Escape from Tyrstoftir

Part one of a serial of the Refugees of Tyrstoftir

by Skye Hirgardil Sjöström (Skyde Ceawlin)

It had been a long trek from the frozen lands of Tyrstoftir. The land had seemed to simply...ERUPT...without warning, or at least that was what she was thinking.  Some had said that the gods were angry over some perceived slight, but having arrived too late to make that distinction, all she could remember was the sound.  Not just one, but a cacophony of them.  People shrieking in fear, the cracking of the ice as the mountain began to calve, the roar of the waves as they angrily beat at the ice, the howling of the North wind as it swept through, knocking things about.  It was thus that the fires had begun.

A haze had settled over the mountain and it was difficult to tell between ash from the fires and haze from the fog or even snow from the freakish blizzard that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.  She could now understand the phrase her barbarian slave had uttered once--"hell has frozen over." She had blindly made her way through the snow, counting her steps and hanging onto the railing of the long bridge that separated her from the other land mass.  The wind whipped at her furiously, nearly drawing her over the edge repeatedly, but she had finally made her way across and then had breathed a sigh of relief when she had heard the welcome voice of her mate shouting out orders over the veritable symphony of screams.  After finding her family, she had retraced her steps and set to packing.  Most of her things had still been aboard the ship, as they had only arrived a scant few days before the cataclysm began. Her companion's fleet of ships was waiting in the harbor and she had hurried to scrounge up packing supplies, finally relying upon her furs and clothing to do so in order to pack everything in a more efficient manner. 

The wind was beating a fierce tattoo against the door and she remembered how difficult it had been to force it open with the wind pushing just as determinedly from the other direction.  After what had seemed like an hour of pushing at the door, it had finally swung back, nearly ripped from its hinges.  She and Nikias had battled to get the remaining trunks down to the docks amidst the buffeting winds and turned back to look up at the land as a loud *CRACK!* rent the air... an avalanche came tumbling down, obliterating everything that lay in its path. As they watched, it crushed their home, burying it beneath the ice, fires erupted along the tree  line and then a second crack was heard and the whole island shifted.....

Exodus and Salvation

There had been a stirring of excitement among the besieged survivors of Tyrstoftir. The camp had been made as comfortable as possible, but everyone knew there were too few resources to feed them indefinitely.

Word had filtered through from a few independent sources that the great port of Ironhall had been rebuilt, and that they were welcoming family groups and skilled artisans. This was confirmed when Cuinn called all to the hearth, where he broke the news that they should strike camp and leave on the next tide for Ironhall, where their new home awaited. At last Odin had begun to smile on them all again.

There was a frenzy of packing and stowing their possessions on the serpents, then the frantic rowing of the slender ships to break out of the tidal barrier. At last the great square sails popped open and luffed as they were trimmed expertly by the men. The sense of excitement was palpable among the refugees, as their sleek serpents cut water heading for Ironhall.

On landing the port looked like it must have done before its decline; new mortar filled the interleaves between brick and stone, and the smell of fresh cut oak and pine was everywhere. The refugees stepped ashore, some kissing the ground and praising Odin in prayer. They were welcomed by Elders and teams of industrious thralls and bond maids were deployed to help the newcomers find a true Ironhall welcome.

The port had an energy all of its own, and this immediately started to imbue the newcomers with its vigor. The refugees turned to each other, and almost in unison said, "Home."

Tyrstoftir Refugees

The news quickly spread among the survivors of Tyrstoftir, as word reached them that the ancient ruined town of Ironhall had been rebuilt, and new occupants were flooding into the town to take advantage of its strategic position as a trade port and gateway. The excitement was palpable; good news had been long in coming for the besieged former residents of Tyrstoftir, which now lay in ruins, seemingly swallowed up in a volcanic feeding frenzy.

Life in the refugee camp had been harsh, with very little food and few furs to keep them warm. Fortunately the camp was situated in a dense woodland, so plenty of firewood was available. Even the best of hearths is of little use if the bellies of the people around it were empty. Sure they had the collective skills to achieve much, but winters like this need to be prepared for, and most of their stores were destroyed along with Tyrstoftir itself.

As soon as word reached Ardo, his mind was made up; he decided to find out for himself if the rumours were true. Ardo had Carys organise the packing of his now few belongings into a small serpent. Cuinn had already left, and Ardo was sure others would follow in good time, but some were nursing injuries and others were waiting for news of lost loved ones. Ardo was lucky to have escaped without injury, and as a hunter he had learned to travel light, and fast. 

He would see Ironhall for himself and carry news back to the camp.

Ardo's Boar Tarsk Stalk

Great coniferous trees bent and creaked as the winter winds explored their frozen boughs, some heavy with snow glistened beautifully in the fading twilight.

Ardo's feet fought for balance on an icy mound as he stalked a boar tarsk. He was tired and hungry and he was getting colder, despite the thick snow sleen fur in which he was clad. The search for prey had been long and fruitless until he eventually caught sight of a boar tarsk in his peripheral vision; the movement of the tarsk betraying its presence. He had picked up the spoor at a water hole, at the foot of a waterfall where the water was fresh and clean; Ardo's favourite place for finding fresh animal tracks.

Ardo preferred to hunt alone, without sleens or other men; he enjoyed the solitude and he was prepared to accept the risks to be alone in the great wilderness of the Torvaldsland, pitting himself against the savage beauty of nature. It was in this place, and in these trying circumstances, where he truly felt alive. He inhaled deeply of the cold bracing air, drawing his power from the very elements opposing him.

The stalk had taken him the best part of of the afternoon, and now the light was beginning to fade. Several recent unsuccessful hunts had left him despondent, despairing for the welfare of the village should he be unsuccessful again. He couldn't afford to lose this vital source of protein and fat, so he steeled himself and pricked his senses for the kill. 

He moved with uncanny grace for such a tall man; he had been a warrior and an athlete in his youth, proud and keen to constantly better his physical prowess. Too many battle wounds had slowed him somewhat, but he still had the physical discipline and stamina of a fighter that now served him well as a hunter. Ardo moved slowly, down wind of the foraging boar, choosing each footfall carefully and silently; closing the distance between him and his quarry. 

Ardo slid an arrow from his quiver, knocked it to the larl gut string of his longbow, and held it ready to draw. His face was the very essence of focus, his green eyes unblinking. The boar was grunting happily, his snout buried in the soil and snow, delving for some subterranean morsel. Ardo closed swiftly and silently to within effective range of his longbow and drew back. He held his breath for a count, then loosed the arrow. He had chosen guelder rose wood for the shaft and gull feather for the fletching, taking great care in the manufacture of each deadly missile; the result was an arrow that loosed without a tell-tale twang, and flew swiftly and accurately to its target.

The arrow struck the boar tarsk in the neck, just behind the eyes. The hapless beast leapt in the air for a brief moment and stiffened, but it was dead before it hit the ground. Ardo called, "Yesssss!" and muttered a prayer of thanks to Ullr for guiding his arrow. Ardo closed on the now inert prey; he was a magnificent specimen, and a tinge of sadness and remorse came over Ardo, as it often did at the site of a kill. He muttered more prayers to Ullr and to the soul of the tarsk, thanking it for its life now forfeit. 

Ardo struggled to lift the heavy beast to his shoulders, and used strips of cloth to secure it, before commencing the long, perilous and arduous trudge home.