Free Runestone by Don Coldsmith Page B

the time, Nils felt a trifle uneasy at the warlike way Landsverk had deployed his party.
    There was a flash of motion at the boats. A man scrambledout from under one of the upturned vessels and sprinted away.
    “Shoot him!” shouted Helge.
    A swarm of arrows buzzed after the fleeing savage, and he fell, face forward, and lay still.
Why
, Nils thought,
why would he have the man killed?
    There was more activity at the boats. Men came swarming out, perhaps two or three from under each boat, where they had been hiding, and a short but decisive skirmish ensued. The savages were cut down quickly, by arrows, then by swords and axes, before they had time to ready their own bows. It appeared to Nils that they had been completely unprepared for an instant attack at first contact, unready to do battle. Helge Landsverk was in the thick of the fight, savagely wielding a battle-ax.
    One survivor, who had crept out under the far side of a boat, now jumped and fled. There was a shout, and men fitted arrows to bowstrings as the Skraeling ran, dodging and zigzaging across the meadow.
    “Let him go!” laughed Landsverk. “He can tell the others what sort of men the Norsemen are.”
    The landing party picked up some of the stone weapons of the Skraelings, and a bow or two as curiosities. Helge ordered one of the boats carried aboard while he methodically destroyed the others with his battle-ax. He came back up the plank, his face shining with excitement and his eyes glittering.
    “A fine engagement,” he chortled. “Seven enemy dead, a boat that we can use, two more destroyed, and only a few scratches to us,”
    “Helge, is this wise?” Nils blurted.
    “What? Of course. We have established our reputation as conquerors.”
    Nils’s heart sank. A phrase from a generation ago, used as a prayer in the north of Britain, flashed through his memory.
    “
Lord, save us from the fury of the Northmen
.”
    It was retold as a matter of historical interest now, a memory of a savage time. But, somehow, for Helge Landsverk, it had become a thing of the present. He saw himself as a leader of raiding and pillaging. This was no exploring expedition,setting up contacts for trade, Nils now realized. Landsverk was leading a raiding party.
    But for what purpose? The old Norse raids along the coast and the isles netted plunder. Property, gold, foodstuffs. What could the plunder of these savage Skraelings yield? There was only one conclusion. It was the killing itself that appealed to Helge Landsverk.
    Nils watched his friend as they drew in the plank and cast off. Helge paced up and down the
Norsemaiden
like a caged animal, his excitement not satisfied. What would he do next, Nils wondered. Was he really going mad?
    He looked around for Odin. The Skraeling was standing at the rail, numbly staring at the, carnage. Nils went to stand beside him. Contrary to his usual habit, Odin spoke first.
    “This is very bad,” he said quietly.
    “Are these your people?”
    The Skraeling looked up in surprise.
    “No.”
    He seemed puzzled for a moment, and then a light seemed to dawn in the dark eye.
    “Oh. No, not bad for them, Thorsson. Bad for
us
,”
    The council was short and decisive at the village. The survivor related how his companions had been hacked to pieces, and the elders looked from one to the other around the circle.
    “We still do not understand their purpose,” one said.
    “True, but they are vicious and cruel,” another pointed out. “Blackbird saw one cut off the hand of his own warrior.”
    “The hand?” inquired the scout, who had been out of touch with the village.
    “Yes, Blackbird saw them bury it.”
    There was much shaking of heads.
    “It makes no difference what they want, now,” Crow Wing observed. “They are too dangerous to ignore.”
    There were nods of agreement.
    “Then we are all agreed?” asked the chief elder.
    There was no dissenting vote, only more nods of approval.
    “So be it,” announced the elder, knocking the