annr C.OO > COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THORD FIRETOOTH A blond young giant, with a dog to heel THORD FIRETOOTH By Alice Alison Lide M and Margaret Alison Johansen Illustrated by Henry Pitz i y » > > LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY Boston 1937 'New York -J Copyright 1937 BY LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ produced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. r PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Dr. Samuel Beekman Alison and his wife, Emma Knox Lide A Note of Thanks to our dear Jens Nielsen, blond, blue-eyed descend¬ ant of Vikings, whose genial self and wondrous library of old Norse sagas gave inspiration and background to a pair of authors. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Cliffs of Sogn . • • 13 II. The War Arrow . 24 III. Raid of the Jom Vikings . 32 IV. In the Sea Wolf’s Den . 44 V. Thralldom .... 58 VI. Through the Forest . 74 VII. Ghosts at Hegan 92 VIII. Down the Danube 104 IX. Cave Prisoners . 117 X. The Bride Hunt 128 XI. Hero of the Ragged Cassock 141 XII. Gates to the City 152 XIII. Constantinople the Golden 159 XIV. The Way to Royalty 174 XV. Beyond the Pillars of Hercules 183 XVI. Across the Sea . 199 XVII. Glory . 220 ix Chapter I -CLIFFS OF SOGN —— A BLOND young giant, with a dog at heel and a fresh wolf hide flung over his shoulder, has¬ tened homeward along the cliffs of Sogn Soe. Now and again this Thord Firetooth, son of Jarl (Earl) Sigurd, chief franklin of all the free-holding frank¬ lins on the wild west shores of Norway, stopped for a space to listen. Was that a human sound, far off and faint? Or was it merely bird call or animal call in the tumult of spring that filled the air? He strode on the faster, ear cocked to hear again that different sound. This year, spring had been late in coming to the Northland. Winter, with its black days and nights, its shriek of storms and wolf howls, its wave thunder against the cliffs, had seemed to hold on forever. Then almost over-night, the thaw was in the air— little snow-falls in the mornings, but the sun coming up light though not yet hot; forests dripping and swelling; birds wheeling and circling and screaming joyously in the light; flighty “ha, ga, ga, ga! ” of the cuckoo echoing from the deep woods; song of the marsh frog, restless trumpeting of forest beasts. Uproar of spring everywhere! Through it all 13 14 THORD FIRETOOTH strode Thord, his hunter’s ear still intent to catch that one different, distressful sound, should it come again. As his thong-bound boots found the way along the heights, his eyes kept scanning now the fens that lay below the landward slopes, scanning now the dark waters of Nord Fjord that fretted and foamed against the sea-foot of the cliffs. He saw nothing that was wrong. Yet, ek-a! his inner senses told him that trouble lay somewhere near. He moved on, his whole mind listening. Then from ahead, coming as it were between a seamew’s shrill call and the bass of the frogs in the inland, he caught as once before that faint human cry—“help!”—just one cry. Thord’s long legs carried him forward. He mounted the cliff height on the rounding shore curve; stood peering out across the waves. It had come from the water—that call. Then down in the angry sea, Thord saw a small body that drifted with the wave-wash. Now it rode the wave top, near a boat that floated bottom-side-up. Now it sank be¬ neath the waves. In one quick motion, Thord stripped from him sword-belt and kirtle. He must be light for running. The way down to water was long and hard. Here was only cliff drop, but further on a path wound down and down with foot-holds in crevices and along ledges—a dangerous path, but one that Thord knew he could make, he had done it before. Far below, the little body rose, went down again. Thord whirled back from his running. He could never make it to the water in time to save—not by CLIFFS OF SOGN 15 the land-path. There was one other way. He was back by his sword now. He cut the thongs of his boots, kicked off their weight, stood a moment poised on the verge of Sogn Cliff, saw nigh a hun¬ dred feet below the gleam of sun across black waters. Then he dived. Down through the air past screaming sea-birds, down, down, till he smote the waves, down and down he sank, with water closing blackly over him. He went to the bottom, stunned and half-senseless, rose, floated weakly till air revived him. Finally enough sense came back for him to know that he must swim. He got on to the over-turned boat, used it as a float, pushed it before him till he could swim alongside a little form going out on the ebb tide. ’Twas Gisli, Hlodver’s boy. Thord clutched a hand into the child’s clothing, drew Gisli to him. Next instant, in the clawing, clinging desperation of one drowning, the child clenched onto his rescuer. Choking, strangling, Thord went under. The boat had drifted beyond all hope of reach, when the swimmer at last fought back to surface. His childish burden hung limp against him now— insensible. “Hola, Odin—help me—” the Norse fellow breathed the name of his god, “help me get him to shore—before the death-bird steals his life!” Striving to hold Gisli’s head above water, and de¬ pending mostly on his powerful leg-stroke, Thord began his swim for land. Here was the fight for life. The cliff wall loomed sheer and high against any landing. The tide-draw sucked fiercely at the 16 THORD FIRETOOTH burdened swimmer, seeking to sweep him out to sea. Thord Fire tooth swam till his very bones went numb, floated a space, swam again—heading always for a shelf of land far down the shore beneath the cliffs. The sun hung low by the time he reached that land-shelf and dragged himself and his burden up beyond the lash and pull of the waves. Wetness, chill, utter weariness posessed him— yet there was still work he must make himself do. Thord struggled up to his knees, began a regular movement of the child’s arms, stirring the breath of life back into that small form. Finally Gisli came to, opened eyes, saw who bent above him. Weakly he caught at Thord’s hand, held it to his cheek, wearily shut his eyes. Progress up the cliff trail was slow. Holding the little boy in his arms, the tall young Norseman set his feet carefully into crevice there, onto a ledge here, and went up, step by step,—resting when rock shelves were wide enough, pushing on dog- gedly. With the top gained, he set his burden down, stood there in the sunset glow, and breathed a great breath. Ek—the worst was over now! Far on ahead of him, through a slashing in the forest, he could see the settled lands of Sogn Soe, the temple on its cliff, Jarl’s Sig’s great castle. Thord the Firetooth, son of Sig, stooped and wrapped the shivering little Gisli in the hairy warmth of the new wolf skin that he had left flung down here on the cliff top. Then he, himself, drew on his crimson kirtle, bound on again his boots and CLIFFS OF SOGN 17 sword and belt. Shouldering-up the child, he set his feet on the home trail. Because royal blood flowed in his veins, this Thord Firetooth could wear an edging of royal minever fur on his kirtle, could wear a jewel-hilted blade thrust into the sword-belt of golden rings at his waist. For all his young lankiness, the fellow stepped out with military precision, and his hand was forever slipping to his sword hilt. War was his birthright. On that day when he had first seen light in the great, sturdy, hewn-oak castle of Jarl Sig, he had been duly “water-sprinkled” in the good old pagan way and given his name “Firetooth” because of the strange fact that he had been born with two tiny teeth—a valiant omen, so a hastily summoned old wise-woman, or vala, had prophesied to Geirhild, his mother. According to custom, he had been endowed with everything on his father’s estate that was born or made on the day of his birth. So over his oaken cradle, Hlodver, the warrior-harper, had chanted a fierce birth song: Thord the Firetooth Then was born In great Norseland; Born to sax, Born to sword, Born to long brynja. With ring-adorned helmet, Born to sword, With horses and men, Shall he fight for The lands of his father. 18 THORD FIRETOOTH Of a truth, Thord Firetooth had been born to sax and sword. These were troublous days in the Northland, with internal wars, with jarls and king at each other’s throats, with Sweyn Fork-beard raging to the south, and with the pirates of Joms- borg swooping hither and yon. Great days they were, though, full of travel and warrior merchant princes, and the vikings having a hand at ruling in all the courts of Europe.