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Legends of Torvaldsland
Stream of Torvald
The stream of Torvald is a current, as a broad river in the sea, pasangs wide, whose temperature is greater than that of the surrounding
water. Without it, much of Torvaldsland, bleak as it is, would be only a
frozen waste. Torvladsland is a cruel, harsh, rocky land. It contains
many cliffs, inlets and mountains. Its arable soil is thin and found in
patches. The size of the average farm is very small. Good farms is
often by sea, in small boats. Without the stream of Tovald it would
probably be I possible to raise cereal crops in sufficient quantity to
fee even its relatively sparse population. There is often not enough
food under any conditions, particularly in northern Torvaldsland, and
famine is not known. In such cases men feed on bark, and lichens and
seaweed. It is not strange that the young men of Torvaldsland often look
to the sea, and beyond it, for their fortunes. The stream of Torvald is
regarded by the men of Torvaldsland as a gift of Thor, bestowed upon
Torvald, legendary founder and hero of the land, in exchange of a ring of
gold.
Marauders of Gor - pages 55 - 56
The Legend of Torvald
In the far distance, the moonlight reflected from its snowy heights I
saw, too, the Torvaldsberg, in which the legendary Torvald was reputed to
sleep, supposedly to waken again if needed once more in Torvaldsland.
Marauders of Gor - page 192.
Over the arch, deeply incised in the stone was the single, mighty
sign, that which the Forkbeard had not explained to me.
We stood in silence, in that dark, lofty threshold.
The Forkbeard was trembling. I had never seen him so. The hair on the
back of my neck lifted, short, stiff. I felt cold. I knew, of course,
the legends.
He lifted his torch, to the sign over the door. "Do you not know that
sign?", he asked.
"I know what sign it must be," I said.
"What sign?" asked he.
"The sign, the name sign, of Torvald."
"Yes," said he.
I shuddered.
"Torvald," I said to the Forkbeard, "is only a figure of legend. Each
country has its legendary heroes, its founders, its mythic giants."
"This," said the Forkbeard, looking up at the sign, "is the chamber of
Torvald." He looked at me. "We have found it," he said.
"There is no Torvald," I said., "Torvald does not exist."
"This," said the Forkbeard, "is his sleeping chamber." His voice shook.
"Torvald," said he, "sleeps in the Torvaldsberg, and has done so for a
thousand years. He waits to be wakened. When his land needs him, he
shall awake. He shall then lead is in battle. Again he will lead the men
of the north."
"There is no Torvald," I said.
The Forkbeard looked within. "For a thousand years," he whispered, "has
he slept."
"Torvald does not exist," I said.
Ivar Forkbeard, lifting his torch, entered the great chamber.
I felt grief. It seemed to me not impossible that, at the root of the
legends, the sagas, of Torvald, there might be some particles of truth.
I did not think it impossible that there had once been a Torvald, one who
had come to this land, with followers perhaps, more than a thousand years
ago. He might have been a great leader, a mighty warrior, the first of
the jarls of the north, but that has been, if it had ever been, more than
a thousand years ago. There was now no Torvald. I felt grief at what
misery, the disappointment, what disillusionment must now fall to my
friend, the Forkbeard.
In his hope to find one strong enough to stand against the Kurii, one
who could rally the men of the north he was bound to be disillusioned.
The myth, that dream of succor, of final recourse, would be shown barren,
fraudulent.
This chamber, I knew, had been built by men, and the passages carved from
the very stone of the mountain itself. That must be accounted for. But it
was not difficult to do so, perhaps there had once been a Torvald,
hundreds of years ago. If so, it was not impossible that it had been his
wish to be interred in the great mountain. We stood, perhaps within, or
at the bring, of the tomb of Torvald, lost for long ages until now, until
we two, fleeing from the Kurii, from beasts, had stumbled upon it.
Perhaps it was true that Torvald had been buried in the Torvaldsberg,
and that the tomb, the funeral chamber, had been concealed to protect it
from the curious or from robbers. And, in such cases, legends might well
have arisen, legends in which the mystery of the lost tomb might figure.
These would have spread from village to village, from remote farm to
remote farm, from hall to hall. One such legend, quite naturally, might
have been that Torvald, the great Torvald, was not truly dead, but only
asleep, and would awaken when once again his land had need of him.
"Wait," I called to the Forkbeard.
But he had entered the chamber, torch high, moving quickly. I follow him,
swiftly, tears in my eyes.
When he looked down, torch lifted, upon the bones and fragile clothes of
what had once been a hero, when the myth has been shattered, the crystal
of its dream beneath the iron of reality, I wanted to stand near him.. I
would not speak to him. But I would sand behind him, and near him.
The Forkbeard stood at the side of the great stone couch, which was
covered with black fur.
At the foot of the couch were weapons; at its head, hanging on the wall,
under a great shield, were two spears, crossed under it, and, to one
side, a mighty sword in its scabbard. Near the head of the couch, on out
left, as we looked upon the couch, was, on a stone platform, a large
helmet, horned.
The Forkbeard looked at me.
The couch was empty.
He did not speak. He sat down on the edge of the couch, on the black fur,
and put his head in his hands. His torch lay on the floor, and after some
time, burned itself out. The Forkbeard did not move, The men of
Torvaldsland, unlike most Gorean men, do not permit themselves tears. It
is not cultural for them to weep. But I heard him sob once. I did not, of
course, let him know I had head this sound. I would not shame him.
"We have lost," He said, finally, "Red Hair. We have lost."
I had lit another torch, and was examining the chamber. The body of
Torvald, I conjectured, had not been buried in this place. It did not
seem likely that robbers would have taken the body, and left the various
treasures about. Nothing, it seemed, had been disturbed.
Torvald, I conjectured, doubtless as cunning and wise as the legends had
made him out, had not elected to have himself interred in his own tomb.
It was empty.
The wiliness, the cunning, of a man who have lived more than a thousand
years ago made itself felt in its effects a millennium later, in this
strange place, deep within the living stone of a great mountain in a
bleak country.
"Where is Torvald?" cried out Ivar Forkbeard.
I shrugged.
"There is no Torvald," said the Forkbeard. "Torvald does not exist."
I made no attempt to answer the Forkbeard.
"The bones of Torvald," said the Forkbeard, "even the bones of Torvald
are not here."
"Torvald was a great captain," I said. "Perhaps he was burned in his
ship, which you have told me was called Black Shark." I looked about. "It
is strange though," I said, "if that were the case, why this tomb would
have been built."
"This is not a tomb," said Ivar Forkbeard.
I regarded him.
"This is a sleeping chamber," he said. "There are no bones of animals
here, or of thralls, or urns, or the remains of foodstuffs, offerings."
He looked about. "What, " he asked me, "would Torvald have had carves in
the Torvaldsberg a sleeping chamber?"
"That men might come to the Torvaldsberg to waken him," I said.
Ivar Forkbeard looked at me.
From among the weapons at the foot of the couch, from one of the
cylindrical quivers, still of the sort carried in Torvaldsland, I drew
forth a long, dark arrow. It was more than a yard long. Its shaft was
almost an inch thick. It was plied with iron, barbed. Its feathers were
five inches long, set in the shaft on three sides, feathers of the
black-tipped coasting gull, a broad-winged bird, with black tips on its
winds and tail feathers, similar to the Vosk gull.
I lifted the arrow. "What is this?" I asked the Forkbeard.
"It is a war arrow," he said.
"And what sign is this, carved on its side?" I asked.
"The sign of Torvald," he whispered.
"Why do you think this arrow is in this place?" I asked.
"That men might find it?" he asked.
"I think so," I said.
He reaches out and put his hand on the arrow. He took it from me.
"Send the war arrow," I said.
The Forkbeard looked down on the arrow.
"I think," I said, "I begin to understand the meaning of a man who lived
more than a thousand winters ago. This man, call him Torvald, built
within a mountain a chamber for sleep, in which he would not sleep, but
to which men would come to waken him. Here they would find not Torvald,
but themselves, themselves, Ivar, alone, and an arrow of war."
"I do not understand," said Ivar.
"I think," I said, "it was not the intention of Torvald that it should be
he who was wakened within it, but rather those who came to seek him."
"The chamber is empty," said Ivar.
"No," I said, "we are within it." I put my hand to his shoulder. "It is
not Torvald who must awaken in this chamber. Rather it is we. Here,
hoping for others to do our work, Torvald"s way of telling us, from a
thousand years ago, that it is we on whom we must depend, and not on any
other. If the land is to be saved, it is by us and others like us, that
it must be saved. There are no spells, no gods, no heroes to save us, In
this chamber, it is not Torvald who must awaken. It is you and I." I
regarded the Forkbeard evenly. "Lift," said I, "the arrow of war."
Marauders of Gor - pages 232-235
Creation of the Men of Torvaldsland
The men of Torvaldsland are rovers and fighters, and sometimes they
turn their prows to the open sea with no thought in mind other than
seeing what might lie beyond the gleaming horizon. In their own legends
they see themselves as poets, and lovers and warriors. They appear
otherwise in the legends of others. In the legends of others they appear
as blond giants, breathing fire, shattering doors, giants taller than
trees, with pointed ears and eyes like fire and hands like great claws
and hooks; they are seen as savages, as barbarians, as blood thirsty and
mad with killing, with braided hair, clad in furs and leather, with bare
chests, with great axes which, at a single stroke, can fell a tree or cut
a man in two. It is said they appear as though from nowhere to pillage,
and to burn and rape, and then, among the flames, as quickly, vanish to
their swift ships, carrying their booty with them, whether it be bars of
silver, or goblets of gold, or silken sheets, knotted and bulging with
plates, and coins and gems, or merely women, bound, their clothing torn
away, whose bodies they find pleasing.
In Gorean legends the Priest-Kings are said to have formed man from the
mud of the earth and the blood of tarns. In the legends on Torvaldsland,
man has a different origin. Gods, meeting in council, decided to for a
slave for themselves, for they were all gods, and had no slaves. They
took a hoe, an instrument for working in the soil, and pit it among them.
They then sprinkled water upon this implement and rubbed upon it sweat
from their bodies. From this hoe was formed most men. On the other hand,
that night, one of the gods, curious, or perhaps careless, or perhaps
driven from the hall and angry, threw down upon the ground his own great
ax, and upon this axe he poured paga and his own blood, and the axe
laughed and leaped up, and ran away. The god, and all the gods, could
not catch it, and it became, it is said, the father of the men of
Torvaldsland."
Hunters of Gor - page 258
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