Shipwreck

Unknown - June 24

I helped fund this great voyage. We set sail with twelve ármenn — rowers — aboard my karvi. Together, many karvis crossed the seas, chasing gold and glory. We aimed for Albann, land of fine churches and soft men. Their wealth called to me like the voice of a nornir.

The men with me had no silver. They pledged their oaths to row. I led. They followed.

Long days at sea. Salt wind. Oars creaking. Hope in our hearts. Then — stormr. A wrathful sea. Our ships shattered. The sky turned black. And then — nothing.

I wake. Salt on my lips. Sand in my mouth. I lie on a pale beach. Morning is grey. Wreckage everywhere — splintered hulls, driftwood, tattered sails.

Bodies in the surf. Two… three… The waves take them, then give them back. Blood darkens the sand.

I see a shattered karvi to the north. Shrubland stretches inland. Chalk hills beyond.

I run to a body. No breath. Dead.

I turn to the next, the one not bleeding. I now notice: My beard is thick with salt; My limbs ache; Thirst burns my throat. But I move.

I lie down a moment. Then rise. The third body — impaled. He coughs. Blood. Gerska.

I pull the timber. He screams. Gulls scatter into the sky.

I press a cloth to his wound. He grips my arm. “Ubbe?” he whispers. “No. Herleif, son of Herlaug.”

He smiles faintly. A breath. A nod. “We were close. I’m glad you live.” “No, Gerska. We are there.”

His voice fades. He speaks names of our men: Ubbe, Gismund, Kolbjorn, Oddi, Rodfos, Randver. And women: Signhild, Jofrid.

“May Odin take your soul,” I say. Gerska frowns. “I did not die in battle. I’ll never see Valhalla.”

In the surf, I find a barrel. I heave it ashore, smash it open. Freshwater. I drink deep.

More wrecks along the coast. More dead. Three… four more bodies.

South — smoke. A column rising.

I check the bodies first. Dead. All.

Tracks in the sand — two or three sets, heading south. I wade into the surf, retrieve a shield and scattered gear. Then I follow the tracks.

A fire ahead. Four shapes by it. Voices — norrœnt mál. Our tongue.

They are: Ake, Faraldr, Gaetir, Leikr.

We speak. We count the dead. We gather what we can. Seven more ármenn found, still alive.

No enemy. No village. Only stone, sea, and sky.

We make camp. We sleep.