Drums of War-Chapter 2-The Valley

    Bjorn woke to a familiar sound. It was the bright, clear ringing of the smithy's hammer on steel, so often heard in these months. The large man groaned as he swung his legs out of his bedroll, and stretched his neck side to side, banishing the knots that had formed there. He looked over at his daughter, sleeping beside him and smiled, remembering the look on her face at seeing the aurora. It was a common enough occurrence in that part of the world, but the previous night, it had been particularly spectacular. The brilliant colors splashing across the sky had brought a beautiful smile to Lellan's youthful face.

     Bjorn knelt beside her, pushed the stray golden strands of hair from her face, and kissed her cheek. In a few hours, she would rise and begin her daily chores, feeding the sheep, and doing the usual cleaning. She was used to her father being gone when she woke. Either raiding or at the town market a few miles down the mountain.

     The Norseman quickly dressed himself in his cloak and furs, grabbed the bag he had brought in the night before, and headed out the door. It was a beautiful morning, the sun had risen barely above the snow covered peaks to the east and Bjorn's breath rose into the morning sky in plumes of white. But he loved the cold and his home in the mountain, and so it was with a smile on his face, and light in his heart that he set out from home.

    The lake near his home was frozen, yet two men were fishing through holes in the ice. They raised their hands in greeting as he passed by them on the trail, and he returned their gesture with a smile. As he walked, Bjorn noticed the signs of oncoming spring. The rivers did not move so sluggishly or have their customary foot and a half of ice covering their lively waters. More birds fluttered in the trees and their sweet song made his mind wander to summer. As he continued his descent from the mountain, he slipped many times on the icy path, and it took a while for him to get down from his mountain.

     At long last, he made it to the village market, which was bustling with activity as the people of Hallasholm went about their business. All the merchants looking to sell their wares, and trade for or buy better ones. The blacksmith he had heard in the early hours of the morning was here beside a butcher's stall, haggling with a man attempting to sell a well worn English sword captured in the fall's most recent engagement. From the looks of things, the blacksmith, a large and imposing man was not impressed by the dented and faded weapon and sent the man away with sword in hand. Though this was Bjorn's aim as well, to trade in the plunder he had won from the raid, he was confident that his hard earned spoils would fetch the attention of any merchant. 

" Hey, you, warrior! I have some money for your plunder."

One of the merchants beckoned him aside eagerly and into a small wooden store.

"Am I correct in assuming you might have treasures?" A short man inquired.

"Yes, of course, though I am not fond of parting from my hard earned spoils."

"Ah, though surely a bit of coin or cloth could convince you otherwise? Eh?"

The merchant nervously fiddled with his hands at Bjorn's reluctance to trade, and wondered if he had chosen incorrectly from the throng of warriors streaming past his shop. But his fears were put to rest as the other man spoke. 

“That it might, if you have some you could part with, but before we exchange, I would know your name, merchant.”

“But of course, I am called Sigurd Sigurdson, I am the owner of this humble establishment."

At this, Sigurd gave a low bow, and then quickly straightened.

"And I would be more than happy to look through your goods. So, let's see 'em."

      Bjorn took the bag off his shoulder, unclasped it, and spilled its contents upon the floor. Lying on the dirt floor were beautiful treasures pillaged from a coastal monastery. Golden goblets that once held holy water were filled with dirt and scraps of filthy cloth, candle holders once bright and flickering now covered with bits of food, and dust. But the shopkeeper's eyes widened as they scanned the array of treasures he could sell to wealthy families.

"So how much can I get for this?" Bjorn inquired.

"It's dirty, that will lower the price a bit, Eh?

"Dirt can be cleaned easily enough my friend, that should hardly determine the worth of the gold."

      The shopkeeper, sensing the other man had a keen sense for trade wasted no time in pulling his coin purse out, and undoing the drawstring. Bjorn held out his hand, and the salesman poured a stream of coins into it. The raider hefted his hand, feeling the weight of the silver. He nodded, hefted the sack back over his shoulder and stuffed the coins into his own pouch. Sigurd thanked him for his business and ushered him out, inviting him to come again soon. Outside, it started lightly snowing, and clouds had obscured the sun.   

      The few people out were bundled in furs and walking faster than before in their haste to escape the cold winds that had begun to blow. Bjorn strode across the market pathway to a hunter's stall to purchase some meat for dinner. The hunter there was close to packing up the day's yield when the man arrived and was hurrying Bjorn along. After some haggling, and a couple coins, he walked away with most of a deer, and some rabbit haunches. The food would last him and his daughter for about a week and then he would have to make the trek back down the mountain to get more.

     Despite the few things he had done in town, it was already getting dark. It was not very late, but it got very dark very early all year long. The man passed by the town hall on his way back up the mountain, the deer on his shoulder. From inside came bawdy laughter, and cheering as someone raised a folk song with a lyre. Typically, there were enormous casks of ale and mead to be had on a cold night like this, warming the men, and getting them slobbering drunk. In a few hours, they would all stagger out, drooling, and stumbling all over themselves, as they tried to get home. Bjorn was one of the few men in the village, especially as a warrior who detested the vile drink. It men even the most noble and honorable men become swaggering fools, and it left you with a pounding headache in the hours after. It was much harder to find good clean water, and often quite expensive, but to him it was worth the coin.

     He continued up the hills going up switchback after switchback, looking to the sky frequently, judging the weather, and thought of farming that needed doing. within an hour he returned again the same way he had the previous night, and once again, when he walked in the door, Lellan stopped what she was doing and threw her arms around him. Bjorn picked her up, talking to her about her day, asking her what she had done, and the things she wanted to do the following day. They ate dinner, they stoked the fire, and eventually, he would wrap her in her hides and quilts and tell her a saga of adventure, and danger that she loved to hear.

     And so it continued for many days. They worked in the fields, and fished, and hunted together as  Bjorn waited to be summoned again to raid on the eastern shores of Wessex. And soon, another call came, just as winter was ending, and spring had fully come to the valleys of Hallasholm.