Thread: Vinland (Jokerama og JanÅgeSolstad)

A longhouse made of timber and thatched with uneven square bits of wood and the heavy green branches of pine trees. He'd only caught a glimpse of it before the hood was forced over his head and he was shoved inside. Then his arms and legs were tied to a thick support beam. And then he was beaten. And then he was left there, all alone, for he didn't know how long. No food, no water, no light, nothing, not for he didn't know how long. Whatever sunlight may have trickled through the minuscule imperfections in the house itself were completely suppressed by the hood, and so, in time, time itself lost meaning. For a time, he planned his escape. But it was pointless. When they'd taken him, the dark skinned savages with their straight black hair and foreign tongue, they'd disarmed him. And they'd beaten him, of course, so much so that he was still sore even now. Without food or water, it was a wonder that he was still alive, and he was in no state to fight off a horde of enemies alone. He doubted that he could still stand at this point he hadn't tried to in... he didn't know how long. It was supposed to have been a simple raid. Just another extended tour to Vinland, the continent on the other side of the world. There was jewelry there, and enough food to last the entire clan through even the worst Scandinavian winter, and there were slaves to be made. The best thing was that the natives of Vinland were simple and unorganized, and their weapons and tactics were cut rate. Pillaging and plundering on that continent was almost too easy. They had made good time to the new land. They arrived with the night and so their leader, a stout upstart who had been given his rank because of who his father was, had hesitated to send out scouts. We'll send them out in the morning, he had said, it's too late now if we all get a good night's rest, we'll be the better for it in the long run. He had disagreed with the idea, vehemently so as he recalled. But as was his convention, he kept his opinion to himself and sat down with the last of his salt cod and set about to making more arrows. He had done that every day of the journey and, in his opinion, he still didn't have enough arrows. They had made all of the difference that morning, when dozens of the savages had set upon them. Some were mounted on horseback, some were on foot, but all were armed, angry, and better organized than any other skrlingjar they had ever heard of. The Vikings had fought back--valiantly--but, dramatically outnumbered and outflanked, they hadn't a hope. He had watched as the savages had killed each of his comrades, one by one, sometimes taking souvenirs from their bodies, sometimes not. And still he hadn't stopped shooting them, not until they had climbed up into his perch and dragged him down. He was the only one they'd taken alive. What they intended to do with him, he couldn't conceive. Torture no longer seemed likely, not after being left alone for so long. Perhaps they had some ritual that they needed him for, perhaps they'd sacrifice him to appease one of their strange gods. But that didn't frighten him, not after what he'd done. After killing so many of his enemies, his seat at Valhalla was guaranteed, and he'd meet his Gods with his back straight and his head high. Ah. Sunlight. The door was open, it seemed, and several skrlingjar were entering the house. He raised his head as if to greet them, but one of them yanked his hood off and struck him across the jaw. He fell into the dirt, and the next thing he knew, he was being carried--dragged, really--out into the sunlight for the first time in... he still didn't know how long. More of the savages were gathered there, and not just men. There were women and children, too, aligned in two great parallel rows to watch him and curse at him. Where he was going, he wasn't sure, but an upraised platform some distance ahead of him seemed like a likely destination. So. They meant to kill him after all. When he realized that, he felt neither fear nor trepidation. Merely a sense of... was it relief? No, not quite. Certainty--that was it. A small part of him regretted his inability to avenge his comrades and to wipe the entire Vinland scum off the face of the planet, but that couldn't be helped now. All he could do now was to go to his death his his back straight and his head high. With that in mind, he suddenly struggled, freeing himself from the grasp of his captors. Then he walked on his own two feet. He swaggered, really. They could curse him and kill him as much as they liked, but still, he was Kjartan, son of Erik. His hands were still bound, else he might have wiped some of the stringy uncut yellow hair out of his face. But still, even after days without food or water or sunlight, he was taller and stronger and a hundred times the man that any of the savages were.