The Race

Pit-pat pit-pat.
Crunch.

Pit-pat-pit-pat.
Crunch.

His two dogs stepped lightly across the snow, and Leif followed, breaking through the crust on every step and sinking in up to his knees. Night was falling, and the few snow-flakes drifting down would be enough, in combination with the failing light, to completely hide the sled tracks he was following back towards the village. “What kind of a man can't even track himself,” Leif asked the dogs out loud, giving a snort and shaking his head. They just looked at him, tongues hanging out, until he grumbled and continued walking

Agreeing to Toralf's challenge had been, in hindsight, a poor decision. The wandering trader had a reputation throughout the entire valley for being a trickster and confidence man, but his boasting in the longhouse the night before had been too much to bear, and he'd suckered in yet another mark. A mark whose feet were growing increasingly cold, Leif thought to himself.

The night had started out well, with ale and mead for all and plenty of fresh meat from the walrus that had been killed the week before. But then, when Oggi started telling his war stories, the visiting Toralf had burst into laughter. Now Oggi might have been a crazy old man, and his stories exaggerated to the point of absurdity, but he was their crazy old man, and the village men would be damned if some beardless outsider would mock them in their own Longhouse. And then when someone had yelled for Toralf to shut up, he'd only started laughing harder.

“Why should I?” he forced out through gasps for air, “One of you mighty warriors going to make me?” Leif would have hit him then and brought the whole matter to a close, one way or another, but Toralf was laughing so hard that he fell off his bench. And Leif couldn't very well beat a man who was rolling on the ground, no matter how much of an ass he was. Instead, he found himself opening his mouth.

“You have something you want to say, Toralf?”

“Just that I could lick any one of you in any one of you village idiots in any of the manly arts.” Said Toralf, propping himself up on his hands.

“Is that a challenge?” Leif said, frowning down at Toralf.

“Maybe so. Why, you think you can beat me?” Toralf replied, rising unsteadily to his feet and planting a finger on Leif's chest.

“You just name the contest, and I'll be sure you get the ass-kicking you deserve.”

Toralf went from wobbling on his feet to stone-cold sober in the blink of an eye, and Leif knew he'd been had, and that it was too late to back out now. “Great, how about a sled-race?”

And that's how Leif found himself and Toralf lined up next to one another the next morning, surrounded by the men of his village, with a pounding head, and in no mood for a sled race. The course was to be a 50 mile circuit around the ice field outside of the village, and the stakes were a fat sack of coins thrown together by the men of the village against three of the golden arm bands worn by the smooth-faced trader, both held in trust bu the village headman. The sun rose over the mountains, the two racers looked at each other, and they were off, both yelling out to their lead dogs as the sleds hissed forwards through the snow.

They had barely began the race before Toralf began shouting insults. Leif yelled at his team and they surged ahead, just as they entered the boulder field which marked one corner of the racetrack. Then he was too occupied with steering his team through the treacherous rocks, leaning over and over, rocking his sled onto one runner when shooting through a narrow gap between the boulders.

Hours later, as they shot across the open plain towards the stand of trees up ahead that marked the halfway point, Toralf pulled began his insults again. It was cold as hell, his head was throbbing, and his beard was starting to freeze. In other words, Leif had Toralf, and they crashed together in a mass of splintering wood, snapping fangs and flying fur. Leif was starting to snarl an insult of his own when Toralf slashed him across the face with his whip. Cursing, Leif reached out and fumbled at his opponent, catching hold of some scrap of fabric hanging from his waist and feeling it tear off in his grasp, throwing Toralf and himself off balance and away from each other. They both spent a moment struggling to right their sleds, and then the stream of invective continued. Growling, Leif sped ahead once more, just as they were entering the small copse of pines.

In his anger he didn't even see the rope. Toralf had known exactly when and where to push his buttons, and he plowed into the rope face first and tumbled over backwards off of his sled, seeing a white flash as the back of his head smashed into the icy ground. Sitting up dazedly some time later, he realized he was seeing double. Wait...Dammit! There were two sleds. But why was Toralf's stopped? Didn't he want to win the race?

“Ah, you're up. Don't worry, I haven't taken them all. Couldn't come near these two. Anyways, figured it would be a shame. They've got more brains than the rest of your village combined! Yah!” Toralf shouted back at him as he urged his suddenly much larger team into a run and vanished into the trees.

Leif groaned and felt his head in his hands. The dogs! Toralf had been manipulating him the whole time. He must have planted that rope there two days ago, before he'd entered the village, and then just waited for the moment to spring his trap. And now six of the eight sled dogs in the village were gone, each worth twice as much as the arm bands Toralf had left behind. How could he be so stupid? The dogs came over and started licking his face. Toralf had been right about the dogs being smarter than he was. Whats done is done, and no use moping about it. Time to start moving back home.

Northern days were short, and he had 25 miles left to go. He would probably have to camp in the boulder field. He scrounged the elk skin that made up the bed of the sled-at least it might offer some protection during the coming night. He trudged ever onwards, following his tracks and thinking murderous thoughts.

Pit-pat Pit-pat
Crunch

Pit-pat Pit-Urrrh?

One of the dogs was snuffling at something in the snow and whining. Probably some frozen tundra rat, Leif thought as he gave a tug on the leash. But the dog wouldn't move. He moved closer to give the dog a whack, and noticed what it was sniffing. Leather. Must be the piece of clothing he'd torn off of Toralf. At least that weasel was feeling an unpleasant draft on some portion of his anatomy. He knelt down and picked up the piece of rawhide. Curious. It was a pouch. And it was heavy. He loosened the drawstring and the setting sun glinted off of golden coins.

Leif grinned to himself. Toralf had definitely been right about the dogs.