessly slipped off his glove, sliding it over Anders' shaking hand. They turned away from the gaping air where Bardo had fallen, and made their way up to the peaks, carrying hearts as heavy as the mountain.
The peaks made a sort of shelter, a vast arena full of wind and snow, a bowl in the top of the mountain. The wind and rain had carved little caves into the edges of the arena, and around them the rock was scorched black. Great scars in the rock marked the entrance to the scorched caves. Ejnar's father stood back, taking from each of them the things that would only weight them down: their water pouches, bags of food and gloves. The five boys walked down into the arena in silence, the wailing wind pushing them into the bowl of the rock. They wore their tunics of thick leather, their feet bound in rags and furs, their shaking hands clutching a short sword and a hunting knife, a ragged, long flint bound with leather thongs to a handle of wood. The blade of a man's hunting knife was a matter of pride, and each of their knifes was as sharp as the day it was made, the fine edge almost transparent.
The boys had been in the arena only moments when a long, low roar filled the air. The rock bounced the sound so they couldn't know where it had come from. They formed a rough circle, watching the caves, as another roar filled the air, rumbling through the stone under their feet. It was Jory who spotted the dragon first. A low, flat snout, sidling from the entrance of a wide cave, the ground deeply scored. His scales were almost grey, a dark sea colour like slate, and his nostrils were flared. His body was so heavy it slid along the ground between his thick, squat legs, and they could hear his tail swishing from side to side before they saw it. He was as long as the longboat, longer, and when he saw the boys, his stubby wings flared, flexing above him. A dragon this big could never fly. He snorted, and the boys felt a rush of heat. He padded sideways, watching them, assessing them. The boys spread out, Jory clapping Joen on the shoulder, Ejnar resting his bare hand on Anders' arm. Jory and Joen started to circle the dragon, to try and get behind him. The dragon twisted its head, angry, trying to watch both boys. It snorted little flames, its tail twisting. The boys kept well out of range of it, the heavy, scraping sound enough warning of how powerful it must be. Distracted, the dragon moved forward, still trying to watch the twins. Anders leapt forward, sweeping his sword across the dragon's head. The thick scales clinked against the blade, but his aim was good, and a gash bled hard into the dragon's left eye. Ejnar grinned; his friend had done well. Olav met Ejnar's eye and, as one, they ran forward, each jabbing at the dragon's eye. Olav had the advantage, the dragon's left, bloody side, but Ejnar was quicker., He felt his sword slide in just below the eye, the dragon's thick flesh puncturing under the point of his blade. Thick, dark blood spilled out, and the dragon turned towards him, snorting. Anders knocked him sideways as the dragon filled the space he had been with flame and blood, snorting and bellowing in pain. The stone was slippery and the air was full of the stink of iron.
Jory and Joen forgotten, were either side of the dragon, stood at the base of his wings. They held their blades flat and low in both hands and, at Olav's nod, swept them forward. The fine skin of the wings split easily under the blade, and Ejnar saw the twins hunch their shoulders, putting every muscle into splitting the wings from the dragon's shoulders. The swords severed the bony wings, and they slid, useless, to the ground. The dragon howled and twisted, jetting flame first at Jory and then Joen, but they were too quick, scrambling up above the caves. The dragon jetted blood-flecked smoke and flame, blinded and enraged, a low growling cry ululating across the arena. Ejnar readied himself, sword in his right hand, knife in his left. The dragon jerked forward: Anders stepped back too hard on his twisted foot and fell, and Ejnar was up, running, pushing the sword into the dragon's throat, using the knife to hack a ragged line all the way across the muscular neck. Steaming, boiling, blood spilled out, over Ejnar's arms. His sword was too hot to hold, his knife lost in the deluge of bloody, his hands slippery and scalded. The dragon turned, and for a moment, its right eye was clear of blood. It started at Ejnar, stared into his eyes, one single eye, huge and golden, and then all the brightness was gone, and the dragon sighed, dead, to the ground. Ejnar stood, his arms black, his blades lost, his friend dead, half-frozen on the top of the mountain, the wind whipping at him. Ejnar, the man. Ejnar, the warrior. Ejnar, dragonslayer, new chieftain. He pulled Anders from the ground, and the two of them watched the blood spread slowly from the dragon, blackening the stone.