Valhalla's Champions: A Viking Tale

Valhalla's Champions
Introduction

I've tried writing game-based stories before, but never a Civ one, and never something this lengthy. So, this is my first attempt at that. This was inspired by Sisiutil's Princes of the Universe, so I must of course acknowledge that first. I'll be trying to take on that same level of detail - with a few twists of course - and provide small stories within the larger epic of the Viking empire. We'll see how it goes.

You're encouraged to comment, certainly. And anyone who'd like a 'cameo' or to contribute should PM me. Thanks for reading.

Prologue

Births are always painful and bloody affairs, be they the births of children or of nations.

But a child’s birth has triumphs. Points of completion and accomplishment. Here is a head; here shoulders; here a screaming, slippery mass of human life. What, then, are the triumphs of the birth of a nation? The milestones, the accomplishments? At what point is a nation simply a tribe of savage men and women squatting in the dust, and when does it become something more? Here are roads and mines and farms; here men of learning and power; here soldiers with flashing steel and thumping boots. But none of these things signal the end of the civilization’s birth. It must be born again, anew, each year and each era, a phoenix rising from its ashes but with subtle new differences, time after time. Sometimes for the better, all too often for the worse, but always striving and searching for greatness. Here, then, is a tale of the constant rebirth of a nation stumbling toward greatness.






Chapter 1 - Progress

When are we leaving?” the small child asked. Whined, really. Most of the savage men and women squatting in the dust of the clearing gave him no notice, but two – one man and one woman – glanced up. The man snorted and went back to hacking apart a small animal with a blunt stone axe. The woman walked over to the child, and squatted near him.

“We’ll leave soon. You know that we have to wait for the shaman to read the signs, so that we leave when the Great Sky Spirit wants us to, yes? We’ll leave soon.” She patted the small child’s head, then peered closer as her hand found a small bug. She picked it out and flicked it away.

“When will the shaman talk to the Sky Spirit, then?” the child whined, louder and more piercing this time. Across the clearing the shaman – clad in the ancient wolf skin cape of his craft – started from his reverie and peered guiltily across at the small child. The old shaman had died last winter, and the new one felt himself far too young to have taken on the responsibilities. He realizes that a wolf-skin cloak and staff of animal skulls does not a wise man make, after all . . .

“I will go and cleanse myself for a ritual!” he announced haughtily. Somewhat haughtily, anyway. The cracking voice at the end did nothing to help his stature. The small circle of men and women that was his whole world paid him little more heed than they had paid to the small child who had spurred him on. “Who will act as my guard?” he continues.

People pay more notice, now. They have come to the crux of the thing, and the moment. The old shaman’s guards had gone with him on the cleansings, and had spoken to him of their thoughts. Some harbored the belief that when the shaman read the signs, he was only saying what he thought to be true, not what the Sky Spirit said to be true. And if his guards helped him to make up his mind . . .

“I will go,” says a young man. He is broad of frame, but lacks the muscles that years of hunting will someday put on that frame. “Me,” another man grunts, standing. “And me,” says a third. Three are required to go with the shaman, but more are allowable. All eyes turn toward the large heap of a man in the center of the circle. He had gone with the old shaman more times than any could count, but the new shaman had never before conducted a cleansing, and so this man had never guarded the new shaman. All wait for the space of one breath as he does not move, two breaths as he pretends not to notice the eyes on him, three as he scratches himself, four as he yawns wide. Finally the will of the new shaman, conscious of the insult, cracks as surely as his voice had earlier. “Come! We will go up that mountain.” He points north, and his staff makings gentle staccato sounds as the skulls rattle together. He sets off immediately, not waiting for his guard to gather up weapons and food, and even forgetting – in his haste – to limp with effort, as he has decided a shaman should do.

Keep it going.

good story so far this could turn into a really good classic, keep up the good work

Good story so far. I can't wait to see how this will develop.

Thanks, all! I've got an idea for this first story arc, and have played enough of the game to maybe get a second one, but after that we'll just have to see where it goes.

Also, technical forum sorta question. Does anyone know the easiest way for me to cut down the picture size a bit? I don't know if it's just a little too big for a single shot on anyone else's browser, but it's bugging me that I have to scroll over. I know, forum n00b question . . .

Progress, Part II



Atop the small rise, looking back at the two fires of their camp, the four men sit on their haunches and peer into the smaller blaze that burns among them. Nearby a dead, pink beast is splayed on the ground. One of the men leans over and roughly hacks another chunk from the animal with his stone hand axe, then throws it onto the hot stone in the center of the blaze. The blood sizzles and pools and drips from the stone.

“Why should we leave?” says a youth. He has only recently earned his first kill and become a man, though the stubble on his chin says he still has some way to go.

“We always leave,” says the oldest of the men there. He is from another generation and should be revered, but a bear’s claw destroyed his right arm and his usefulness to the tribe is in question. Now all he does is split stones for the warriors to use on their hunts. He will be left behind when there is not enough food this winter, and he knows it. “We stay somewhere for a while, and then we leave.”

“Why?” asks the first youth again. “Why do we leave?”

“We have hunted all we can, and must find new food,” chimes in the second youth. He has two summers since his first kill, and knows that once he can find a proper sacrifice he will burn it for the Great Sky Spirit, and be given a young woman as his mate.

The first youth whirls on him, his face contorted with eagerness and ghastly in the flickering light. “Exactly!” he says. He has heard precisely what he wanted to, and now will pounce. “We must find new food!” He pokes at the sizzling haunch in the fire with a bone. “We have been here since the winter, and we still have food. And there is more here than we could use. We are not the greatest hunters in the clan, and yet we walked up a hill, and killed a meal greater than we could eat, and we will carry it back down tomorrow. And there are the pink four-legs here, and the big four-legs over there,” he gestures with a pork bone to the east, though he has no name for it, “and the swimming beasts in the river, and the sea. Why should we leave?”

“It’s true, we have enough food. But we always leave. It’s what we do,” says the oldest among them.

“We always go hungry in the winter. That’s what we do as well. Would you like to keep doing that, just because it’s what we do?” challenges the first youth.

“We always get wet when the Sky Spirit pisses on us, too,” says the second with a laugh. “Are we going to stop doing that, too?” The three laugh, but the first youth continues.

“Yes! We can stop doing that, too. We usually hide under the trees when the Sky Spirit is angry. Why not bring the trees to us?”

“But . . . they’re trees. They don’t move,” says the shaman, speaking for the first time. He has decided that this man is mad, and must be killed.

The youth picks up a flaming brand from the fire. “This was a tree. It moved. WE moved it. With our hands, and our stones.”

“That’s not a tree, it’s a branch,” says the second youth.

“Why not trees, then? Bigger branches. Move them. Stay out of the way when the Sky Spirit makes water. Stay here and find easy food. Maybe even bring the food to us. Keep the four-legs nearby so we don’t have to go so far. Why not do it this way? It’s easier. It’s better.”

He is certainly mad, thinks the shaman. But there is something to what he says. “Quiet now, and to sleep. I must perform the cleansing.”

****

In the morning, the guards and the shaman hike back down into the tribe’s camp, carrying the remains of the animal. It is seen as a good omen, and the fires from the earlier night are built up again, and the meat is placed on the cooking stones. The first youth, his mind now alight with new possibilities, looks at the cooking stones and thinks, Why find a new stone at each campsite? These are good. We can stay here and use these stones.

The shaman, using the sharp bone knife he inherited from the old shaman, cuts out the large, deep red chunk of the animal and lays it on a stone before him. The tribe gathers around him in a loose circle as he slices into the meat with the bone knife. Blood and water trickle out, and he splits the two halves and peers at them.

“Well, when do we leave?” rumbles the huge man, the old guard of the old shaman.

“We don’t,” says the new shaman, keeping the break out of his voice.

“Never?” says the huge man.

The new shaman points to a small blood clot with his bone knife. “This here is an ill omen of travel. To go would anger the Great Sky Spirit. And this over here . . .” he is pointing with his knife when the huge man bends, picks up the stone on which the liver lays, and brings it down on the shaman’s head. From his sitting position, he never had a chance. The stone crushes his skull and the new shaman falls back, head half pinned under the rock, spasms racking his now-lifeless body. There is some shock among the tribe at the suddenness of it all, but not the death. Death is omnipresent, and omnipotent.

“He was sinsyg,” says the huge man, using the term that means head sickness. Most of the tribe shrug and seem to accept it. “We will go that way,” he points, “now. Come.”

“Who will be shaman?” someone asks in a matter-of-fact tone. The new-now-old shaman is still twitching.

“My son will be,” says the huge man. He pushes the rock from the shaman’s body with one hand, flips him over, and pulls the wolf skin cloak from his shoulders. The huge man’s son steps forward and takes the cloak and picks up the skull staff from the ground. The huge man looks around, sees that they have left nothing behind, and begins walking. The tribe shuffles after him, but soon stops when they realize that one of the young men is not following. He is standing near the dead shaman, fists balled, staring after the tribe.

“Come,” says the large man. He beckons once.

“No,” the youth growls.

The large man shrugs, turns, and continues walking. At the back of the tribe, the old stone worker and the other youth from the previous night’s campfire on the hill look back at the first youth. The flint-knapper knows he is dead in the winter anyway, and without a look at the tribe he walks back to the dead shaman and the crazy young man. The second youth, so near to his mating, looks at the tribe, back to his two friends, and back at the tribe. Finally he makes the choice of inactivity, and dejectedly sits while his tribe walks away from him, and his two friends go about dragging the body of the shaman into the river.



***

The summer stretches on and the three work together, building simply from the ideas of Sinsyg. They call him Crazy One, even though whenever he hears the word he thinks of the shaman with his head split open, whom the giant had called sinsyg. Holgen – crippled one – and Erk are bitter at first that Sinsyg has doomed them to live alone, but the necessities of life soon invade their world and they must work – and work hard – if they are to survive. Sinsyg hounds them day and night with his ideas, mocking them for their dependence on tradition. When they say that they have enough food, he tells them that they will eat it, and will need more tomorrow, so why not get some today? When Holgen says that they each have an axe, he tells them that they will break them, so why not make more now?

As it begins to get colder, Sinsyg insists that they start moving the trees, the crazy notion that began all the trouble in the first place. He and Erk find the smallest that have already fallen, the easiest to move, and begin dragging them toward the clearing that they have been in for months, the place they’re calling ‘home.’ It isn’t enough for Sinsyg, though, and all three of them spend days hacking away at the bases of the trees with their carved chunks of stone, Holgen re-sharpening them when they wear down. When they do cut down the larger trees, it takes all three of them long hours of grunting and sweating to drag them into place.

The first rains come - the Sky Spirit emptying his water on them - and they’re still not finished, though they can now see what Sinsyg is thinking in his plans. The mud churned under their feet in the rains gives him yet another idea. He begins to work alone, only calling on one of them when he needs assistance carrying a heavy load. He places the trees one atop the other, and mixes dirt and water from the river to shove into the gaps in the trees. The other two he urges to begin gathering even more food, hunting the little pink four-legs and the big black and white four-legs, and pulling the slimy things from the river and the sea nearby. They cook them different ways, hoping that one way or another will last for longer before they cannot be eaten, and some do. Not enough to last through the winter, but enough so that they will only rarely have to leave the shelter of the thing that Sinsyg is building.

By the time the land dies, Sinsyg is finished, and the three of them are huddled inside their small dwelling. They have to stoop to enter it and the smoke from their fire billows and curls around them, but it is warm, and the snows that pile atop it and around it do not affect them. Inside, Sinsyg spends the winter with more ideas, and more, until even Holgen and Erk are forced to start seeing the world his way. How can they keep their meat even longer before eating it? Can they build something to keep the small, ticklish, crawling things from getting to their meat? If they dig the floor of their hut lower, won’t that make the top of it higher? Can they bring live animals to their home, and then keep them there until they want to eat them, instead of chasing them down whenever they’re hungry?

They go outside occasionally to hunt for more game, which is scarce, or to go to the ocean for fish, because the river has frozen over. One day, when the sun has risen and is shining more brightly than before, they hear voices from the direction of the river.

They have become so accustomed to only themselves that new voices are a shock to them. They grab their stone axes, now fastened to short branches using the parts of dead animals they have eaten, and rush outside.

Sinsyg has grown in the year since the tribe left. He has eaten well and worked hard, and is now a lean, muscled young man instead of the gawking youth of before. Holgen, too, has regained some of his vitality, forcing himself to do with his one good arm what he used to accomplish with two. Erk, though, has undergone the greatest changes. He was always large, but the work with Sinsyg of hauling trees and hunting boar and dragging them back to camp has put meat onto his already large frame. His beard is nearly full, and streaked with a deep red.

They see, through the sparse trees and across the river, the remnants of their tribe. Whereas before there were two hands-of-hands, nearly fifty people, now they see one at best, maybe fewer. Among them is the large man’s son still wearing the wolf skinned shaman’s cloak that is now tattered and soiled, but the large man is nowhere to be seen.

Two of the older men of the tribe begin to cross the ice, but Sinsyg growls deeply and runs toward them followed by Erk and Holgen soon after, though it is unclear whether they’re following him or chasing him. The two men stop in the center of the river’s frozen surface, unsure of what to do, when Erk catches his friends and grabs him, slowing him down and restraining him.

“Let us see what they want, friend. Do not be sinsyg,” he says with a chuckle. His friend, still a boy in many ways, laughs as well, and relaxes, and soon Erk lets him go.

“What is that?” says one of the old men, pointing back toward their hut.

“A house,” Sinsyg says. It is the name they’d decided for it, and he doesn’t expect the word to mean anything to the tribe. It pleases him that they do not understand.

“Why are you here?” Erk asks, blunt.

“We have had a hard winter.” A glance at the tribe makes that abundantly clear. “Many have died. His father was among them,” he says, pointing to the man in the wolf skin. The mixture of rage and shame and guilt among the tribe seems to say that it was not winter that killed him. “We know there is food here. That it is plentiful. That it is why you said we should stay here. We want to stay here, now.”

Erk glances only once at Sinsyg before making the decision for himself. “And you will listen to what he says, and what I say, and what he says?”

“Yes, yes,” the two men say, and the tribe is nodding behind them.

Sinsyg walks down to stand next to his friend, dropping his axe to the frozen ground and opening his arms wide. “Then let me show you what we have done . . .”

KonisForce said:

Thanks, all! I've got an idea for this first story arc, and have played enough of the game to maybe get a second one, but after that we'll just have to see where it goes.

Also, technical forum sorta question. Does anyone know the easiest way for me to cut down the picture size a bit? I don't know if it's just a little too big for a single shot on anyone else's browser, but it's bugging me that I have to scroll over. I know, forum n00b question . . .

Click to expand...

Awesome start, and really well-written! I'm looking forward to more of this one! I had to copy it into a text editor to read it, though...

The easiest way to deal with the picture problem would probably be to put the pictures in spoiler tags, so you can open the "spoiler" and see the picture then close it again to make the post readable. Otherwise you probably have to use photoshop or gimp or something to shrink the pictures down.

Polycrates said:

Awesome start, and really well-written! I'm looking forward to more of this one! I had to copy it into a text editor to read it, though...

Click to expand...

Yeah. No good to make your readership work hard, they might leave!

Spoiler trick seems to work for now, until I figure out some better way to do it. Thanks for the tip.

KonisForce said:

Thanks, all! I've got an idea for this first story arc, and have played enough of the game to maybe get a second one, but after that we'll just have to see where it goes.

Also, technical forum sorta question. Does anyone know the easiest way for me to cut down the picture size a bit? I don't know if it's just a little too big for a single shot on anyone else's browser, but it's bugging me that I have to scroll over. I know, forum n00b question . . .

Click to expand...

The easiest way, I think, is using Paint. Open the picture with Paint, and go to Image, Stretch/Skew. Then make it smaller by typing in a percentage <100 in both the Stretch options. Save and upload.


BTW, very well written story, you got some talent for it.

another great section, this is starting to sound good, keep it up!

Alrighty, I shrunk down the screenies. Is that better for people? Just trying to figure out what's easiest. And I have another post ready, but want to figure out where I'm going next after that before I just jump in.

Progress, Part III

Sinsyg rolled over once, yawned, and raised his arms above his head in a back-cracking stretch. The furs and skins in his sleeping pit shifted with him as he climbed from the floor to sit on a half-stump stool next to a low table. He cast his eyes around his small home; sleeping pit, gourds and jugs, table, chairs, skins, a few spears, two hand axes. A small annex held a bit of dried meat, a few plates, and some bone utensils and instruments.

He wiped the sleep from his aged eyes and walked to his doorway, pushing aside the skin covering and walking into the light. From his house’s position partway up the hill he could see south over most of the small village, all the way to the ocean. He remembered from his youth the trees, the tall stands of trees that used to cover the whole of where the village now prospered. The site of that first hut with Holgen and Erk – built over time and again as his own knowledge increased – was now the central plaza of the village. He grabbed his sandals and began walking down into the plaza.

A small voice piped “Morning, uncle Sinsyg!” using the word that meant ‘older man who isn’t my father’ instead of truly uncle. He glanced over at a young girl who was being accompanied by an entourage of two even smaller children, one boy and one girl. The two small ones echoed, “Mornin’ unk Sinsyg!” and darted off into the plaza.

When he reached the plaza he sat and began tying his sandals, first placing his foot flat on the thick leather of the sole, then wrapping the long leather strips up his legs. The three children had run a few laps around the central well and were now back, sitting at his feet and watching him.

“Why’re you tying your sandals that way?” asked the oldest child.

“Because I have tried many ways, and I prefer this one,” Sinsyg answered patiently. He was an old man, and he no longer had the time or inclination to convince everyone of everything all at once. He answered questions as they were posed, and imparted his wisdom simply and slowly.

“Should I tie my sandals that way?” the child continued.

“And me?” asked one of the smaller ones.

“No, you should not,” Sinsyg answered, “unless you, too, try many ways and prefer this one. You should decide what is best, and do that.” The children nodded as if he had said something important, which he had, and they had understood it, which they most likely had not.

“Are you poisoning the minds of my children again?” asked a voice. Sinsyg turned his head quickly and regretted it at the pinching in his upper back. “Still have the old pain, friend?” Erk came and sat next to him on the bench. He gathered up the two smaller children on his knees, though only one of them is his.

“A bit, yes.”

“I told you not to climb that tree. There was nothing up there worth falling for.”

“I’m sure there was,” Sinsyg said with a laugh. “The perfect branch, or some such nonsense.” Sinsyg stared around the small cluster of huts belonging to individuals and families, but then his eye fell on the larger structure, the meeting hall they had built four – no, five now – summers past. He had designed it using the knowledge gained from building many many huts, and had tried new techniques as well made available by more workers and better tools. And to think, there had been nothing here but trees when he had decided to stay.



He marveled anew that these children would know nothing but this, nothing but the idea of living in one place and not moving every new moon. He and Erk, and Erk’s mate, and two others were the only ones left alive who remembered the time before the village. The time of the horrible winters, and the constant moving, and the carrying everything you owned on your back. His own mate – died so long ago birthing a stillborn child – would have been the sixth. Everyone else in Nidaros knew only this; houses with walls, and winters spent indoors, and the same river and hill and ocean day after day. Sinsyg wondered for the thousandth time whether he had been correct to convince everyone to stay, but just as he knew that he had been. The tribe had been a small handful of people when they had returned to the spot by the river, and now how many were they? Two of that size, or maybe even three. Sinsyg lacked the words and the wisdom to know how many there were, but he knew that if he counted them, there would be more. Many more. Before, women could not make a child for three or even four years, because until the child could keep up with the tribe, she had to carry it on her hip or her back and feed it herself. Now, small children walked and crawled in the plaza, by open doorways, and there was no need to run or move. Erk himself had a hand of children, more than anyone had ever had before.

And they had food to feed them all. They had built small houses to put pigs in, but they kept getting out, and Sinsyg didn’t know how to keep them in, or what they should eat. But he would find out, or someone else would after he was gone. And they had spears to hunt and fish, and to protect themselves . . .

“Is your mind fishing again, friend?” Erk chided gently. Sinsyg shook his head, and was certain that he’d had what his wife had called his ‘thinking face’ on.

“Yes, it is. Alright, I’m headed to the river. Anyone else?”

Erk shook his head. “I’ll be down there soon, but I’ve got to take care of these for a bit. My mate is off gathering clams at the seashore, and I’ve got to make sure these beasts stay out of trouble.”

Sinsyg nodded and smiled and stood. He ruffled the hair of whichever child was closest, then headed out from the small cluster of huts toward the river. The way was bare of trees, another reminder of the change from earlier, and most of those trees now made up the huts of the village. The stumps still littered the area, and Sinsyg thought again that they’d have to find some way to get rid of those. One of the younger men had built his house with the stump in the center, as a table, but that could only work a few times.

Down at the riverside Sinsyg found a likely rock and gingerly sat down. Three of the young men were out in a small cove of the river, pushing about some contraption of logs and things lashed together with bands of animal hide. A fourth was putting the finishing touches on something much more complex off to one side. Sinsyg stared at his work for a bit, trying to piece together what he was doing. It was made of wood, that was certain. And not whole logs, but pieces of them. Sinsyg had seen this young man at the river day after day, splitting logs by hand with an axe. He would sit a log on its side, and split a small bit off from the rest, and then force it away from the log until he was left with a long, springy strip of wood.

These had been tied together with strips of hide, and now the youth was stretching whole hides across the bottom of it, then lashing them against the sides, covering the bottom of it with leather. Sinsyg’s curiosity finally got the better of him, and he hauled himself to his feet. The other three boys had floated down the river and were trying to get to the shore, but they would have a tough time getting the pile of logs back up against the current.

“Hail, Sinsyg,” said the young man when he saw him approach.

“Hail, Buod.” Sinsyg ran a hand over the thing. Something about the curves of the wood was immensely pleasing.

“I am almost ready to use it. Would you like to help?” Sinsyg nodded, and took the offered hide and began lashing it to the frame.

“So, by ‘use it’ you mean . . . .” Sinsyg offered.

“Float it. Go out on the water.” Sinsyg took a step back and stared at the thing. He knew that logs floated, and that a raft of them would support a few men, maybe more, to go out and hunt larger fish or pull up the bigger clams from the bottom out past the breakers. He must have looked doubtful, because Buod insisted. “Elder, have you seen that logs float? Why do they?” Sinsyg did not know, and knew better than to guess. “Would more or less log float better? I have decided that it is not how much of something there is, but how much there . . . .hmm . . . how much there isn’t. That makes no sense.”

“It makes some little sense. Try again.”

“I took a pig’s bladder and blew my breath into it, yes? And I put that on the water, and it floated better than any log.”

“So, this is a giants pig’s bladder?” Sinsyg asked cautiously.

“Well, yes. In a way. I think all I have to do is find some way to put my breath under the water. And I hope this will do it. To keep the river outside.” Boud tightened another hide and fixed it in place. “I have made smaller ones to see if they work. I would not just jump in without thinking. Didn’t you build many huts before you made our hall?”

Sinsyg blinked at that. “Yes, I did. That is true.” They worked on in silence for a few moments. “What will you do with it?”

“I could go down the river. I could fish out in the sea, where the fish are bigger, or pull the bigger clams from the bottom, out past where we can walk to get them. I could do if better than the rafts of logs we use now,” Buod said confidently. Sinsyg only smiled and nodded, recognizing his own long-gone self assurance.

They worked most of the morning until the sun was at its height. By then a few more people, including Erk, had wandered down to the river; some to fish, others to watch what was happening. Buod announced that he was ready, and Erk came down to help carry his thing to the water, because Sinsyg’s back was no good for weights.

They placed it on the sandy shale at the edge of the river, and Buod climbed into the water ahead of it. He tugged it into the water and saw that it stayed above, not dipping in. He peered into the thing and saw that there was water inside, but less than there was outside. He pulled it back to the shore and got in.

He had a stick with him and pushed off from the shore, drifting out into the center of the current. He turned to wave and the thing tipped sharply. The side of it dipped below the water and suddenly the river was rushing in, and Buod was spilled into the river. He came up spluttering and cursing, clinging to his wood-and-leather contraption. Everyone on the bank was barking their laughter at the young man drenched in the river.

“It worked, though! Did you see it? It worked.”

Erk yelled back, “It worked, Buod. But you didn’t!” They laughed all the more at this even as men waded into the water to pull Buod and his thing from the river. They turned it over and dumped the water out, and Buod excitedly got in and pushed off again.

They spent the afternoon watching the young men take turns in it, floating about on the river for a few minutes until the weight on the wood and leather forced water into the craft and it began to sink. Then they would pull it to shore, tip the water out, and go in again.

“There’s worse ways to spend an afternoon, my friend, than playing in the river under the summer sun,” Erk said.

“We never got to do that when we were younger,” Sinsyg answered.

“Because we were always hungry. Or cold. Or running from something that wanted to eat us.” Erk turned to his friend. “You changed that.”

Sinsyg nodded, but said nothing. He sat staring at the young men floating down the river, and his mind kept on floating, out to sea and to the islands they could see and beyond, to lands they could not.

“You know, it’s getting hard for our young men to get their first kill,” Sinsyg said in a leading tone.

“I’m sure I don’t want to know where this is going.”

“And your mate is thinking up ways to keep pigs nearby. Where’s the honor in a kill if all you do is walk over to a pig that’s tied up and poke it? No, we need a new way for our boys to show their manhood.” He pointed to Buod on the river. “That. Not new ideas, we cannot force those. But going places. Exploring. Looking around.”

“Is this Sinsyg? The same who told us all to stay put? Now telling us to leave?”

Now Sinsyg turned toward his friend. “We have to. They have to,” he said, pointing to the young men. “There are more of us here than there ever were. Some time, many summers from now, there will be too many for the food we have. And some will need to leave. Some will want to leave. And we should know where to go.”

“Another sinsyg idea, eh?” In the years since it was first uttered, his name had gone from meaning a sickness of the head to a flash of insight, a realization.

“Promise me that it will happen. My back is sore. I have no children. My eyes are clouding. I’ll be with the Great Sky Spirit soon. But you are still strong, with men-children, and they listen to you. Promise me.”

“Don’t worry, Sinsyg. The young men will go out beyond our borders, and we will spread. I’m absolutely certain of it . . .”

End Chapter I

Excellent. I can't wait for more!

another great update keep it up

Interlude &#8211; Ooh, Shiny



Sigurd peered out over the landscape, squinting in the late afternoon sun. He ignored the buzzing flies and the pounding heat, but was conscious of the subtlest shifts in the winds and the movements of the trees stretching down to the plain below him. Behind him the other four of his small band of scouts lounged atop the hill, two crouching in the shade of a rock, another two passing a skin of water back and forth.

&#8220;No fire tonight,&#8221; he said, and was met with a low groan. &#8220;Shh, not too loud. And you know I&#8217;m right.&#8221; He continued looking down toward the north and the east, back toward the land route to Nidaros. In the forest at the bottom of the hill a flock of birds suddenly exploded from the trees and took wing, heading south west, then curving south. Sigurd looked smug, for the birds had confirmed what he thought; someone was in the forest.

&#8220;I hate it when he&#8217;s right,&#8221; one of the shade-sitters muttered to the other one, loud enough to earn a scowl that broke into a smile.

&#8220;Then your life is full of woe, for I am always right,&#8221; Sigurd answered. He came to sit with them and accepted the skin of water. &#8220;There&#8217;s something down there. If it&#8217;s friend, then they can wait a day. If it&#8217;s looking for a meal, I&#8217;d rather not tell it where we are.&#8221;

&#8220;It could be someone from the settlement that Yark found a few summers back,&#8221; one suggested. &#8220;Amst, or Steda, or somesuch?&#8221;

Sigurd shook his head. &#8220;I have an idea. Why don&#8217;t you go down into the forest and ask if they&#8217;re friendly? But if they&#8217;re not, ask them to throw your head back after they cut it off, so that you can tell us if they mean you any harm.&#8221;

&#8220;But, if they cut off my head, won&#8217;t you already . . .&#8221; he began, but the others were already laughing at his expense.

&#8220;Eat what you can now, before we move on. We have another hand&#8217;s width of the sun before we find a place downwind of this hill.

&#8220;If we have no fire, how can we make a sacrifice to the Earth Mother?&#8221;

&#8220;We&#8217;ll just have to make two tomorrow night and hope she understands.&#8221;

****

Sigurd&#8217;s band woke in the half-light heralding the beginning of the dawn. The birds of the forest had barely begun to sing before they were on their feet, skin packs on their backs, and they were ready to move. Two had stayed awake until moonrise to see if there was any sign of those following them, but there had been no fire or noise, and they had gone to sleep.

Sigurd had led them west the night before, to sleep at the forest&#8217;s edge, and now he took them back to the north and east to circle around whoever they had spotted the night before. If it was a pack of animals, the breezes would hopefully be going toward the water and their scent would not be carried. If it was people then they could at least be in a position to watch them pass.

They moved quickly and quietly through the forest until the sun was fully above the horizon, and then Sigurd pointed to a few locations and they settled down to wait, making sure that they were in sight of one another. Sigurd himself had an eye on the crest of the hill they had stood on the day before. After a few minutes, he realized he&#8217;d put himself right on a nest of ants, but he couldn&#8217;t risk spoiling their ambush by moving now.

They crouched in the underbrush for a long time, long enough for the sun to rise and for the land to begin to warm towards the day&#8217;s true temperature. It was then that they heard the squealing. From the other side of the hill came sounds of people, seemingly women, and not many of them. Sigurd glanced at one of his companions, the one with the sharpest ears, who simply raised both shoulders in a gesture that had come to mean &#8220;who knows?&#8221; Sigurd muttered to himself, then quietly moved from his crouching position. He beckoned for the four other scouts to follow him.

They kept in a crouch as they neared the top of the rise, and the squealing soon broke out again. This time, they could clearly discern it. &#8220;This one, this one, look here!&#8221; It was clearly in the language of Nidaros. Sigurd glanced around at his companions with a bewildered look, then stood and jogged to the top of the hill, coming out from behind a large boulder as he reached the top.

&#8220;Garm? What are you doing here, little brother?&#8221; the lead scout asked, not without some annoyance. He had better things to do than crouch on an anthill all morning.

&#8220;Sigurd! We found you!&#8221; Garm turned and looked at his two companions, scarcely bigger than himself, and beamed proudly. &#8220;I told you we would.&#8221;

&#8220;Wonderful, but what in the name of the Great Sky Spirit, the Earth Mother, the Raven, and the rest of the gods of Aesir do you think you&#8217;re doing here?&#8221; Sigurd asked, getting agitated. The other four scouts had crested the hill and were looking around for any threats. Sigurd&#8217;s raging would surely alert someone or something.

&#8220;When Trem came home because his quest was done and he was to find a mate, he said that you needed more men, because of the bears and the wolves.&#8221;

Sigurd didn&#8217;t much want to be reminded of the bears and wolves. &#8220;So we asked for men. What&#8217;re you?&#8221;

Garm&#8217;s brows narrowed and he began to look petulant. &#8220;I have two hands of summers. More now! So do all of us. It is time for us to go out on our quest, and we&#8217;re here because we were sent! The elders said so, and you have to listen to them.

Sigurd heaved a great breath and blew it out through his lips, ruffling his mustache and finishing with a sound like the horses that roamed near Nidaros. &#8220;By Aesir, to be harnessed with this,&#8221; he said to another of the veteran scouts. &#8220;First to have to grow up with this little runter trapped like a pig in a pen, and now to have him follow me out here . . .&#8221; Garm looked even more petulant, and turned and sat himself down next to the remains of the fire the three boys had burned the night before. He went back to picking through it with ashy hands. Soon he came up with something that flashed gently in the sun. The other two young boys squatted next to him excitedly.

&#8220;Here, now, what&#8217;s that then?&#8221; Sigurd asked, peering over his younger brother&#8217;s shoulders.

&#8220;It&#8217;s something we&#8217;ve found in . . .&#8221; began one of the boys, but Garm cut him off. &#8220;You&#8217;ll never know, because we&#8217;ll never tell. You&#8217;ll be stuck out here with me, and never get to know.&#8221;

Sigurd heaved another sigh. &#8220;Fine. Have it your way. But if you&#8217;re going to scout with us, we&#8217;d better get a move on. There&#8217;s a ridgeline one day that way, and there&#8217;s bad weather coming. I want to be over the ridge by nightfall.&#8221; He walked to Garm and moved to adjust the pack and belt he was wearing, but Garm swatted his hands away. Sigurd shrugged and moved down the line to the next boy. He moved and repositioned the skin pack to distribute the weight in ways he had learned in his three season-sets of scouting, and by the time he was done with the second, another of the veterans had moved in and adjusted Garm&#8217;s clothing.

&#8220;It&#8217;s not like we haven&#8217;t been away from Nidaros before. We know what we&#8217;re doing. We found you,&#8221; Garm said.

&#8220;Yeah, you found us,&#8221; Sigurd retorted. But if we&#8217;d been hostile, we&#8217;d have killed you while you slept. We heard you coming yesterday, around midday. And how long have you been out from Nidaros?&#8221;

&#8220;Two moons,&#8221; one of the other boys said, not without a trace of pride.

A veteran snorted. &#8220;Try three winters, boy.&#8221;

The five older scouts set off at a brutal pace. Their longer legs and better conditioning had the young ones panting by mid-morning, and by sunset it was only dignity and stubbornness that kept the little ones on their feet. They had blisters that had never been lanced properly from their earlier trips, and Sigurd made a note to look at them in the morning. He was all for making his scouts endure hardship, but not when it was dangerous to all and could ultimately slow them down.

Without a word the five began setting up their meager camp as they had done every night with each other for at least one set of seasons, nearer to two or three in some cases. One reached into his pack for the small cluster of moss he kept there and set to work with flint and steel; another, who had been gathering small sticks for the past hour, began splitting and shaving them with his axe. Sigurd had felled a rabbit with a well-thrown rock and he set about skinning it. He made sure to set aside the pelt as it could come in handy fixing his brother&#8217;s blisters.

Once the fire was going, Sigurd turned and began looking for a sacrifice to the Earth Mother. A rock would be placed in the fire to represent the land, and the greener, the better. Sometimes the best they could do was a stone covered in moss and lichen, but lately the country had given over to rocks veined with green. He was shocked to see his brother and his friends pulling deep, rich green rocks from their packs.

&#8220;You ran all day with those in your packs?&#8221; Sigurd asked, not sure whether to be angry at their stupidity or simply astonished.

&#8220;Yes . . .&#8221; Garm said sheepishly.

&#8220;Ooooowhy?&#8221; asked another of the veteran scouts.

&#8220;We just did, alright? Do you want to use them as a sacrifice or not?&#8221; Sigurd stared into the rich green color of the stone and simply nodded.

&#8220;We were going to do two, remember? For last night?&#8221;

&#8220;Why not do three?&#8221; one of the younger boys said. Each of the young ones picked a rock and held it out to Sigurd.

&#8220;Here, let me,&#8221; Garm said. He grabbed the three fist-sized stones and threw them in the fire at the base of the large cooking stone they&#8217;d selected. Sigurd built up the fire with more gathered wood, then set to work throwing the pieces of the rabbit onto the cooking stone. Once it was done and eaten they said the prayers to the Earth Mother, and burned the green leaves to send the smoke to the Sky Spirit, and laid down to sleep. With eight scouts once again, Sigurd felt much safer because he could place a watch of at least one, sent away with his back to the fire so that his eyes would stay sharp in the dark.

In the morning the older scouts all awoke with the dawn and had to prod the young ones out from under their sleeping cloaks. They woke groggily, but were soon over by the fire pit, prodding in the ashes and making squealing noises.

Sigurd came and sat near them, careful to be interested but not haughty, as he was genuinely curious. &#8220;So, what is it?&#8221; Garm held out a flat, warm . . . thing. It was very thin, and full of chunks of dirt and ash, and a dull color, like the clouds after the sun has set. &#8220;Mmm, still don&#8217;t know what it is.&#8221;

&#8220;It comes from the fire,&#8221; Garm said. &#8220;From the sacrifices to the Earth Mother. That&#8217;s why we&#8217;ve been collecting all the sacrifice stones. The greener ones make more of this.&#8221;

&#8220;How does something green make something . . . like this? And what does it do?&#8221;

&#8220;We don&#8217;t know,&#8221; said a young boy. &#8220;But we&#8217;re saving these pieces, and we&#8217;re going to take them back when our quests are done, and get beautiful wives because we have pretty things.&#8221;

Sigurd took the sacrifice and struck it against the cooking stone, now cooled off. It shook loose some bits of earth and ash, but the things stayed firm. He plucked at it with his thumb. He struck it against wood, and saw that the wood yielded, and not the dull yellow in his hands.

&#8220;Garm, light a fire.&#8221;

****

Sigurd and his scouts stayed in the same location for five days, burning heaps of wood in a never-ending series of fires. They threw sacrificial rocks into the flames until they were sure the Earth Mother was either blessing them for their worship or preparing to curse them to make them go away. Sigurd did not let them stop until he was confident that, whenever he wished, he could make the sun-liquid come from the green stones and, even better, could make the it turn from sun-stone into sun-liquid again.

&#8220;We have been given our quest by the elders, Sigurd. I think we should carry it out,&#8221; one of the veterans pointed out when Sigurd mentioned that they should all return home. Sigurd was prepared to disagree, to say that he was the elder of the band of scouts, but he knew that it was true, and that he had a quest to fulfill. He was also very certain that his little brother had already fulfilled his.

The next morning, a week after he had first seen his little brother, Sigurd sent him on his way, back to Nidaros. &#8220;And tell them to send more men! Real men, this time!&#8221; he called at Garm&#8217;s retreating back. Garm turned, stuck out his tongue, and ran after his friends.

Interlude &#8211; New Friends

They certainly were an uncouth folk . . .

At least, if the man seated at Adel&#8217;s table was any guide as to the rest of them. The stranger took a long, loud slurp from his jug of wine before placing it on the corner of the wooden slab to have it refilled. The edges of his red beard that were invading his mouth had been stained purple by the deep gulps of wine he'd been taking throughout the meal - and the day - and were tinged with a vaguely repulsive sheen of grease from the pork haunch.

"And have you enjoyed your stay in The Netherlands?" asked a woman - Adel's aunt, Julianna. The stranger from the north was seated at Adel's table because his was one of the largest - physically and metaphorically - in Amsterdam. His extremely productive farm had been in his family for three generations, and many in Amsterdam turned to him for advice and counsel. It seemed only fitting that he should be honored with this representative from the north. Hmph. Honored.

"Ya," said the man who called himself Birgvold. "Is gut. 's very . . ." he paused, thumped himself once on the chest with his head cocked slightly sideways, then unleashed a belch which shook the rafters of Adel's long, thatched house. Somewhere outside an animal, perhaps one of the small felines that had been hanging around recently, shrieked in surprise and ran off. "Very nice. Big," Birgvold finished. He slurped another gulp from his re-filled wine jug.

Julianna's tact was impeccable and she managed not to notice the man's behaviour. Adel's own wife had more trouble restraining herself, however, and glanced pointedly at Adel while jerking her head toward the children, their two sons and one daughter.

"I like yor . . ." he held up the jug, "vine? I like you vine ver' big. And your house. Pretty." Birgvold smiled huge, sweeping his arms wide to encompass Adel's home and farm. His wine-stained teeth were chock full of green and yellow bits of food. One of Adel's sons tittered.

"And how long will you be staying here?" Adel asked. He tried to make Birgvold feel welcome, but figured he'd probably failed. He figured equally that the crass man wouldn't notice.

"Til rains? Then home. Learn more . . . Dutch. Yes. Talk more dutch, yes?" He smiled again, then rumbled another belch. This one, however, was around a mouthful of food, so the sound was more bone-jarring than rafter-shaking.

"You know, Birgvold," began Julianna. Adel could sense it coming; his aunt had been married only two years before being widowed for the last twenty, and could not help correcting people. "If you want to learn more Dutch language, would you like to also learn our culture?" Birgvold nodded while holding a chicken wing, managing to spread grease through his beard from nose-tip to chin. "In Amsterdam, we find it polite to not belch at the table."

"Belch?" Birgvold asked, tasting the unfamiliar word. He followed it with another fine example.

"That, right there," Julianna said, pointing and gesticulating, waving her hand in front of her open mouth.

Birgvold's bushy eyebrows shot up beneath his unkempt hair. "Belch is bad?" He bobbed his head in shame. "Sorry. Sorry very sorry. In Nidaros, is not wrong. Just is. Sorry very sorry."

Julianna smiled wide, placatingly. "It is quite alright. That is why you are here! To learn." The meal continued uneventfully, until even Adel's wife began to warm to the stranger. He periodically put a hand to his chest and clenched his jaw, and mumbled, "Being polite."

The children were sent to wash up and get ready for bed, but since the large man was still eating, decorum indicated that Adel, his wife, and Julianna should stay with him to keep him company. He was working his way through another half of a chicken when he began to shift uncomfortably. "Is something wrong?" Julianna asked. Birgvold shook his head, said something in his own language, and smiled. Adel began to be concerned when his squirming reached a climax. Birgvold leaned sideways in his chair, screwed up his face in concentration, a resoundingly broke wind for five uninterrupted seconds.

Adel's wife gasped, and the sharp intake of breath sucked a fly into her mouth. She immediately began coughing and choking, and Adel stood quickly to move to her side. In doing so his elbow knocked over his wine jug, pouring all of it over Julianna who screamed and leapt up from the table, knocking it and setting the torch in the center wobbling. As the children came in to see what was the matter, Adel began pounding on his wife's back to help with her coughing, and Birgvold reached to steady the torch. He grabbed it tightly but his hands, slick with grease and chicken, couldn&#8217;t hold the torch. It leapt from his grasp and landed in the straw lining the floor.

By the time Julianna gave up trying to brush wine from the front of her dress two of the children were screaming and the third was trying to stamp out the flames. Adel&#8217;s wife had collapsed into a chair while the master of the house ran to find a bucket of water. He returned with a full bucket as Julianna shepherded the children out the door to safety, but the blaze was well established by then and had begun clawing up the wall; the bucketful did nothing. Adel gathered his wife from the chair and rushed outside as well, with Birgvold was not far behind.

They stood outside. The flames were clear through the doorway and were beginning to show through the wall of the structure as well. Neighbors on both sides had run to see what was the matter, and now held a respectful distance from the house which was flaming in earnest. Adel rounded on Birgvold &#8211; who had managed to pick up a drumstick on the way out &#8211; and was preparing to bellow and curse at the foreigner when Birgvold suddenly looked stricken and rushed back into the burning house.

Adel looked around and counted his children. They were all present, and so was his wife, and so was his aunt. What could possible have been left inside the house that was so important for this stranger to risk his life? Adel was ready to send the stranger out of his house and away from his lands, but if he was doing some great deed inside the house, risking his life . . .
Birgvold rushed from the flames just as the roof caught fire and the house began to blaze like a torch. In his arms, he cradled the large serving jug of wine that had sat in the corner.

He came and stood next to Adel. &#8220;That was close,&#8221; he said, grinning, then took a large pull of wine straight from the jug. &#8220;Sorry about house. Was good house. Will help make new one, yes?&#8221;

Adel began to shake and his face flushed a red that was visible even in the lurid light of the fire. &#8220;Out!&#8221; he bellowed, pointing northwest, back toward Nidaros. &#8220;Out, out, out out out Out OUT! Away from my lands, away! Out, you cursed, backward, barbaric, foreign, incompetent, smelly, louse-ridden . . .&#8221; Adel continued to rant in as eloquent a tirade as the Dutch language had ever heard, running through every insult that had been invented and creating new ones when his purposes still weren&#8217;t served. Birgvold sat meekly and waited, understanding only one word in every ten and idly wondering if he&#8217;d be able to keep the wine.

Eventually Adel&#8217;s tirade coasted to a stop and he stood, chest heaving, fists clenched. A low, angry murmur was building up in the surrounding crowd, and Birgvold thought it would be a good time to make his exit. He bowed repeatedly, saying &#8220;Sorry, very sorry&#8221; over and over and backing away from the crowd. About the time the first rock was thrown he had broken into a sprint and was running as fast as he possibly could away from Amsterdam.

After the mob had given up pursuit he found a large rock and sat himself down.
&#8220;Strange people, those,&#8221; he said aloud to himself, and in his own language. &#8220;If they won&#8217;t let you belch, you&#8217;ll have to fart. It has to come out someway,&#8221; he mused philosophically.

He shrugged, took another swig of wine, and began the long stumble home.

I loved the latest update. I laughed, I cried, and I laughed some more.

Heh. Thanks. I was chuckling about it the whole time I was writing it.

I got the "ambassador commits a faux pas" random event, and I was trying to think what someone in 3000 BC could possibly do to offend someone else that wouldn't actually start a war. I mean, at that point in the story I wasn't even really planning on having contact between the civs, let alone diplomacy and ambassadors and all the rest. So this seemed a good compromise.

Great story! Keep up the good work!


Cheers, Niclas