The Viking's Chosen by Quinn Loftis (3)

I hated the sound of retching, but it was a common sound on any vessel, large or small, in the open ocean. The long ship carried us well, but the trip was hardly a smooth one. I walked down the middle of the massive deck, trying to ignore any man who made a break for the side to empty the contents of their stomach overboard, which wasn’t easy. There was a time I had been one of those lads, but not anymore. I had been on the boat enough times that my body had acclimated to the constant rocking and tossing quickly. I now seemed to instinctively shift and sway in rhythm with the ship as it rocked

“Torben, do you know how much farther we have on this blasted beast?” Brant called out to me. The huge man strained at the oars, but not nearly as much as those around him. Brant was so strong that he had to temper his vigor when it came to rowing, otherwise the boat would turn in a wide circle. Lately, I had taken to putting two men opposite him. This seemed to almost even out the power on both sides of the boat.

I had been asked that very question every few hours by what seemed like every warrior on the ship. Each time my answer had been the same. “No man can predict the mood swings of the ocean. We will arrive when she wants us to.”

“Well I hope we get there soon. I much prefer the haft of a hammer in my hands to these oars!”

“You complain like a child, Brant.” I responded. “Should I have left you at home and brought Eric’s newborn babe instead?”

The splash of the ship’s oars drowned out his muttered reply, but I distinctly heard the words dragon’s arse as he turned back toward the front of the ship. All the men grumbled, of course, but rarely loud enough for me to hear them. I cared not if they despised my answer, only that they obeyed orders. My job was to make them into mighty soldiers, ensure they were the strongest warriors possible, and then lead them into battle. I was not trying to win their favor. I was trying to keep them alive.

Three skeids had set out just over two fortnights ago, each containing sixty men. Magnus commanded at the helm of the lead boat, its prow intricately carved into the shape of a giant sea monster. I could hear him bellowing across the water, imploring his men to row faster. I had to coax my own shipmates to keep up, though I would have preferred to let the sail, bearing the image of the mighty grey wolf of clan Hakon, do most of the work, yet I followed Magnus’ lead.

Our boats were light and strong, the muscle and sinew of our warriors and the winds of the gods driving the hulls across the open water. The head of a snarling dire wolf graced the prow of my skeid, and I prayed my men would fight like our patron symbol—as a pack, together ferocious and unrelenting.

The third boat, its prow adorned with the head of a dragon, was commanded by the jarl’s lieutenant, Halvard. He was a man loyal to the clan and had seen his share of battles. I knew he too would be reluctant to push his men to their breaking-point to keep up with Magnus’ merciless pace.

On the evening of our thirtieth day at sea, our king finally called to halt. Groaning as they dropped their oars, the warriors practically collapsed into the bottom of the boat, each massaging their aching muscles as the darkness of the ocean seemed to swallow up any bit of light. I prayed to the sea giant, Aegir, that our voyage would soon be complete and that we would land on the beaches of England before my men lost their will to fight.

Morning dawned brightly the following day and I woke to the sound of snapping of sails as mighty gusts of wind propelled our ship forward, its bow cleaving the waves as if it were fighting its own endless battle with the sea. I hopped up, feeling more refreshed than I had since we began our journey, and clambered toward the back of the boat and took the handle of the side rudder. Eric, a loyal soldier who had been manning the rudder throughout the night, grunted his thanks and fell on a pile of furs like a contented cat, happy to enjoy some rest as the rest of the men began finding their place among the oars. The early morning sun warmed our backs, all grumblings from the previous day lost on the strong winds.

Even though I had only sailed to England once, I knew we were nearing our destination. Skeld, the clan’s cartographer who had travelled the world more than any of us, had signaled that we should reach our destination in a day or two. Soon, I would call the men to attention and begin our battle preparations. We had practiced our landing and subsequent advancement multiple times, but I wanted the plan fresh in their mind when our boots hit dry ground. There was no way to tell what would be waiting for us, and our success depended upon the element of surprise.

As I went over the plans again, Brant ambled to the back of the boat, plopping his huge form down upon the platform next to me. I expected one of his typical remarks, but none came. He just stared out across the horizon pensively.

“Something on your mind, vinr?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.

“You name me Friend, eh? Likewise, do I call you, Torben? How long have we known each other?”

“All our lives. You know this. What troubles you?” I stared at him, wondering what brought on the melancholy plaguing my normally boisterous friend. After several more silent moments, he finally spoke again.

“My sleep troubles me.”

I chuckled. “How much sleep did you expect to get while being tossed about in a long boat?”

“Not that.” The huge man growled. “I have no trouble falling asleep. It is what happens afterward that has me troubled. Dreams…or a dream, I should say. The same one visits me over and over, like a faithful dog that comes when it’s called. Except, I am not summoning the dream. It has haunted me every night of our voyage. I fall into my bed and hope it does not come, but it always does.”

I grunted. “And what is this dream about?”

“You.”

“Me?” I ask, feigning nervousness. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said called you friend. I take that back.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and took an exaggerated step back from him.

“By the gods, man, be serious! I have something to say to you before the fighting starts and I want you to hear it. Now will you listen?” He barked.

Realizing my friend was indeed serious, I nodded. “Go on.”

Brant took in a deep breath and continued. “In the dream, I am hiking through the forest, tracking a wild boar after having wounded it with an arrow. I notice a raven flying above me, but I pay it no mind and continue my pursuit. Moments pass, and then I notice two ravens flying above me, then a third. They swoop down, cawing and pecking at me. I curse them and swing my axe, driving them off momentarily, still intent on finding the boar. The next thing I know, the number of birds has doubled, and then tripled. I try to drive them off but there are just too many. I begin to run, thinking that I can outdistance them, but they chase, continuing to peck and claw at my flesh. I run even faster, a blind panic taking over me. I cannot see where I am going through their wings, nor can I hear over their incessant cawing. Stumbling, I fall forward onto my belly. Then, as if someone had snuffed out a candle, all is silent. The birds are gone. I look up and see you standing with your back to me in full battle armor, carrying your sword and shield. You are staring at a large stone chair, as if you are thinking about whether you should sit in it. Turning to me, you seem confused until you recognize me. You take a step toward me, possibly to help me, when a huge brown bear, larger than I have ever seen, emerges from the thick underbrush and charges right at you. You turn just in time to bring your shield up between your body and the bear’s slashing claws as you both tumble to the ground. Before I can move to help, the ravens return, but this time, they ignore me and descend upon you and the bear. I scream, trying to move, but I am pinned to the ground. From within the tangle of birds, I hear your screams, and then…then I wake up.”

I did not know what to make of Brant’s story. Unsure of what to do, I simply stared at him while trying to find words to offer. Finally, though my mouth felt impossibly dry, I spoke. “And you have had this same dream every night we have been at sea.”

“Every night, hersir.”

“And you feel this dream has some hidden meaning?”

“The gods often speak to mortals through dreams, do they not?” he asked me in return.

“I know not.” I responded honestly. “They have never spoken to me.”

“You never believe anything you cannot see with your own eyes, Torben. The man who was raised by the Oracle still refuses to believe in the workings of the gods.”

“Oh, I believe in the gods, Brant—never doubt that. I just have trouble believing they speak to us. Would you leave paradise to meddle with foolish mortals?”

“Have you not seen your mother’s prophesies come true?” He countered.

“Aye, I have, but I’ve seen them remain only visions. How can I know what is true from the delusions of an old woman?”

“You cannot, and that is probably the point of the whole thing,” Brant responded, “but I would wager a cart-full of new longswords that this dream does mean something.”

“Okay, self-appointed Oracle,” I said pointedly. “What does it mean?”

“It means you, my commander, are in danger.”

“Me? You were the one being chased by ravens.”

“But they let me go in the end. They only wanted to propel me to you so I could see what would happen. Don’t you see? It is the bear, you fool—the bear signifies danger, not the ravens.”

I made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. It was not that I didn’t believe in signs and omens. Living with a real prophetess, I had seen too many false prophets of the gods over the years. These charlatans seemed drawn to her, as if seeking validation. But there was something more that troubled me. While Brant had recounted his dream, my mother’s words had kept coming back to me. A young warrior will take his rightful place as leader of his people. Somewhere, deep down, I knew her words and his vision were connected. I wanted to ignore it, but I could not. Brant and my mother’s warnings rang true. Upheaval was coming to the clan, and I could only hope I was not the source of that upheaval.

“And what is this danger?” I finally asked. But before Brant could respond, a loud bellow rang out across the water.

“Land ho!” A deep voice cried.

We both turned to see Magnus, leaning out over the prow of his own longboat and gripping the railing. His long, shaggy, beard and hair flew wildly in every direction. He bellowed again. “Land ho!” It was only then I noticed the large bear-skin cloak he wore, flapping behind him in the ocean breeze.