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  • 6.2 – Stew

    6.2 – Stew

    The old man led the five castaways up the beach, offering no conversation over the howling storm. The building they stopped at was a fisherman’s shack that, even in the darkness, looked nearly as weathered and beaten as the man they followed. A gust of wind caught the door as their host pulled, yanking the cord from his hands and striking the wall with a solid thump.

    Inside, three more lanterns like the one the old man carried hung from hooks on the wall so that the inside of the shack was a blaze of light and warmth. An iron stew pot bubbled over a pit fire, and Einarr’s stomach was not the only one that could be heard rumbling.

    “Make yerselves at home, such as it is,” their host grumbled. He tossed his oilcloth cloak over a hook without looking and moved slowly over toward his seat by the fire. Even with the cloak, Einarr noted that the ragged cuffs of his pants still dripped.

    “Thank you, again.” Einarr tried to mask his wariness from the man, if not from his companions even as they stepped in out of the weather. Here again was a man who went through the forms of hospitality without any love for them.

    The old man hummed as he wrung water from his long, gray beard. “I wonder if ye’ll still be sayin’ that in the morning. No matter. Grab yerselves a bowl and warm up. Most I can do fer ye now.”

    Einarr kept one eye on the old man even as he filled one of the wooden bowls indicated. The stew smelled of fresh fish and onions, and in the broth floated chunks of parsnip and cabbage. Einarr thought it might have been good even were they not half-starved and frozen. The five companions fell to with a will.

    In the morning, when they awoke, the old man was not in the shack. Einarr looked about himself, blinking, for a good minute to ensure he had his bearings.

    “Right. Now we’ve found land, I guess it’s time to find out where we are and fix the boat.”

    Jorir snorted. “He told us where we are. It just doesn’t help us.”

    Erik shook his head. “The Isle of the Forgotten? What is that even supposed to mean?”

    “Don’t scoff. If Stigander paid proper heed to the tales, you’d all know what that meant.” Runa’s voice had a hard edge to it, but Einarr was certain she hated to say it. Rather than let the tensions from the ship boil over onto land, though, he broke in.

    “Wherever we are, we can’t get back to the Vidofnir and the Skudbrun until we fix our mast. Let’s focus on that, first.”

    ***

    The old fisherman looked no less weathered and no less gruff for the bright light of midmorning, and Einarr had been becalmed too long to be glad of the deep blue, cloudless sky that greeted them that morning. Their host sat on the beach beneath the shade of a large rock mending a net.

    “Good morning!” Einarr raised a hand in greeting as he approached the place where their host worked.

    “Is it? I wonder.” The old man did not look up from his work, and Einarr rolled his eyes.

    “You have our thanks for last night’s meal and the roof over our heads. If we’re ever going to get home, though, we need to fix our ship. Is there a forest on the island?”

    “Oh, aye, there’s a wood. I wouldn’t recommend it, though. You’re here, now. May as well settle in and accept it.”

    “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

    “Ye’ll go mad, then.” Those words hung in the air before Einarr while the old fisherman turned back to his task. What felt like an age later, the man spoke again without looking up. “Head straight up the beach. You’ll see the wood. ‘Tis a foul place, though – dangerous, and fit for neither man nor beast.”

    Einarr set his jaw and turned to face his friends. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Runa cut him off.

    “No. If we are where he says we are, you need someone who knows the lore.”

    “The lady is right, milord,” Jorir rumbled. “I’ve heard of the place, but not much, and not in a long time.”

    “Besides.” Runa lowered her voice until it was almost as deep as Reki’s, her mouth curling in a sardonic smile. “Do you really want to leave me alone with a strange old man?”

    Einarr rolled his eyes again. For all that their host had offered them no harm, it was true that he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust the man. “Fine. How’s your throat this morning?”

    “It’ll do in a pinch, but let’s not count on any great feats of song, shall we?”

    Einarr harrumphed, but rather than responding he turned to face up the beach.

    “Good luck, I suppose.” The old man still did not look up from his netting. The ground beneath their feet had grown stable before the man’s next words reached them: “You’re going to need it.”

    “Good riddance to that guy,” Irding muttered.

    Einarr nodded in agreement.“Could he have been any gloomier?”

    “Before casting aspersions on a helpful old soul, perhaps consider his circumstances?” For all that Runa had insisted on coming, she was coming to the man’s defense rather sharply. “And ours, I’m afraid.”

    “If this is the Isle of the Forgotten, those blasted feathers you grabbed had a high price.”

    Wonderful. Jorir had managed to rub Einarr’s face in that – again – while somehow agreeing with Runa. As glad as Einarr was that they seemed to be getting along better since the tower, he could wish they would be less harsh about it.

    “Maybe so.” He could not let them fall to fighting now. Not if they ever wanted to get back. “Think we can find a new mast in there?”

    Spread before them, on the other side of a meadow of perhaps three acres, was a thick forest of dark evergreens. It was time to get to work.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    So begins book 6! I hope the wait was worth it. We’re not quite all moved in, but we’re close, and Pago Pago thus far is lovely.

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 6.1 – Landfall

    6.1 – Landfall

    Runa coughed. Again. And again, Irding’s face fell into a scowl. Erik paid his son no mind, merely continued to row. Two weeks had passed since they had escaped the Tower of Ravens, and for two weeks they had been becalmed. Which meant rowing. A lot of rowing meant a lot of singing, ordinarily, to keep their strength up – but Runa’s voice was unused to such long labor.

    Einarr’s hands tensed on his fishing line. Fights had sparked from less in the last week. Jorir gave a tug on his own line, and the sound of the sinker pulling through the water defused the moment.

    The Gestrisni was low on water, and in two weeks there had been no sign of land where they might find fresh. Which meant that Runa’s voice was in bad condition even when she could sing. This might not have been a problem with a more sea-weathered Singer, who could have taken a turn at oar or rudder or line, but Runa was not accustomed to riding the whale road.

    Einarr turned to offer his man at arms a nod of thanks. As he did, though, a darkness on the horizon caught his eye. His brows drew down and he scowled across the water even as the first hint of a breeze tugged at his hair.

    “Erik. Storm ahead. Let’s see if we can’t ride the wind.”

    “Think this old girl will take it?”

    “Think we have another option?”

    “No, sir. Let’s go.”

    A pair of splashes was followed by the dull rattle of fishhooks on the deck as Einarr and Jorir hurriedly pulled their lines in. Before many minutes had passed, the five had unfurled the sail and turned the Gestrisni about to take advantage of the sudden wind.

    This storm blew up nearly as quickly as the one that had brought the Grendel, late the year before. Soon the poor, bedraggled Grestisni was being tossed about on the waves like a young boy’s toy while Runa’s voice cracked over the notes of a song of strength they desperately needed.

    And yet, they moved, and for that Einarr was thankful. He had nearly begun to despair of finding land before they all died of thirst, before the storm. Now all they had to do was weather it and find land.

    They crested a wave, and the prow of the Gestrisni momentarily pointed straight down, leaving Einarr staring into the deep. He swallowed as the ship righted itself, glad at least that there had been no sign of anything below that might have stared back. He might have done better to heed Erik’s caution – no. That way lay madness. Dangerous or not, riding the wind had been the right call, if only because it got them moving again.

    “Brace yourselves!” He just had time to shout before an errant wave crashed over the bow, drenching them all as it washed across the deck. The mast groaned ominously. A string of dwarven curses carried over the wind. Einarr shook his head violently, trying to clear the water from his eyes but only succeeding in whipping about the wet ropes of his beard.

    “Everyone okay back there?” He hollered over the wind, never taking his eyes from the sea ahead. Erik and Irding roared wordlessly back. That was four. When Runa’s song picked back up, only a moment later, Einarr nodded to himself. “Steady on, then!”

    At the crest of the next wave, Einarr spotted a black shape on the horizon against the darkness of the sky, too rough and angular to be any sort of giant creature, too smooth to be a rock like the one they had just recently left. “Land ho!”

    Irding whooped. Einarr allowed himself half of a smile: he couldn’t really disagree with the sentiment. Perhaps their fortune was taking a turn for the better? This was a day for taking chances, and Einarr thought their chances were significantly better on an island than on the water with no provisions.

    As the island drew nearer, Einarr could make out the silhouettes of trees near the shore being tossed in the wind. They should have shelter, at least, once they got the Gestrisni ashore. As if in answer to his thoughts, the hull groaned at him. They were near enough now, though, that the pattern of the waves had shifted. Einarr felt the deck swell up under him from behind and gripped the railing as the breaker carried them swiftly towards the unknown shore.

    Their feet sank deep in the wet sand of the shore as they hauled the Gestrisni up out of the water, the familiar grind of sand against wood almost inaudible over the crash of waves and the howl of wind. Einarr straightened to have a look around them, now that the fisherman’s boat was out of immediate danger.

    A light appeared farther up the shore, a rectangle of fire against the black backdrop of night. It shrank, then, down to a torch-sized ball of flame, and began bobbing closer. The others came up to stand by Einarr, watching as the light walked toward them.

    Eventually, the light resolved into an Imperial-style lantern of glass and bronze, dangling from the hand of a weathered old man – old enough, Einarr thought, to make Tyr seem young. The man held the lantern up, peering at them through the rain as they peered at him.

    “Storm or no,” the old man cried. “This here is no safe port. Cast off again, if you know what’s good for you.”

    “Grandfather,” Einarr answered. “We are two weeks adrift, with no food and little water.”

    “And still I say, cast off, before you become cast away.”

    Einarr shared a look with the others, who all nodded in agreement. Irding was the first to take a step back toward the Gestrisni, to put his shoulder to her hull and brave the waves again.

    A purple flash of lightning split the sky, and the crack of thunder did not drown out the crack of wood as it set mast and sail ablaze.

    “Ah.” The old man bobbed his head now, as though in understanding. “Accursed ye be, then. Come, follow me. I’ve warm food to offer, at least, and the roof don’t leak much.”

    Under other circumstances, Einarr might have refused such a gloomy old man. At this moment, however, it seemed the best option before them. “My thanks, grandfather. Tell me, what island is this?”

    “This?” The man’s laugh was raspy and dry. “This be the Isle of the Forgotten.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    So begins book 6! I hope the wait was worth it. We’re not quite all moved in, but we’re close, and Pago Pago thus far is lovely.

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • Book 6: The Isle of the Forgotten

    Book 6: The Isle of the Forgotten

    After escaping from the Tower of Ravens, Einarr and his companions discover that they have been transported to an unknown portion of the sea. To make matters worse, they are there becalmed. When a storm blows up, they take their lives in their hands in hopes of finding their way back to the waiting Vidofnings.

  • Freedom To Publish

    http://www.thepassivevoice.com/freedom-to-publish/

    As PG commented at the end, I am so glad to be dealing with first world problems.

  • 5.30 – Escaping the Tower

    5.30 – Escaping the Tower

    “I’ll catch up by the time you reach the apothecary room.” Einarr flashed a cocky grin at his liege-man before he dashed back into the room, toward the fireplace. Had the familiars left their feathers on purpose, like the Valkyrie had? He couldn’t say, but they were sure to be just as magical.

    Einarr bent to scoop up the two feathers without slowing down, then skidded around the giant perch.

    The doorway stood empty. Good. Now to fulfill his end of the promise. Einarr tucked the feathers, black as night, into the pouch at his belt and poured on the speed. The distaff was like a goad against his back, and he was glad it wasn’t any longer. Perhaps another foot of length and he’d have had to worry about it tangling in his legs.

    He shot through the doorway and cornered hard on the landing to take the stairs two at a time. The rumbling beneath his feet was rougher now, although somehow he felt certain the tower was not breaking apart.

    That might actually be worse. Something whizzed past his face and a warm line stung his cheek. Was something firing arrows up at him? He took the stairs at full tilt, two and sometimes three at a time. Another arrow flew, and this one trimmed his sleeve. Were these warning shots?

    By the time he reached the floor below he saw Jorir’s boot disappearing down the opposite stairwell. So he hadn’t been quite as quick as he thought he would be: the important part was that he was right behind.

    The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and Einarr froze just before the threshold of the stairway leading down. Not a step too soon: the axe that dropped from above trimmed the ends of his beard already. He risked a quick glance around: just a trap.

    Then he heard Runa’s shriek echoing up the stair. Einarr leapt forward, the back of the blade scraping against the bottom of his boots, and all but flew down the steps. He counted and ignored not one but three slices into his legs in his haste to reach them.

    Erik stood, his feet planted and one hand braced against the wall, the other extended and holding Runa by her delicate wrist. Runa herself hung from that arm, scrabbling for purchase with her fine boots against what had suddenly become a smooth ramp instead of stairs. She gasped as though in pain, and only in that moment did Einarr realize he, too, was gasping for air. She’s fine. Calm down.

    Jorir shot him a poisonous look, which he ignored as he slipped up to stand next to Erik. “Runa. Reach up your other hand for me.

    She looked up at him from panic-ringed eyes and her breathing slowed. She managed a nod and slowly stretched her other arm out. Einarr’s hand closed around hers.

    “Okay. Now we’re going to pull you back up, all right?”

    “Please.” She still sounded like she was in pain: perhaps the jolt of her rescue had dislocated a shoulder?

    “Ready? One, two, and … heave.”

    Runa was not heavy, especially not for two men who had their balance back, and so a handful of heartbeats later Runa stood a step above them, dusting herself off and making a show of testing her shoulder and rubbing at the wrist Erik had grabbed.

    “Right. Well. On we go. Watch your step.” He felt bad about the floor dropping out from under Runa: these traps were almost certainly his fault, after all – but not so bad that he was willing to drop the prize. Instead, he stepped forward onto the ramp and pushed off with his back foot, so that he was able to slide down the stone much as he had slid down a mound of coins early in the spring.

    The ramp went all the way down to the landing for the next floor, and Einarr was not the only one who could not quite contain a laugh as they skied down. He was certain he heard Irding, and quite possibly Erik, as he half-ran, half-stumbled off the ramp and into the third floor challenge room. The door on the other side stood open. Feeling jaunty, Einarr sauntered forward.

    The smell of ozone was his only warning. Einarr froze.

    Lightning cracked down in the center of the room.

    Seconds later, as the others skidded up behind him, lightning struck again. In the exact same spot. Einarr frowned, counting.

    Five seconds before the third strike. He could make it. The Vidofnings could make it. Could Runa? Much as he loved her, she was more than a little pampered.

    Well, nothing for it. Five seconds after the third strike came the fourth. The light had not fully faded from his eyes before Einarr was moving again, dashing for the far door with every ounce of speed he could muster.

    The next time lightning struck, the hair on his head crackled with static – but he was clear. Einarr stopped to wait at the door for his friends to run the gauntlet.

    Irding came next. It looked like he was trying to beat Einarr’s time. Einarr shook his head, smiling at the other young man as he crossed the finish line into the stair. Einarr’s hair had merely stood on end: Irding’s smelled of smoke.

    Erik and Jorir made it with little issue, despite their twin and opposite problems of size. That only left Runa, who stood staring across at Einarr with indecision. He nodded encouragement to her, beckoning her on, and she set her jaw. That’s my Runa.

    The lightning sizzled down again, and then Runa made her break across the floor, her dress trailing behind her. Einarr caught her hands as another flash appeared.

    She was smoking. Or, rather, her skirt was. Runa herself seemed to be fine.

    “Turn around.” When she obliged, Einarr beat out the flames licking her skirt at the edges of where the lightning had struck.

    Nothing else in the tower slowed them more than a moment. There were more arrows and knives, and even another ramp, but as the sun sank below the horizon and seemed to light the sea on fire they stood in the Gestrisni catching their breath.

    “See, Jorir? Not a problem at all.” Einarr could not quite repress a smile. In spite of everything, that had almost been fun.

    “Are ye sure about that, lad?” Jorir’s voice was oddly flat, but Einarr still heard the edge in it.

    “Why, what do you —” He turned his head to look at his man-at-arms and suddenly he knew what the problem was. The Gestrisni now sat in the open ocean, not a rock to be seen. All around them, the water was perfectly still, and there wasn’t so much as a breeze to stir a lock of hair among them. He had to let that sink in a moment before he found anything to say. “I hope we’re all ready to row.”

    Jorir grunted. “I’m decent at navigating by the stars, as well. At least we won’t be striking out blindly.”

    Erik snorted. “You let me an’ Irding worry about the oars, Einarr. You and your lady should keep watch.”

    To that, Einarr nodded easy agreement. “My thanks. In that case, oh fearless navigator, let’s have a look at the charts.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    So ends Book 5 of Einarr’s adventures. Book 6 will pick up right where we left off, with our heroes lost in the middle of the ocean, on November 13. By then, I should be comfortably ensconced in my new home in Pago Pago. If you’d like to read about our adventures abroad (with an infant!), I will be starting a separate blog for just that purpose.

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 5.29 – Örlögnir

    5.29 – Örlögnir

    Runa frowned at the distaffs laying neatly in a row on the shelf of the loft. The description the Matrons had left them had only narrowed it down to two, and she seemed as reluctant to risk picking one up to examine it as Einarr was.

    “The Örlögnir untangles fate,” she mused. “Probably our clue is in the pattern of the inlay.”

    Einarr peered more closely at the two they were considering. “But… they look the same to me?”

    On each, there was a pattern of cross-hatching that seemed vaguely familiar to him, as well as a small round symbol that was difficult to discern in the smoky light up here. It could have been either the Vegvisir or the Helm of Awe, he just couldn’t see without picking it up.

    Runa solved this issue neatly by kneeling on the floor to examine the two hazel and ivory distaffs. Feeling stupid, Einarr crouched next to her.

    One of the distaffs was plainly the Helm of Awe, and the other was the Runic Compass. Protection, and Guidance. Only, either of them could be appropriate here, depending on if the craftsman considered it primarily curative or if its use would be more broadly entwined with the Norns’ workings.

    He looked at Runa from the corner of his eye, hoping she might have a better idea. Her lips were pursed into a line, and her eyes darted between them. Comparing, he was sure. “Well?”

    “A moment. It’s down to the hatching.”

    Einarr grunted agreement.

    “We’re looking at either the Web of Wyrd or Gugnir, on both of them, but I feel like my eyes are playing tricks on me in the light.”

    “That one has the Helm of Awe, if it helps.” He pointed to the one on the right, with crossed diamonds encircling the handle in bands. “And that one has the Runic Compass.”

    She nodded, frowning. “That’s what I thought I saw, yes. …If only there were a surface I could draw on.”

    “Plenty of dust on the floor.”

    Runa hummed, looking doubtfully down at the floorboards. “It will have to do, I suppose. Fine.”

    She turned toward him and stretched an arm down to draw some quick lines in the dust, and her braid slipped down over her elegant shoulder. Beautiful and brilliant. Could any man be luckier?

    Runa cleared her throat and shot him an impatient look.

    Right. Focus, man. “Sorry.”

    She hummed and looked back down at the hatch mark patterns she had drawn in the dust. “One of these is Gugnir. The other is the Web of Wyrd. We want the one – I think – that has the Web of Wyrd drawn on it.”

    Einarr looked down and examined them. They were both familiar, and very similar to each other. The primary difference, as he studied her work, seemed to be the vertical lines running through the angles. “The web is the one built like a ladder of the other, more or less?”

    “More or less, yes.”

    He nodded, then turned his attention back to the line of artefacts. If he wanted the cross-hatch pattern that was bounded by three lines, then that meant… He got down on his knees and leaned against the edge of the shelf. His eyes, too, seemed to be playing tricks, but being named Cursebreaker had to be worth something, didn’t it?

    He peered, and as he peered he blinked, and slowly the inlay pattern of ivory on pale wood came clear. The one that was banded by the Web of Wyrd was also the one stamped with the Vegvisir.

    Einarr swallowed. Logically, that had to be right, didn’t it? With no little hesitation, he reached out for the distaff on the left.

    Runa’s voice stopped his hand inches from the handle. “Are you sure?”

    He paused, considering, and turned his head to look over his shoulder. “It shows the Web of Wyrd, like you said I should look for, and the Runic Compass. Guidance and Fate. That sounds like what we were told to look for, doesn’t it?”

    She pressed her lips together, still worried, but nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. Only…”

    “Only?”

    “Only this feels too straightforward.”

    “You’re saying I should take the one stamped with the Helm of Awe and Gugnir?”

    “No…”

    “I think it’s our best bet. You said it yourself, you’ve had little to do other than study. If you say we want the web pattern and not the spear pattern, I’ll trust you.”

    “But what if…?”

    “You’re wrong? Then we fail. But sometimes, you just have to trust your gut. And my gut says we reasoned right.”

    Einarr gave himself no more time to deliberate. As the last word left his mouth, his hand closed on the handle of the distaff he had chosen.

    A cawing erupted from the floor below, and Einarr felt a vibration beneath his feet. He doubted the tower would actually collapse about their heads, but there was absolutely no reason to stay now.

    Einarr thrust the distaff through his baldric and slid down the side rails of the ladder, but then he stopped. He would not be his father’s son if he did not help the lady down, after all.

    Runa hardly needed the help, although she accepted it with grace. Then they were off again, their companions standing at the top of the stair and waving them on to hurry. Of Huginn and Muninn, Einarr saw no sign save a pair of black feathers on the ground in front of the fire. The white one woven into his buckle caught his eye and he paused. On impulse, he turned to the others. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

    “Are ye daft, man?” Jorir looked at him as though he quite believed his Lord was.

    Einarr grinned back. This was foolish, sure, but it was also not an opportunity he could stand to let pass. “Perhaps. Don’t worry: I’ll be fine. I’ll catch up by the time you hit the apothecary room.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 5.28 – Huginn and Muninn

    5.28 – Huginn and Muninn

    A fireplace dominated one wall of the long, rectangular room, and in front of that fireplace stood a thick pine pole. A pair of posts extended out from either side of the pole, and once the feathers settled down Einarr faced the impassive stares of two enormous ravens. He swallowed.

    Unsure how one addresses the beings one intends to steal from, he took a step further into the room. “I am Einarr, son of Stigander, of Raenshold. I believe you know why we are here.”

    One of the ravens cocked its head to the side and croaked “Cursebreaker.”

    The other one dipped as though to grab a morsel of food from thin air. “First accursed.”

    “I’m… going to take that as a yes.” Einarr stepped further into the room, never taking his eyes from Wotan’s familiars.

    The one who had dipped its head lifted it again with a jerk to stare past Einarr. Runa stepped into the hall, all grace and beauty and self-assurance.

    “I hope you will forgive our intrusion, noble birds,” she crooned.

    The first raven lifted its open beak in the air and seemed to laugh at her pretense. No-one called ravens noble, even if they were a god’s familiars. “Wily,” it cawed.

    “Broken Breaker,” the other began. “Unsnarl the web you hang in.”

    “Frigg permits.”

    “Wotan reclaims.”

    “Be quick!”

    Einarr started toward where he could just make out a ladder into what would ordinarily be a loft.

    “Touch nothing.”

    He stopped at the last command. “Which is it?”

    Both birds spoke together now. “Be quick! Touch nothing. Cursebreaker must break his own curse.”

    “Hand of Hel grows strong.”

    “Frigg permits. Wotan reclaims.”

    Confused, Einarr looked with a furrowed brow to first Runa, who shrugged, and then Jorir, still outside the door.

    “The Örlögnir,” Jorir mouthed. “Just don’t take anything else.”

    Ah. Right. He nodded gratefully at his liege-man and hurried for the dimly glimpsed ladder.

    The hall grew smoky as Einarr neared the loft, and his steps seemed to echo in his own ears, but he could still hear the clipped phrases of Huginn and Muninn as Runa attempted to speak with them. It seemed to him that they were teasing her, the thought of which amused him more than he would admit – to her.

    Up the ladder he went, the side rails clattering against the wall with every step. The smoke above was thick enough to make his eyes and throat burn: he hoped he could recognize the Örlögnir for what it was: it had been a good long time since he had seen Grimhildr spinning, and he didn’t remember much about hers other than it was a long rod with a pointed end.

    The loft was filled with chests, stacked haphazardly, many of them half-open. Inside some of them glinted gold or jewels to tempt a saint. Einarr paused before the fourth of these before shaking his head. They had plenty of wealth after the Allthane’s hoard, or at least they should, but they had no other way of quelling the black blood that tainted both their crews.

    “Going to have to try harder than that to throw me off,” he muttered as he continued back, his eyes scanning for the half-remembered shape.

    One of the ravens below laughed. The raucous caw grated on Einarr’s nerves.

    Then, finally, he spotted a shelf running along the side of the loft. An arrow slit in the wall allowed a thin beam of light to slant down along its length. On it lay a series of rods.

    “They said it was… ivory inlaid,” he muttered, trying to remember exactly how the wise women had described it. Five of the rods before him, however, had ivory inlays of various designs. That narrowed it down a little, anyway. But what was the type of wood?

    Holly? Hazel? Birch? It was something pale, he felt certain. That narrowed it down to four, at least. …There was someone else along who would know. Runa had been there when the quest was handed down, and was a Singer besides. With a nod, he fixed the place in his mind and went back to the ladder to call across the room. “Runa?”

    A raven cackled, as though it knew why he called.

    “What is it?” She sounded exasperated.

    “Can you leave the others to converse with our hosts? I could use a hand.”

    “Go, Lady,” Jorir rumbled, audible all the way across the hall.

    Runa exchanged a few words with the dwarf, too low for Einarr to hear, and then nodded. She picked up her skirts and headed back toward the loft.

    “I’d hardly call it conversing,” she muttered as she dusted off her hands. “Blasted birds just love being cryptic.”

    “Aren’t you the one who was excited to match wits with them?”

    Runa hummed. “So what was it you wanted me for?”

    “There are a lot of distaffs up here, assuming I remember aright what one looks like. I’ve got it down to four. I’m hoping you can help me narrow it down.”

    She smiled at him, and his heart skipped a beat again just like it had every time last winter. “Let’s have a look.”

    Einarr led her back toward the shelf. “I don’t suppose you managed to figure out what happens if we get the wrong one?”

    She shook her head. “Best case? We get back and find out the Matron’s ritual doesn’t work. Worst case, we bring the tower down on our heads and the ritual fails.”

    “I was afraid of that. Well. Let’s figure this out right, then.”

    The rods all lay on the shelf exactly where Einarr had found them. He had not dared move them around as he sorted, just in case the ravens’ “touch nothing” had been a little more literal than Jorir seemed to think.

    “That one,” he pointed to one that looked like birch with ivory knotwork. “Or one of these three.” The last set, all near to each other, was one holly and two hazel, if his woodcraft did not fail him.

    Runa pursed her lips. “Hazel and ivory, they said, for purification. …Which I think means it’s one of these two?”

    Einarr groaned. He’d been afraid of that, as the only sample there were two of. If he could touch them… but no. All of them were sure to be magical in some way or another. Nothing for it but to go over the lore. “What else do we know of the distaff?”

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

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  • 5.26 – Poultice

    5.26 – Poultice

    Runa’s song had become little more than a buzzing in the background of Jorir’s attention as he bruised the honeyed leaves in the mortar and prayed the other two would hurry up.

    At least Lord Einarr didn’t seem to be growing any worse now. Given enough time, the song magic could probably handle it. Only, they didn’t have that much time. Einarr needed to be back on his feet before they approached their goal, or they might not make it out. At least, Jorir didn’t think any of them would be willing to leave him behind. Even Irding, though new to the crew, seemed to have taken to the Captain’s son.

    “Feathery leaves and flat flower clusters, right?”

    Jorir nearly jumped out of his skin at Erik’s sudden voice behind him. “Right.”

    “There aren’t any white ones, but I found some that are kind of pink?”

    He turned around to see the big man holding a pot with the flower he spoke of and rolled his eyes. “Yes, also yarrow. Let me clip some before you take it back. Irding should be looking for the touch-me-nots. …See if you can’t find some woundwort, while you’re at it.”

    Finally. That was two of the three plants he needed. If the wound were less grievous, he might try to poultice with just these elements. Under the circumstances, though, Jorir thought it better to be safe. He pinched the yarrow stems and scraped the tiny leaves into his mortar and returned to mixing.

    Minutes passed, and still no touch-me-nots. Jorir looked up from his task in irritation. He didn’t think he could wait much longer to apply the poultice – both for the potency of the herbs and the state of his Lord.

    On the far side of the room, Erik and Irding appeared to be arguing at a whisper over two plants with yellow flowers – neither of which looked like a touch-me-not from this distance. With a growl, he stood up and hefted the heavy mortar.

    “What is taking you so long,” he growled as he approached the two. “…Are you seriously arguing over a buttercup and a goldenrod? Neither of those are what I sent you for.”

    Irding frowned down at the goldenrod he had in his hand. “Not a whole lot of yellow flowers out here.”

    How does anyone not know a touch-me-not? “It looks like a drinking horn with a wide mouth. Next thing I know you’ll bring me wolfsbane for woundwort!”

    “Wolfsbane I know,” Erik rumbled.

    “That’s something, anyway. Hurry it up a bit: the longer this takes, the worse it gets.” Jorir turned and walked back towards his Lord on his sickbed.

    “So… what does woundwort look like?” Irding’s voice carried across the floor.

    Jorir could not suppress a growl. “It’s a small plant. Little cones at the top covered with purple petals. Just bring the whole pot, if you find it.”

    Sounds of affirmation followed Jorir back to the center of the room, but he was not hopeful. Oh, they would try, certainly, but he rated their odds as low. He returned to pulverizing the concoction with somewhat more force than before.

    “Ha!” Erik’s voice boomed across the room. Not many moments later, a pair of touch-me-not stems appeared on the floor at Jorir’s knee. “Those, yes?”

    “Yes, those.” Jorir breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Any luck on the woundwort?”

    “Still working on it.”

    “Fine. This will do for the moment, but keep looking.” He plucked the flowers off the stems and tossed them into the mortar.

    Runa was beginning to look tired, but the paste was finally ready. Jorir turned to his patient: Einarr still looked waxy, and his breathing was labored, but finally Jorir had something to help the body along. He met Runa’s eye. “I’m going to untie his bandage now.”

    She nodded, and Jorir’s fingers moved to the sodden knot of cloth that had kept Einarr from bleeding out long before. He tugged once, then twice, and all he elicited was a groan from the patient. Shaking his head, Jorir took his eating knife from his belt and sliced the strip near the knot.

    Once the cut was uncovered, and it was a long one, blood welled slowly up. Too slowly for Jorir’s liking, but at least it still flowed. He began to dab the sticky mixture across the red gash in his Lord’s side. As he went, the redness faded from the skin almost immediately, as mind and body went to work knitting the flesh with fresh resources. It was incredible healing, even considering the song at work.

    Jorir had treated perhaps half the wound when Irding appeared at his side. “Is this the woundwort?”

    The dwarf glanced up at the young man. “That’s a thistle.”

    “Why would an herb-witch want thistle?” Irding’s confusion was audible as he wandered back into the room in search of the otherwise common herb. Jorir allowed himself a smirk: it would be a good question, in an ordinary herb-witch’s hut. Here, though, where they were obviously being tested?

    Jorir neared the end of the gash and his paste at once. Soon he would have to test whether that stack of muslin was suitable for bandages: he hoped it was. The tester seemed to have given them the materials they would need, so long as they could make use of them.

    Einarr groaned again and his eyelids fluttered. Jorir nodded as he dabbed on the last of the paste: remarkable vitality on that one, and a good head on his shoulders. A worthy lord, even if perhaps a little fragile. He laid one of the pieces of muslin down across the wound. As he pressed it into place, a white glow caught his eye. What might that be… a feather? He shook his head. Time enough to ask Einarr about it after he was bandaged.

    With a groan, Einarr’s eyes finally opened. “Uh? Hello. Would someone mind telling me why I have straw stabbing into my back?”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 5.25 – Infirmary

    5.25 – Infirmary

    “Be careful, Erik, don’t jostle him. That looks awful.”

    Erik let Runa’s fretting pass without comment, but Jorir snorted. “That’s because it is. That wound’s not exactly fresh anymore. He’s had to do some work to get out here.”

    The climb up to the fourth floor of the tower crawled. The stairwell was barely wide enough for two men abreast, especially when one of them was as big as Erik. The big man was slowed by his burden less than any of the others would be, but even still Jorir in the lead had to wait on them every few steps.

    Runa, between Jorir and his Lord, sang quietly as they walked to begin the healing process while Irding brought up the rear, doing what little he could to help support the unconscious Einarr. The door to the next floor, at least, was clear, and Jorir twitched his nose at the earthy, medicinal smell of angelica that wafted down from above.

    “Well that’s convenient,” he muttered.

    “What is?” Erik asked without looking away from his task.

    “Smell that? There’s medicine to be had above. Only reason I can think for this tower to have an infirmary, though, means it’s another trial of some sort.”

    Runa nodded, not breaking the flow of her healing song.

    When he finally arrived at the landing with its open door, Jorir saw a straw mat laid out in the center of the room. Nearby were a mortar and pestle, as well as various other implements of the herbalist’s trade – including a rather large pot he thought contained honey. There was a great deal of light in the room, as well: this floor was open to the air, or nearly so, with the ceiling supported only by pillars and what was obviously a stairwell on the other side. This, Jorir was certain, was to accommodate the plants. There was no wind, either, as though any of them questioned the provenance of such a place.

    Arranged in rings about the outside of the room were pot after pot filled with living medicinal herbs. Jorir could not tell if they were labeled, but if they were he felt sure it would be in runes. Well. He could work with this, at least. “Tasteless. At least we should have what we need.”

    The others emerged into the room as Jorir hurried forward to examine the sickbed, such as it was, at the center. After a moment, he nodded. “All right, bring him here and lay him down.”

    Einarr’s face was beginning to look waxy, and Jorir tamped down on the anxiety that tried to rise in his throat at his lord’s plight. “My lady, your song…?”

    “Just barely hanging on,” Runa sang to the melody of the healing song. “His wounds we must cleanse, his wounds we must tie, or his fate shall we seal.”

    “I was afraid of that. Well, men, that leaves the three of us to find what I’ll need for the poultice. I don’t suppose either of you knows herbs? Even just for rough field medicine?”

    Erik and Irding both shook their heads no. Jorir had expected as much: his knowledge of herb craft made him something of an outlier on the crew. With a sigh, he moved on. “Fine. I will tell you how to find what I need, but I need the two of you to go find the plants on this floor and bring them to me while I prepare bandages and poultice.”

    “Of course,” Irding answered, almost eagerly, before his father could open his mouth to say the same.

    Jorir hummed. “Fine. First, I need yarrow. It will have feathery leaves and small white flowers that grow in a flat cluster at the top. See if you can find some plantago while you’re at it.”

    Irding sputtered. “Plantago? Like the greens Mama used to cook?”

    “The very same, as well as yellow touch-me-nots. That should at least get us started.”

    Einarr groaned from his bed on the ground. Erik and Irding exchanged a look, then each went off in different directions to search the room. They, too, had found a fight it seemed: Jorir was simply thankful he had only one patient, on death’s door or otherwise, to tend to right now.

    While they searched, Jorir turned his attention to the tools he had been provided. The mortar and pestle were solid stone and worn smooth, and thus would function quite well for bruising and crushing leaves. The mouth of the large pot came nearly up to Jorir’s waist, and was in fact filled with still-liquid honey. That fact alone said that this floor had been prepared specially for them. He should be grateful for that, he knew, but irritation smoldered in Jorir’s chest. This was his lord’s life that hung in the balance, after all!

    Footsteps hurried up behind Jorir and he turned to see what had been found. It was Irding, carrying a fistful of stems with broad leaves. “Plantago, you said.”

    Jorir nodded: it looked like the boy’s memory of the plant was good, at least. “Good. Now I can start the poultice. Whatever Erik is working on, go look for the other.”

    Irding nodded and headed back out to search the potted plants. Jorir paid him no more mind once Irding’s hurried footfalls had faded to examine the plants. Instead, he painted a pair of the plantain leaves with honey and tossed those and two others into the mortar. Honey and plantain and touch-me-not to cleanse, plantain and yarrow to knit. Assuming the blade that made the cut had not been somehow tainted, of course, but such a tactic seemed underhanded even for Wotan. He just hoped they were in time.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Smashwords, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.