Journey Beyond the Edge

“Christians. Someone strikes you on one cheek, you offer him the other. How did anything like that ever catch on?” The enormous fair-haired warrior gave a contemptuous snort as he wiped dried blood from the blade of an equally massive battle-ax. “That religion makes men weak.”

The warrior spat heartily over the side of the ushkuynik.

The sun had not yet risen above the sea, but the darkness was already retreating. A following wind snapped the sailcloth, made the wooden blocks chatter and the taut rigging creak, driving the vessel onward.

Heavy with cargo, the longboat sliced through the smooth water like a knife, hurrying home to the north.

The waves protested noisily, flinging up spray and bleeding white foam beneath the wooden ship crammed with plundered gold and silver.

The old, nearly bald Viking seated opposite him merely smiled and continued sorting bundles of dried herbs. He was shorter than the strapping berserker but no narrower across the shoulders, and the muscles beneath his sun-darkened skin resembled steel cables.

“You’re simply young, Hergen. Young and foolish. Remember how that scrawny Saxon fought. He had neither gold nor livestock, yet he stood alone against six of ours. Alone.”

“You mean the peasant who wounded the jarl with a pitchfork? I still took his head off.”

The warrior dipped his rag into the blood-reddened water in a wooden tub and resumed scrubbing his ax.

“You did.” The healer carefully tied another bundle of herbs with twine. “You—a man whose profession is killing, a man who lives by his ax—are boasting of your victory over a plowman whose weapon left a mark upon your face and nearly sent our chieftain to Valhalla? A glorious victory indeed.”

The healer’s words stung. The berserker gripped his ax haft until his knuckles cracked, but the old man paid no attention and continued:

“Be that as it may, the jarl spared the man’s woman. No one laid so much as a finger on her. That was what the peasant fought for. That was what he died for. Which means he won his battle. Religion does not make men weak or strong. The more a man possesses, the more he fears losing it. Wealth is the true source of weakness. Love is the source of strength. That is why he tossed you around like blind pups.”

“Love…” The fair-haired Viking’s face twisted into a contemptuous smirk. “Blind pups, is it? I twisted my ankle beside that church. Do you know how many Angles I cut down there?”

“They were defending their lives. The peasant stood ready to die. He meant to take as many of us with him as he could.”

“Gods, you’re tedious, Eric. How is the way I treat women supposed to make me stronger? Unless the woman is a Valkyrie…” The berserker tilted his head toward the heavens. “They’re watching me. One of them is destined to be mine—a winged maiden of war who will carry my soul to the halls of Gladsheim.”

“Not one of those heavenly warriors would spare you a glance,” Eric said with a chuckle.

The giant’s outrage was immediate. The berserker’s patience snapped. He flung the rags aside, surged to his feet, and raised his ax—but the elderly healer’s dagger was faster. Steel flashed, and the blade came to rest against Hergen’s throat. Eric’s voice turned hard and merciless.

“Sit down, pup. Move again and I’ll knock that empty head off your shoulders like the cap from a mushroom.”

Several more Vikings turned toward the commotion.

Eric’s eyes, blue as a clear summer sky, burned with fire. They held neither fear of the mighty giant nor any promise of mercy—only the indifference of an executioner or a seasoned predator.

Panic suddenly seized Hergen. A chill ran through his body and paralyzed his limbs, as though Hel herself were looking at him through Eric’s eyes.

For a moment, every sound died. The warriors froze, awaiting the outcome.

“Easy, Eric. Put away the dagger. We have more than one battle ahead of us, and Hergen will still be useful. I ask mercy for my warrior. Forgive him.” Despite the blood-soaked bandages around his chest, the jarl’s voice remained powerful and commanding.

The elderly healer obeyed. The jarl turned to the giant.

“And you—before you threaten a man, learn whom you are threatening. Go below and help Kvasha with the coins.”

Hergen stared at the ship’s healer in bewilderment but heeded his chieftain’s words.

The giant muttered an apology, vented his rage upon the water tub, and headed toward the stern.

The jarl climbed onto the raised platform at the bow and peered into the distance. He drew a deep breath, then doubled over in pain. Fresh blood spread across his bandages in a damp stain.

The healer sprang up and rushed toward him.

The jarl merely raised one hand to stop him. Eric inhaled and was about to return to the herbs laid out across a rowing bench, but the chieftain spoke before he could.

“Wait, Eric. Stay with me. Dawn will come soon. It is beautiful above a stormy sea. And the smell—such freshness. Breathing it makes me feel free. I wonder, is there a sea in Valhalla? Can heroes savor the caress of a gentle breeze, brushing their brows like a virgin’s first awkward kiss?”

“I have never been to Valhalla, my prince. But I am certain it contains more than a hall filled with sweat and the reek of stale drink. Heroes should not spend eternity carousing and indulging their appetites. Though, admittedly, a little indulgence now and then would do no harm.”

“What did you and my finest champion quarrel over?” The jarl tore his gaze from the horizon.

“The usual. I tried to bestow wisdom upon someone who had no need of it. Forgive me, my prince. The fault was mine.”

“You still mean to disembark upon that deserted island?”

“Each of us has his own purpose. You needed a healer for the voyage; I needed a ship that would pass Buyan. A bargain is worth more than coin, my prince. I kept my promise. Now it is your turn.”

“And I have kept mine. I calculated your share of the expedition as fairly as I could. Here is what you requested, down to the last coin.”

The prince handed the healer a small but tightly packed purse.

“Thank you, Jarl of Windale. All that remains is to set foot upon the island, and our bargain will be fulfilled.” Eric tucked the purse inside his tunic.

“Why do you want those tokens? They may be gold, but they aren’t real money. A trader will pay no more than scrap value for them. You should have taken a candlestick instead. It weighs more.”

“Thank you, Jarl. But what is worthless here may be a vast fortune elsewhere. Take the word of a pilgrim—a wandering minstrel. Some questions are better left unanswered.”

Unable to withstand the healer’s blue-eyed gaze, the jarl lowered his head.

“There is no changing your mind?”

The healer merely shook his head.

“Then now is as good a time as any…” Sadness entered the chieftain’s voice. Once more, he breathed in the fresh wind as deeply as his bandages allowed, then roared, “To the helm! Set a course east!”

The Vikings leaned upon the steering oar. The ushkuynik groaned through its taut rigging and began to change tack, its sail flapping in protest.

For three days, the longboat held its course toward the dawn. For three days, the sail hung from the yard like a discarded cloak. Exhausted by rowing, the Vikings began to grumble. The horizon remained clear; only in the far distance did sea and sky merge in a blue-gray haze.

Determined to honor his word, the chieftain had turned the vessel east toward the mysterious island, but it seemed the gods themselves opposed the landing. The wind died the instant the helmsman aligned the bow with the rising sun. The sail sagged like a hanged man from a tree limb. The war drum began to pound, and the Vikings bent to their oars. It fell silent only when the sun surrendered the heavenly hall to the yellow-faced moon and a myriad stars. Each morning, as soon as pink streaks began to lighten the sky, the clatter of spoons gave way to the thunder of the drum and the splash of resentful waves.

Their chieftain’s will drove the warriors to plunge their oars again and again into the mirrored surface of the deep. By the zenith of the third day, the northerners were drained by relentless rowing and the midday heat. The jarl signaled a halt. The drum had scarcely fallen silent when clouds spread across the northern sky. A hard, gusting wind struck the vessel broadside.

A horn wailed. While the warriors tied themselves down with ropes, the chieftain rushed to help the helmsman.

“Bring her around! Bow into the wind!” The captain’s roar rose above the howl of the sea. “Secure the cargo! The sai—”

The first great wave heaved the longboat aside. The steering oar slammed into the chieftain’s chest and knocked him from his feet. Eric caught him with one shoulder. The old Viking remained upright and preserved his dignity, but a fit of bloody coughing robbed him of the power to command.

Moments later, the storm broke.

The ship pitched from side to side like a yellow leaf in a mountain stream. Waves rose one above another, threatening to swamp it. They tore shields from the gunwales and licked everything unsecured from the deck. The sail bellied and dragged the frail vessel onward, forcing the bow dangerously low. Tons of water crashed aboard and swept one of the crew into the sea.

Prayers mingled with groans.

“The sail!” the chieftain whispered through bloodied lips. “Take down the sail… It will drown us all…”

The helmsman repeated the order through the shrieking wind and pounding waves, but his voice could not carry above the storm. Eric clung to the steering oar, helping hold the bow toward the approaching wall of water.

The crew huddled along the gunwales, pressed into the benches and gripping their ropes with the hands of dead men.

Lightning flashed. Thor struck the sea close by.

A wave hurled the helmsman against the starboard side. At the bow, it tore away the sacred light—a bronze lamp bearing the flame bestowed by the Keepers.

“It’s a sign! Turn back! We can go no farther!” someone shouted among the warriors.

Eric recognized Hergen’s voice. The jarl cast the healer a sidelong glance, clenched his teeth, and forced himself upright.

“Turn her around, my prince,” Eric muttered. He passed the steering oar to the gray-haired Viking, drew his dagger, and clamped the blade between his teeth.

A wave struck the vessel and rolled away, yielding its place to the next. The healer sprinted across the water-slick planks toward the mast. The knots in the tackles had drawn impossibly tight. There was no time to cut so many ropes. A new wall of water towered above the longboat like an immense cliff.

With the agility of a wildcat, the old healer climbed the mast and leaped down onto the straining canvas. The sail split with a deafening crack and collapsed. Eric plunged toward the deck, but the onrushing wave caught him in its embrace and lowered him gently beside the gunwale where Hergen sat.

The jarl hauled upon the steering oar and turned the longboat west.

At once, the storm moved on toward the east, leaving behind a sea scarcely troubled by ripples.

The crew released a collective breath and began offering prayers to the gods.

The prince stared at Eric in disbelief.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“Hergen is right. It is a sign.” The healer gestured toward the empty hook at the bow.

The chieftain surrendered the steering oar to the helmsman, who had returned to his station, and wiped blood from his lips with one sleeve.

“I thought you did not believe in signs.”

“The heavens oppose your voyage to the island. I cannot bear the deaths of your clan upon my conscience. This is my road alone, my prince.” The healer smiled. “We will part at the first port.”

“When sickness struck down nearly all of Windale, you were the only man who did not fear the contagion. You nursed my people back to health. When Brunhilda could not deliver her child and even the Keepers began praying for the souls of my wife and son, you cut open her belly with your dagger and drew out my heir. I remember how your hands trembled while you stitched her closed. Because of you, I am not merely a happy father but still a husband. How could I look my wife in the eyes if she knew I had failed to keep my promise? How could any man aboard this ship dare return home knowing his debt of honor remained unpaid?” The jarl swept one hand toward his warriors.

“You are a great healer, Eric. Every man aboard this vessel will follow you, even if you mean to pay a visit to Hel herself.”

“There is no need to go that far, my prince. I did not fight disease in Windale merely to see its men die now. I will manage alone. Our roads must part.”

“Whatever else may be true, you saved the ship and her crew, and the sea itself refused to let you fall. I have never witnessed such wonders, healer. At least allow me to buy you a cup and a whore in port.”

“At our age, whores are already—”

“Agree, Eric. The passion of Saxon girls is the stuff of legend.” The chieftain placed his right hand upon the healer’s shoulder. “And you hardly need me to lecture you on the dangers of abstinence.”

The crew erupted in laughter. Eric merely smiled.

“I have never been to Saxony, and I have never paid a girl for her favors.”

“What kind of sailor has never bought love?” Hergen began, then fell silent beneath the elderly warrior’s heavy gaze.

“Even whores give themselves to me for love. Do you know why? Because after a storm, my breeches don’t reek of shit.”

The crew collapsed with laughter. The prince’s finest champion jumped up and bolted below, leaving brown streaks behind him.

“Healing is not your only talent.” The jarl smiled. “We go together. I speak a little Saxon.”

“Saxon girls should be the last thing on your mind, my prince. That bandage needs changing. The steering oar hit you hard.”

“It is not merely an oar, Eric. It is the rudder.”

The small harbor at the river’s mouth had neither fortifications nor a garrison. Soil deposited by the river formed a natural breakwater, while the main channel served as a fairway. Cattails and reeds crowded the shore, concealing wooden piers that reached far out over the water. Beyond them huddled the little cottages of fishermen and craftsmen. Behind those rose a stone giant of a building—an inn, marketplace, and tavern all in one. The town itself began at its walls, enclosed by a low palisade of thin, widely spaced logs. It was small even by the standards of the age, but it had a ruler and something that could, with sufficient generosity, be called a guard.

When the longboat made fast, the townspeople drew back. Legends of the northern seafarers’ savagery and bloodlust had circulated for years. The legends had gathered rumors and tall tales until they became myths and the stuff of minstrels’ songs. No one in these parts had ever actually seen a Norseman; the little town lay far from the main trade routes.

The terrified guards bunched together beside the gate, uncertain what to do. The town reeve had vanished in some unknown direction, leaving the master of the market—who also happened to own the inn—to receive the visitors. Despite his considerable paunch, the man still carried himself like a soldier. A former knight, perhaps, or a mercenary. His old, battered mail shirt was plainly too tight around the waist, though a broad leather belt with copper plates cinched it in. A long hand-and-a-half sword hung at his side.

Hergen looked back at the chieftain and waited for an order.

The gray-haired jarl tucked his ax into his belt and tapped the purse hanging beside it.

The enormous Viking stepped toward the Saxon warriors and bellowed in broken Saxon, “We come as guests. We trade, you profit. At morning we leave. But food and women for sale—we can get other way too.”

The champion rested one hand on the back of his ax, leaving little doubt what that other way might be. The garrison shuddered as one, the metal rivets of their armor scraping and clicking. Hergen smiled and continued.

“You have place for eating, wine, and enjoying women for sale?”

The berserker’s manner of speaking bewildered the innkeeper, but only for a moment. Then the merchant in him awoke.

“Food and women cost money. Wine most of all.”

“No worry. We have payment. You take Angle gold?” Hergen poured a handful of islanders’ gold and silver coins into his palm.

The old fighter hissed something to his assistant, who promptly dashed inside.

“Guests are always welcome. Rich and generous ones even more so. I am glad this did not end in bloodshed.”

The garrison parted to let the Norsemen through. The smell of civilization rolled out of the gate, making Eric press a flower-oil-soaked cloth to his nose. Behind the walls, the world seemed to shrivel, contracting into a jumble of small thatch-roofed hovels with pigpens, flimsy fences hung with clay pots, the ceaseless barking of dogs, and the shrieks and laughter of children. Somewhere in the distance a smith’s trip hammer pounded, while laundry snapped on lines. Young and old alike had come out to stare at their terrifying yet legendary visitors.

“I don’t like these walls,” Hergen rasped as he matched the chieftain’s pace. “Stay here too long and some little bastard will jump out of an alley with a knife. And far too many of those sorry warriors remained by the gate.”

The gray-haired jarl turned to the healer walking on his left.

“What do you think? Do you believe it is an ambush too?”

Eric shook his head.

“They are not fools. They will not put their wives and children at risk. Ours is neither the first ship to enter this bay nor the last. They can defend themselves, certainly, but I doubt they would dare attack us openly. Still, I would advise against drinking too much or wandering alone. That would be dangerous even for Hergen.”

“There is our inn.” The chieftain nodded toward its sign. “Ale, sausage, and tits.” He grinned. “Come. We’ll find you the cleverest one.”

Eric started to object, but the jarl’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“I have thought long and hard about what you said, healer. As I understand it, you joined this voyage only because you needed tokens.”

“You are perceptive, my prince. That is exactly so. I would not lie to you.”

“Then take these.” The chieftain snatched the purse Hergen had flaunted at the gate and thrust it into Eric’s hands. “And do not argue. The crew collected it to thank you for the sail you ruined. I expect you have another use for your own.”

Eric nodded and slipped the purse into his breeches.

The jarl smiled. “As for the girls—pay no mind if they are grubby or plain. No ordinary woman sells her body of her own free will. But they certainly know their trade.”

By the time the doors of the inn opened onto the depths of the tavern, a crowd of women of negotiable virtue was already waiting for the Norsemen. Having heard of their guests’ wealth, the women had dressed in their finest clothes.

Blue-Eyes caught Eric’s attention at once, as though none of the other girls existed. Perhaps it was a karmic bond, perhaps witchcraft, perhaps something else entirely—but the seasoned healer’s heart began beating faster, and his breathing grew uneven. Even Hergen noticed the change in the older man, though he never had a chance to comment. The jarl elbowed him in the ribs.

“Choose. Tonight, you are the hero.” The prince nudged Eric forward.

As if at a signal, the women began displaying their charms. One lifted her skirt to reveal shapely thighs; another thrust out her ample breasts in hopes of securing a customer. All of them did so except Blue-Eyes. The red-haired girl merely lowered her head and stared at the floor.

Of all the women flaunting themselves, Eric chose her: a slim, long-legged girl with a wasp waist and breasts that were still almost childlike.

There was something achingly familiar about her, something dear to him, and the braid that fell to her waist worked more powerfully than any love potion.

“Are you certain?” the jarl asked. “Look—the second one from the right, the one with the big tits. She surely knows how to please a man. Or the last one in the row, that black-haired beauty. Just look at those lips. I shudder to imagine what she could do to your brother with them. How do you feel about kisses below the belt?”

Eric shook his head at the prince’s suggestion and pointed to Blue-Eyes.

“That one for my friend,” the prince growled. “And those two for me.” He indicated the women he had recommended to Eric.

The proprietress clapped her hands, and the girls led their guests away to their rooms.

Blue-Eyes closed the door behind her guest and lit a pine splint.

She moved with an almost unnatural grace, every gesture mesmerizing. Her room smelled nothing like the tavern below. Some sort of incense smoldered in a plain clay cup.

The healer’s keen nose recognized sandalwood and rose petals.

He crossed the little room with heavy steps and dropped onto the bed.

“Your friend said you don’t speak our language. So what am I supposed to do with you? How am I meant to know what you want?” the girl muttered as she undressed. “I hope men in your country don’t favor perversions. I could never fight off a brute your size if you decided to try something depraved. I can’t even ask your name. What do you want, you uncouth savage?”

She slipped off the last of her clothes and stepped into the splinter’s light.

“Undo your braid, if you please,” the northerner murmured without the slightest accent as he made himself comfortable on the bed.

The girl gasped.

“You… But your friend… and I…” She stammered, covering her face in embarrassment.

“Keep my knowledge of your language to yourself and do as I ask, and I will pay double.”

She shifted from foot to foot, considering the offer.

Double was tempting indeed. The proprietress and her brothers would never learn of it, and she might buy something tastier than the tavern’s watery gruel.

Still, the northerner’s request made her wary. There was no telling what he meant by do as I ask.

She studied her guest, trying to decide whether he resembled the sort of deviant who left bruises and scars after a private encounter.

“Let down your hair, beautiful,” the northerner repeated, and the prostitute—long accustomed to curses and abuse—blushed.

He looked stern enough to make her knees tremble, yet he was courteous even while buying her. At last, she made up her mind.

“Triple, and I’ll do whatever you desire.”

Eric smiled and placed three silver coins on the bedside table.

The girl recoiled. Her services cost five coppers, while what lay before her now was nearly a king’s ransom.

For a moment she wondered whether the foreigner had misunderstood her after all—and had not understood the price.

Or had he?

She picked up one coin. It was oval, with the portrait of a young, still-beardless man stamped on its face.

“What strange money. I’ve never seen coins like these.”

“They are Amosian. That handsome fellow is the lord of Anshatukash Castle, His Highness Asmodeus of Angren.”

“I’ve never heard of either,” she whispered, using the words to conceal the argument raging inside her.

To hell with it. He can hardly be worse than the foulmouthed sailors from the southern lands, the redhead thought. For that much money, she could endure whatever followed. Even injuries might prove useful: restoring her looks would take time, which meant a week or two without having to stare into the drunken faces of customers.

She exhaled, her decision made, and hurried to unweave her braid.

“Do not rush. Slowly. Let me enjoy your grace,” Eric whispered, captivated by the sight.

She obeyed. Once her hair spilled across her sun-browned shoulders, she took a hesitant step toward him.

He did not spring at her like a starving beast. Somehow that frightened her more, not less.