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  • 3.17 – Underground

    3.17 – Underground

    The maw of the cave seemed to yawn behind them as they were pressed ever back. It offered an opportunity, though: he could see no ghost light from within its dubious shelter. They could make a stand there…

    …Although it seemed they would quickly do so with steel rather than flame. His flaming brand was nearly reduced to a glowing stick, as were many others from the cluster of Vidofnings. Jorir must have lost his secondary flame some time ago, and now the fire of the “fresh” one burned near his fingers.

    Some of the others had already switched to steel, and bore the marks of it in sunken faces and wide eyes. Einarr was both amazed and grateful that they still had everyone… but the vengeful spirits who had them nearly surrounded would not be satisfied so easily.

    Worse, they had all been fighting for hours. Even Erik and Jorir must be starting to tire. The mouth of the cave was not so wide that it would take all of them to cover it.

    Einarr stepped around, using one lip of the cave mouth to protect his shoulder. It was far from ideal, but it was all he had. “Fall in beside me!”

    They did, with Tyr and Boti unabashedly falling into the secondary line for a breather. Three others, essentially at random, were also shoved behind the main line. It would be their turn again soon enough.

    It seemed merely getting them to the cave, with the barrow hidden down below, was not the spirits’ sole objective. Still they drove the men back, step by step, closer to the broken slab of stone they had left behind them.

    Only the broken slab seemed to be missing, as they drew closer. Rather than cracked rock, in the dim glow of the ghost light and their failing weapons, he saw only an abyss of blackness. Dread clawed at his gut, but they were powerless to stop the spirits drive deeper into the cave.

    That was when a blast of ether slammed into him from the apparently solid wall to his right.

    ***

    Einarr awoke some time later not to the expected darkness of the cavern below, or even to the filtered daylight of the cave above, but to the golden glow of a grand feast. He sat up and groaned, lifting a hand to his head to feel for damage. The side of his face was tender, but he felt nothing sticky like blood.

    The rest of his team was slowly coming to, as well. None of them seemed unduly harmed by the… tumble, if he had to guess, down the steep passageway, and so Einarr turned his attention to the strange scene playing out in the middle of the cavern, where earlier he would have sworn was not just water but deep water.

    A feast table now dominated the room, set all in gold that seemed to glow from within. On it were all sorts of tempting foods, from suckling pig to brilliantly shining apples to a whole walrus that seemed to take up half the table by itself, and men of the north – clan Heireidung, unless he was mistaken – gathered around to partake in the bounty.

    The man at the head of the table was dressed more richly than any clan chief Einarr had heard of, all in red sable and dark blue shot through with thread of gold. He was big – easily as big a man as Erik, with the same pale blond hair of his father and grandfather. The man sat, a massive jeweled goblet in hand, watching the merriment of his men but not joining in it. He appeared troubled by something… morose… The sorrow of the grave?

    It was the Allthane’s barrow we stumbled across this morning, and casually spoke of looting. Einarr wanted to kick himself for his own stupidity – stupidity that had nearly gotten him and his men killed. Cautiously he rose from the damp stone beneath him.

    His boots were dry. How long had they been out? Or was it merely a part of the apparition before him? Einarr looked down, not expecting to see anything by the light of the spectral feast before them but seeing anyway. He was not wearing his ordinary sea boots: these were dress boots, made of rabbit skin and died as crimson as the Allthane’s tunic. His trousers, too, were not his ordinary sea wear, nor was his tunic. He was dressed for a feast – for the feast set out ahead of them.

    The others, too, were now rising, and as they stood they, too were transformed into celebrants. Confusion mixed with delight on many of their faces, and became calm certainty on the wisest among them.

    Tyr spoke the warning first. “You realize this is a trap, right?”

    “Undoubtedly,” Einarr answered. “But I’m not sure it’s one we can avoid at this point. We’ve been trapped since the fog fell: maybe this will be our way out?”

    “Eat and drink nothing of that table.” Jorir somehow sounded even more grim than Tyr. “If you get swept up in the feast, you’re trapped.”

    “Seen this before, have you?”

    “Not personally, but the stories leave an impression.”

    Einarr pursed his lips. “If that’s the case, I don’t want anyone over there who doesn’t have to be. Irding, Boti, you keep an ear open. Sooner or later Father will send a search party.” Here he hesitated. He wanted to tell Erik to stay behind as well, as the man was nothing if not impetuous, but…

    Jorir took the decision from him, in a way the man was sure not to object to. “Erik, will ye watch our backs? If it looks like one o’ us is starting ta lose it, we’ll need someone to snap us out of the enchantment.”

    Erik smirked: he knew exactly why this was being asked of him and not, for example, the level-headed Tyr. “Yes, I’ll stay back. Come now: I like a feast as well as the next man, but you know what this one lacks?”

    “What?”

    “The smell of meat and ale. Look at that spread – pretty as a picture. And just as lifeless. I’m good.”

    Einarr nodded. “Thanks, Erik. What about you, Tyr?”

    “You’re about to go engage a dead man in a battle of wits. I’m coming.”

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  • Thanksgiving: Celebrating the Birth of American Free Enterprise

    I love stories like this.

    https://mises.org/wire/thanksgiving-celebrating-birth-american-free-enterprise

  • 3.16 – Ghostly Assault

    3.16 – Ghostly Assault

    “Make ready for company, men!” Einarr rose, burning brand in hand, and turned his back to the blaze. Nothing seemed to have materialized from the ghost light yet, but he would not be caught unawares when and if it did.

    The others in his team were looking about, trying to spot whatever it was that had set Einarr off. Slowly – more slowly than he would have liked, some of them seemed to see it and reached towards the edge of the fire in search of brands they, too, could wield against the insubstantial.

    Erik, burning wood in hand, circled the bonfire to flank his son, his eyes fixed on the glowing green fog. “What’s going on here?”

    “Not sure. But I saw that same light when we went to investigate the freeboaters’ ship. From the bodies on deck.”

    Tyr growled as he took up a position near Jorir. “Shoulda said so then.”

    “Would you have?”

    “Yes. …But I suppose you’re still young enough you’ve not yet learned to trust the evidence of your eyes.”

    Einarr harrumphed.

    “But if these spirits are aiming to end us tonight, these flaming sticks won’t help us much more than our steel. Keep the fire high, and don’t let them drive you away from it if there’s any other choice.”

    “At the same time, I doubt the spirits will care very much if we burn to death.” Einarr’s voice was grim. “Watch yourselves, men, and stick together.”

    The mist ahead of them swirled and billowed like smoke, although there was no wind to stir it. Forms began to take shape in the fog, and they billowed upward until they appeared like sickly green rods ahead of the gathered Vidofnings. Einarr crouched and held his brand as though it were a sword.

    As he watched, the spectral mist coalesced into skeletal figures, each armed with sword or axe made of the same ether as their bodies. He lost count of the number of figures forming out of the mist – they seemed innumerable.

    The Vidofnings were outnumbered. Possibly outmatched, as well. Einarr swallowed hard. There had to be a way through this, though. One that didn’t end with them either drained of life or burned to death. The spectral warriors advanced in silence and Einarr adjusted the grip on the brand that now felt utterly inadequate to the task at hand.

    There was no more time to worry about his men: the ghostly figures were in striking distance, now. A bony arm raised a sword overhead to strike at Einarr, leaving his ribs exposed: Einarr jabbed forward with the burning brand. The mist withdrew from the fire, but the skeleton did not seem to care. The blade fell now, headed for Einarr’s head, and he danced back half a step and to the right. His arm felt cold where the ghost blade had brushed near it.

    Now what? If even fire did not faze these spirits, was all lost?

    Jorir swept his fiery club through the forearms of the one that came for him, and its arms and axe dissipated. The spirit seemed not to care about the loss of its arms: it kept approaching at the same slow, steady pace as before.

    Even still, there had been an effect. Einarr slashed across the breast of the same spirit he had narrowly avoided moments before. Its head and shoulders seemed to float away, dissipating as they went, and now it was half of a ghost that kept moving towards him.

    He gritted his teeth and swiped again, the fire describing a red-gold arc across the sickly green of the ghost light. This time he cut at the knees, and the feet and shins fell away so that it was only a torso coming for him. This, perhaps, he could do something about… at least for a while.

    “Slash, men, don’t stab!”

    Einarr had no idea how long this went on for, but for every spirit they dissipated in this way it seemed as though two more took their place. Eventually, after long enough that Einarr was thoroughly winded, he noticed that the flame was beginning to flicker… and that it was far closer to his hand than he was comfortable with.

    “Jorir, cover me!” The dwarf was not in much better shape than he was, but all he needed was a moment. When he heard Jorir’s defiant roar, hopefully in answer, he hurled the flickering brand end-over-end through their enemies. He did not see how many of them were damaged by the projectile, for he had already turned to seek a new one from the bonfire that still burned brightly behind him.

    Fresh stick in hand, Einarr turned back to the fight. Whoever’s tending the fire deserves an extra share.

    Jorir whipped his flickering brand wildly, trying to cover both his own body and the hole Einarr had left behind.

    “Your turn!” Einarr shouted as he lunged back into the line, hoping he wouldn’t have to cover both his liege man and Irding on his other side.

    Jorir, with his blacksmith’s hands, kept a hold of his old weapon even as he, too, turned to take hold of a fresh one. The spirits, however, seemed to be prepared this time. No sooner had the dwarf turned his back than three of them surged into the gap he had left.

    Einarr whipped his weapon through the space where they stood, but it took several strokes to fully dissipate one of them. He panted, knowing he could not keep up even as Tyr, on the other side of Jorir, turned to aid.

    It was no use. The spirits had an in, and now it was all Einarr could do to keep Jorir from being struck in the back. He roared. You will not burn my liege man!

    The dwarf was quick, thank the gods, and whirled back into the fight only a moment later… but that moment was still too long. Einarr could already feel himself being forced away from the fire, not by the mysterious forces that had tried to drown him in the sea earlier that day but by the relentless onslaught of ghosts.

    “Stick together, men! Don’t let them separate us!”

    One by one, the Vidofnings were forced to choose between stepping into the fire fighting their way across to join the cluster around their Captain’s son.

    Slowly, relentlessly, they were driven away from the safety of their bonfire and into the treacherous, freezing bog behind them. The ghost light surrounded them, now, even as more specters emerged from it.

    Einarr did not know where they’d been driven until a deep black hole opened in the wall of ghost light. They were back at the cave they had only narrowly escaped that afternoon.

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  • 3.15 – Lost in the Mist

    3.15 – Lost in the Mist

    Once again they stood before the hasty flag Jorir had constructed to mark their find. Even in the fog, Einarr could see the frosty puffs of his breath.

    “This may have been a terrible idea.” They were the words on everyone’s mind, he was sure.

    “So, what next?” Jorir asked the practical question. “I don’t intend to just stand around here and freeze.”

    “No. No, you’re right. We can’t just stand around doing nothing. Do we try going the opposite direction, or do we try cutting across the bog? Men?”

    “Awfully cheap enchantment if we can get out of it just by turning around,” grumbled Irding.”

    “Agreed, although sometimes the simplest tricks are the most effective.”

    “I don’t think it will be that simple, either.” Tyr shook his head. “On the other hand, this is a lot to portage through that swamp. It might be worth trying. And if night falls, we have plenty of firewood handy.”

    “Furthermore,” Troa ventured. “Right now, we’re walking in circles on a beach, so we know it’s not natural. You know what’s easy to do in a swamp, even without interference?”

    “Walking in circles. Right. Well, let’s give this one more try, heading east this time. If it gets dark, or much colder, we’ll light a fire here.”

    As soon as they tried to turn east, it was as though the air itself resisted them. Einarr tried to resist the temptation to hope that meant the easy solution would save them.

    Before long it became clear that was not the only thing they had to resist. The further east they pushed, the harder it was to avoid veering into either the marsh, on the one hand, or the sea on the other. And yet, after something approaching another hour, they once again found themselves face to face with the flag. A chorus of groans rose from Einarr’s team.

    “Well, we knew it wouldn’t be that easy, I suppose.” He sighed. This meant their next best option involved porting their find through the swamp behind them. Assuming the distortion wouldn’t take hold there, too, as it might. But, there was something else amiss.

    Einarr furrowed his brow. They had been walking for, as a guess, three hours now. And it had been around noon when they ventured out in search of their missing hunters. Which meant the daylight should have faded into evening by now, if not night. And yet, the light had not changed since they emerged from the cave.

    This time he did not bite off his curse. “Blast and damnation, I missed it. All right, men. We’ve been out here a long time already, between our search and rescue and trying to break free of this beach. Unless I miss my guess, we’re all feeling it by now, but there’s one more thing to do before we can call it a day.”

    A series of grumbles followed, but Einarr was not deaf to the relief they hid.

    “Everyone with an axe, we need wood for a bonfire. Everyone else, help me build a ring.”

    ***

    Einarr had worried, for a time, if the damp wood cut from the hull of the ship would actually light – or if their kindling would, for that matter. It took several tries, but as night finally fell the stack caught. Now the ten men sat around the fire, large enough and hot enough that those on the other side were difficult to see, and dried their boots.

    Boti had some small luck fishing while the rest prepared the fire, and so they were able to at least take the edge off their hunger. For his part, Einarr was unsatisfied, and he suspected that carried over, but there was little more they could have done about it.

    One benefit of the darkness and the fire was to make it impossible to tell if the fog still clung to the beach like barnacles. Einarr found himself hoping someone among the crew would see their flame and come to the rescue when they did not return tonight. Hoping, in spite of the suspicion that any rescuers would quickly become as trapped as they themselves had.

    Erik started to rumble a ribald shanty Einarr had heard a few times previous – most likely something the man had picked up when he was a freeboater, although it was hard to know for certain. Whatever magic the song might have had was aimed at inducing cheer – or at least that was the effect when an ordinary man sang it. Soon the rest of the team was joining in – either laughing and clapping along or, here and there, jumping in for a verse of their own.

    Einarr smiled and let them. That he could not quite bring himself to revel didn’t mean they could not enjoy themselves. Probably for the best that he be the only one to chew over what they would do tomorrow.

    He blinked and looked over his shoulder, away from the fire. He could have sworn he’d seen something, but when he looked directly there was nothing within the firelight. Einarr shrugged a shoulder uncomfortably and returned to his thoughts. If they could rig up some sort of hand cart in the morning, venturing across the marsh might be their best bet…

    There it was again. Only now when he turned his head to look, he saw a sickly green mist rising from the brush line of the swamp. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, not wanting to believe what he saw.

    As chance would have it, Irding sat to his right. Einarr tapped the man’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed behind them. When Irding looked back, he seemed confused.

    Jorir, on Einarr’s left, noticed the exchange and glanced back as well. Only, his glance turned quickly into a horrified stare. “Ghost light.”

    Now Einarr groaned, even as he lunged forward to steal a brand from out of the fire. “Make ready for company, men!”

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  • 3.14 – Unnatural Chill

    3.14 – Unnatural Chill

    The crack of falling stone echoed through the cave and Einarr flinched from the noise, reflexively covering his ears. His men did, as well.

    As the sound died down and the ringing in their ears subsided, it became plain that their ears were not the only thing wounded in the onslaught. The slab they had just fought their way past was now cracked, and perhaps nearly broken. Einarr’s mouth curled into a frown: on the one hand, it would be simple to find again, and possibly worthwhile breaking the slab altogether. On the other hand, he still wasn’t certain what all they were dealing with on this island, or what might set them off.

    He shook his head to clear it and strode towards the mouth of the cave. “We’ve a boat to finish scavenging, assuming no-one else found it before we got back.”

    ***

    Mist had settled down on the sandbar again by the time they found Jorir’s flag and the boat it marked, although the light suggested it was still midafternoon and a chill breeze blew. “All right, lads, let’s finish this up and get back home. We stick together from here on out.”

    A chorus of ‘ayes’ made its way around his team, and as a unit they streamed in through the giant crack in its hull.

    In truth, now that they had returned to the derelict, the treasures they found here seemed small. It was difficult to forget the wealth piled underground, but Einarr was not willing to chance leaving here with anything less than a full hold. Rather than go back inside after removing an arm load of mostly ivory, Einarr decided someone should parcel the stack out in lots.

    Much of what remained in the hold was ivory, in fact, and most of it already carved into trinkets or keepsake boxes. In some ways, that was even better than gold, as it would weigh less heavily on the Vidofnir’s hold, and there was always someone who would pay exorbitantly for it. One of these turned out to be a complete tafl set: that he resolved to claim for himself, as a gift.

    One piece in the pile stood out not because of its workmanship – which was still excellent – but because of the plainness of its material. It was a simple ceramic urn, painted in the old Imperial style. Somehow it felt warm in his hands in spite of the unseasonable chill in the air. The jar was painted well, of course, and the paint was exquisitely preserved… but the more he thought about it, the less he could justify the space it would take in the hold. As fragile as it must be, even if it survived the voyage, even if they found a buyer, they would be hard pressed to get a worthwhile price for it. Einarr shrugged and tossed the jar off to the side, where it thudded into the sand.

    “It looks like we’re about done in there,” Jorir said. He carried a portrait that had somehow survived the ravages of time – or at least its frame had. Einarr couldn’t see the painting itself from this angle.

    “I thought so, too. What’s that you’ve got?”

    “Someone’s vanity. Canvas doesn’t seem too rotted, even with the wet air.”

    “Great. Add it to the stack over there, then.” Einarr pointed to one of the smaller piles. Unless it was backed with boarding, it was going to be a pain for anyone to carry… but if the frame was actually gold as it appeared, it was likely worth it.

    One by one his team returned, carrying more ivory or sometimes a bit of gold or silver they had missed earlier in the day. Einarr shivered: the light was still that of a foggy afternoon, but the temperature now felt like the dead of winter.

    “I think we’ve got it. Let’s load up and head back to the Vidofnir.”

    Erik nodded. By the redness of his nose, Einarr was not the only one feeling the cold.

    ***

    They marched down the sandbar to the west, unwilling to tramp through the bog with their arms filled with gold and ivory. Einarr kept the sound of the ocean always on his right. They walked for more than half an hour, though, and saw no trace of the rest of the crew, or any other derelicts. Perhaps they’ve already headed back? It was always possible that there was a stretch of sand that did not play host to a wreck or two.

    Einarr shrugged his shoulders and continued on. At last, after nearly an hour of trudging along the shore, the shape of another ship hove into view. It was not the Vidofnir. The masthead was wrong, and as they drew nearer he could see it was a well-preserved derelict, frozen in a familiar attitude. He pressed on, increasingly sure that they should have seen sign of another team by now.

    Until he saw Jorir’s flag, still planted in the sand where he had marked their find.

    Einarr stopped short, staring. The sound of the sea was still on his right. There were no footsteps in the sand ahead of him.

    “Troa.”

    “Yes, sir?”

    “Do you see what I see?”

    “…Aye.”

    Einarr bit off a curse. “Hand me half your load. You take the lead… How is Boti?”

    “Still a bit disoriented.”

    “Fine. Just… make sure I haven’t just led us all in a circle, would you? Get us back to the Vidofnir.”

    “Of course.”

    It should not have required a tracker, following the sand bar down around the outside of the island to reach their destination. It was a straight path. And yet…

    An hour later, they found themselves back at Jorir’s flag.

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  • An interesting historical look

    Especially interesting are the quotes from Marx’s contemporaries.

    Disaster in Red: The Hundredth Anniversary of the Russian Socialist Revolution https://mises.org/wire/disaster-red-hundredth-anniversary-russian-socialist-revolution

  • 3.13 – Darkness

    3.13 – Darkness

    For a long moment, darkness and silence held sway. Einarr strained his eyes and his ears, but no light seeped into this cavern from above, and the only sound that reached his ears was the occasional plink of a drop of water falling into a pool below. Finally he heard the distinctive scrape of a fire striker. In the moment before the first spark died without catching, he thought he saw a skeletal figure poised to strike.

    Sinmora rasped from her scabbard. He held his blade outstretched, on guard.

    The striker sounded again. Again, the torch did not catch. Again, he saw his enemy. Caught, this time, a hint of cloth that suggested it might be the captain he had nearly tripped over earlier.

    Now two strikers sounded. He hoped he wasn’t the only one to have seen the apparition… hoped this was not the thing that had killed the freeboaters.

    A torch caught and flared to life. Einarr blinked: the skeleton now once again lay prone on the ground, its fingers clutching its neck. Confused, he looked over at Jorir as he sheathed his sword. The dwarf’s hand was on his axe handle, but he had not drawn.

    “Tell me you saw that, too,” he muttered.

    The dwarf nodded once. “Probably no one else, though. Not in that light.”

    Einarr nodded, then strode forward, once again stepping over the cadaver as though it wasn’t there. Jorir, however, was not as forgiving: he stopped long enough to smash the brittle skull with the back of his axe.

    “What was that about?” Odvir’s confusion was audible in his voice.

    “Never leave an enemy on the field behind you.” Jorir’s answer was flat.

    “An… enemy?” It was Irding’s turn to sound skeptical now.

    “Aye. An enemy. Surely you’ve not forgotten why svartdvergers are such good miners, have you?” Jorir pointed at his eye. “While you’re remembering that, best remember that the dead walk on this island. Some of them may have ears.”

    Einarr could not quite repress a smile when he heard a series of gulps behind him. “Let’s get back to that boat.”

    ***

    Einarr came to the end of the steep passage they had followed down and stopped, staring, at the panel that once again barred their way. Even from this side it appeared to be solid stone, but that wasn’t truly the problem. The problem was the slope they stood on, and the smoothness of the stone under their feet.

    “Almost makes you wish we had Arring with us, doesn’t it?”

    Erik, at least, chuckled.

    “Right. Well. There has to be some way to move it from this side, or there wouldn’t have been anywhere nearly so much gold down there.”

    Jorir hummed. “Floor near the walls is like to have more traction than in the center.”

    “Here’s hoping it’s enough.” Einarr stepped over to the corner, looking for any break between the hanging slab and the wall that they might be able to use for leverage. He scuffed a boot against the ground under his feet. “Mm. Maybe. No place to put a lever even if we had one, though.”

    He paused a moment, considering . “Fjorkar, take the other side. Everyone else, brace us. Erik, Geiti, you fall in last. You’ll have the best footing of any of us here.”

    “Aye, sir!” The response to this was somewhat more enthusiastic than the situation warranted, but he could understand wanting to be back in the sea air after the oppressiveness of the cave.

    Einarr blew in his hands and rubbed his palms together for grip as he stepped up to take his place against the slab. “Put your backs into it! Ready?”

    Fjorkar leaned in on the other side, and the rest of the team moved in to brace the two of them and lend their own strength.

    “On three! One, two, now!” His “now” became a shout of exertion as he dug in feet, shoulders, and hands to try to lift the massive stone slab on its hinge.

    A crack of light appeared at their feet. Einarr pulled his back foot forward and pushed against the ground. It bought them another inch.

    Einarr saw from the corner of his eye that Jorir had slipped out of the formation and stepped toward the center of the passage. His eyes were intent on that crack of light at the floor, and he stood braced.

    “What… are you… doing?” Erik grunted.

    “Get me six more inches,” was all the dwarf replied.

    Six?! Einarr had to trust his liege man, though. “One inch… at a time…”

    A pair of hands moved from bracing Einarr to plant themselves on the stone. For an alarming moment, it seemed as though his boots would slip back, but then some little of the pressure from the slab was taken from Einarr’s shoulders. He gathered strength in his legs and gave another shove.

    Fjorkar, too, was redoubling his effort, and one of the men on that corner had the same idea.

    After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, the gap between the wall and the floor was large enough for Jorir to make his move. The svartdverger dashed forward into the gap, lowering his head to catch the stone on his shoulders.

    The momentum from his dash pressed up against the stone slab. Einarr nearly lost his footing as the door swung upwards, until Jorir stood upright, bearing the weight of the stone on his shoulders and hands.

    The rest of the team wasted no time scrambling out through the four-foot gap. Einarr, Erik, Fjoirkar, and Geiti were the last to pass through.

    “You two. Go on through, hold it open for the rest of us.”

    Erik grunted and motioned for Geiti to follow. He had to get down on his knees to get through that gap, but stood and grasped the edge once he was clear.

    Now Einarr glanced over at the other two. “On my mark, we all three dash through at once. Get clear quick, or someone’s like to lose a hand. Ready?”

    Fjorkar nodded. From his position, all Jorir could really do was grunt. Einarr decided that had to be assent.

    “Mark!” He bent his knees and sprang forward. A moment later, the slab fell closed with a thunderous crack.

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  • 3.12 – Vanishing

    3.12 – Vanishing

    The first thing that caught Einarr’s attention about the cave was the scattering of skulls not five paces in. Someone had thought to take shelter here, long ago, and been eaten by kalalintu. At least, he assumed as much: it was possible they had died of starvation before the kalalintu nested above, but the other possibility seemed the more likely.

    The walls were solid stone as far as he could see, although the torchlight fell short of the back. His light held aloft like a brand, his other hand rested on Sinmora’s hilt for reassurance.

    Slowly he walked deeper into the cave. Nothing. No cracks in the walls where they might have pressed forward, no gaping pits in the floor they might have fallen through, no tracks, no new blazes. Einarr spun on his heel as his mind raced, searching for anything he might have missed.

    He glanced down at Jorir as his eyes roved about the room, but the dwarf’s brows were furrowed in consternation.

    From nearer the entrance, Tyr cursed to the sound of rolling stones. Einarr shouldered his way back, swallowing hard to ignore the pounding of his pulse.

    “What happened?” Tyr stood bent over, his leg held out at an odd angle with his boot under a lip of rock virtually indistinguishable from the floor.

    “Went to take a look at a weird shadow and a rock turned under my foot. Give me a hand, will you? I think I’m stuck.”

    Einarr and Jorir nodded as Jorir took hold of the man’s foot while Einarr bent to try and turn the rock trapping him to open the gap a little. After much careful prying and pressing, he gave a shove. The rock shifted.

    Tyr, braced to pull himself out of the gap as soon as the pressure lifted, staggered back a step or two. Einarr, from his position near the ground, stared into the hole he had made.

    “…I think I might know what happened to our two missing scouts.”

    ***

    The slab of stone seemed as though it must have been deliberately placed, although Einarr could not have guessed how or by whom. It was almost as though it hung on a hinge. On the other side, the rock sloped steeply downward, curving towards the center of the plateau.

    Einarr had straightened quickly after the passage was revealed to him. Probably the passage would submerge not long after it rounded the corner, at which point his men were probably dead… but he had to check.

    “Charcoal. Does anyone have a stick of charcoal or some chalk?”

    Odvir brandished a sharp triangle of shale. “Where are we going?”

    “Through there.” Einarr pointed at the passage he’d just seen and Odvir nodded. Moments later a sign was scratched on the stone of the wall and they were through, clambering carefully down the incline.

    Einarr shivered as they rounded the corner of the passage. No sign of water, yet, but the temperature was falling with every step they took. It would be hard to forgive himself if he killed two men in such a stupid way.

    Jorir grumbled about the pace Einarr set, but it sounded half-hearted to his ear.

    About fifty feet further on the passage opened out into a broad cavern – far broader than Einarr would have expected the tiny island could have supported. Torchlight glinted off the water forming much of the cavern floor.

    Einarr jumped as a voice echoed through the room. He called out. “Hello?”

    “Boti! Wake up, man, they found us.” Einarr still couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, but the excitement it carried was palpable.

    “Troa?”

    “We’re over here. Follow the wall to your right – and watch your step. There’s more than just wet rock down here.”

    Einarr clambered over the rocks, the rest of the team hot on his heels. “We’re coming. Can you move?”

    “I’m fine. Boti got a nasty knockabout finding this place… and, well, there’s something you need to see.”

    Einarr nearly tripped picking up his pace to get to where they were. When he looked down to see what it was, dread sank in his stomach.

    The torch in his hand illuminated the still-clothed skeletal remains of a chief or a captain. The skeleton’s fingers clutched at its throat. He stopped, furrowing his brow, and bent closer. The captain’s sword still hung from his bones, and the hilt showed no sign of rust.

    Einarr shook his head and continued on. Tempting as it was to look and see, to rob a captain of his sword – even in death – seemed wrong. And that was before taking into account the spirits haunting this place.

    He could see Troa’s shock of straw-colored hair in the flickering light now. Einarr stepped over the remains of the strangled Captain and hurried the last several paces past tide pools and jagged rocks to where the other man was rousting Boti back to consciousness. The man had the beginnings of a bruise covering the side of his face, and if he’d passed out down here that was hardly the end of it. Fortunately, he did seem to be blinking back to consciousness.

    Einarr gave a low whistle to see his crewmate’s injury. “What did I need to see, though?”

    Troa pointed ahead into another side chamber. From what the torchlight revealed, the entirety of the floor in there appeared to be covered with water. It couldn’t possibly be deep, however.

    Catching the firelight of the torches, magnifying it against the water, were piles of gold and jewels; valuables of all sorts the like Einarr had never seen. Even on Svartlauf.

    “What… how did this get here?”

    Boti groaned as Troa sat him up. “Who knows? I can’t tell if we’re looking at the Allthane’s barrow or the horde of some survivor who couldn’t take the seclusion. Either way…”

    Einarr nodded in agreement. “Either way, it’s what we came here looking for. Let’s get out of here, bring another team or two in the morning. In the mean time, we haven’t quite finished with that hulk up above.”

    “Aye, sir.” Troa pulled Boti to his feet, the semi-conscious man’s arm slung over his shoulder.

    Einarr took two steps back the way they had come. Then, in the same instant, each and every one of their torches snuffed out.

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  • 3.11 – Threatening Storm

    3.11 – Threatening Storm

    The repair crew headed out while the others divided themselves as they saw fit. Einarr went with Jorir – no surprise – but also Erik and Irding, Tyr, Troa, Fjorkar, Geiti, Odvir, and Boti. All good, reliable men who had been on the Vidofnir at least as long as Einarr had – well, with two exceptions – and yet he felt uneasy.

    His lips pressed into a thin line, he looked over the faces of his team and nodded. “Let’s cut overland to the other shore. It should be faster than following the coast, which will leave more time for the actual hunt.”

    They were hardly past the line where hardy scrub concealed the ground beyond the coast when Einarr regretted this decision. Rather than calling the beach where they’d landed a shore, it would be more apt to say it was just another massive sand bar. Beyond was brackish, frigid marsh.

    Einarr set his jaw and continued on, leading his team across what dry patches there were, hopping between them when they could and wading – or, sometimes, swimming – when they had no other choice. The fog was beginning to thin, finally: to their right, he could see the hulking shadow of the plateau where the kalalintu nested. Probably the largest piece of high ground in the area.

    There were no seabird calls this morning. If it were not for the sound of the men trudging across the marsh, trying to keep warm even in their woolens, all would have been silent. Einarr angled toward the plateau, hoping they could make better progress over there.

    The fog had mostly burned away by the time they came out onto a raised bit of “shore” like the one where the Vidofnir was beached, far too close for comfort to the too-quiet kalalintu nest but at least out of the water. To their left were the regal-looking remains of a ship.

    Though the fog had cleared, the sky was a heavy gray. Einarr could not quite suppress a growl. “Let’s get to it. Troa, Boti, I don’t like the look of the sky. See if you can find us a place to shelter if we need it?”

    “Sure.” Troa laughed. “Not sure how much wetter we’ll get under a little rain, though.”

    “Not wet I’m worried about. It’s cold. Or do you want your trousers freezing on you?”

    Boti shook his head. “No chance. We’ll head towards the plateau: probably our best bet.”

    Einarr nodded his agreement. “See you in a bit, then. …All right! I think we have our obvious first target, but keep your eyes open. Who knows what might’ve gotten tossed around over the years.”

    ***

    Two hours passed, then three, and still no sign of the two Einarr had sent out. As much wealth as the exterior of this derelict had promised, he was now certain it was not the Allthane’s ship. At least we won’t be coming back empty-handed… Where are they?

    Einarr looked up at the sky for the hundredth time. “Has anyone caught sight of those two? They should have been back ages ago.”

    “Maybe they found something?” Irding ventured.

    “Let’s hope that’s all it is. Come on: pack up what you’ve got, and let’s see if we can’t find some trace of our missing pair.”

    Jorir pursed his lips in thought. “Give us one moment longer, would you?”

    Einarr nodded: it was good to be on the right side of the dwarf’s cleverness. He watched as Jorir dispatched Irding up to cut free a strip of tattered sail. Meanwhile, Jorir went in search of something, eventually settling on a rusted fishing spear. The dark red cloth he tied to the blunt end, and drove what remained of the tip into the sand several paces from the derelict they had been excavating.

    Einarr nodded again, satisfied. That would be hard to miss, and should another team come upon the boat it should be easy to determine where they had been, if not where they’d gone. “Ready now?”

    “Aye.”

    “Right then. Let’s see what sort of trouble those two have stirred up for us today, shall we?” Einarr strode off down the beach, looking for the tracks that would mark where he sent Troa and Boti off.

    After marching down the beach for a time, Tyr called up. “Einarr. Too far.”

    “What?”

    “We’ve gone too far, I think. The plateau’s closer than it should be, and I think they cut back through the marsh.”

    Einarr hesitated. His feet were still wet, but his pants were finally starting to feel dry again. On the other hand, what if they’d never made it that far? He shuddered at the thought. “You’re right. We should back up and try to pick up their trail where they split off.”

    Now he scowled. He’d chosen those two because they were the best hunters on the team. Einarr hummed, mulling over the other options. “Odvir, you’ve got sharp eyes. Up here with me.”

    The trail had been nearly obscured by their passage and the morning’s wind, but between the two of them they spotted signs of a small group entering the marsh. A few paces further in, before their hillock vanished to leave them trudging through the water, Einarr spotted one of Troa’s blazes.

    Gradually the hillocks became larger, and the pools of water smaller and shallower, until the island almost felt solid again. They continued to climb through the hardy scrub, the kalalintu’s plateau drawing ever nearer. Einarr pushed out the other side of a thicket of juniper to see that the men’s tracks led directly into a cave in the side of the plateau. He saw no light from within.

    Odvir stopped next to him.

    “I only see one set of tracks: you?”

    The gold-haired man nodded, his mouth grim.

    “This cave shouldn’t be that big. Not here,” Einarr mused. “All right, everyone. Partner up. One of you carries a torch, the other is ready to fight. Keep your eyes peeled: this is definitely where they went. They have to be in here somewhere.”

    Einarr looked to Jorir: his liege-man was already limbering his axe, so Einarr unhooked the torch from his belt. It took three tries for a spark to catch, but finally it flared to life. Einarr stepped from the dubious light of day into the dark of the cave, the dwarf at his side.

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  • 3.10 – Search Parties

    3.10 – Search Parties

    Stigander knitted his eyebrows at his son’s declaration. “Explain.”

    “Those screams we heard? Those were the death-screams of their captain and a few others. Four warriors were quite literally frightened to death on their wreck. Others were torn apart on the beach while they prepared another raid on us. The restless dead walk this isle.”

    Stigander nodded. “We expected as much, did we not?”

    “Aye. We also expected the kalalintu to be not much of a threat, though.”

    “So, what? We should cut our losses and go?”

    “Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t,” Irding grumbled. “Vidofnir’s not ready to sail again.”

    Einarr shook his head. “I wasn’t suggesting that, Father, although it might be the sensible course to take. But we have nine berths open, and another ship to fill besides. Not to mention what we’ll owe on that ship.”

    Stigander pressed a hand to his forehead and pulled his hand back through his hair. “Right. Glad to hear we’re thinking of the same things. Get some sleep. We’ll figure this all out in the morning.”

    ***

    When Einarr awoke the next morning it was to silvery fog so thick he couldn’t see the men to either side of them on the deck. The smell of salt pork called to him, though, and so he was reassured that he was not alone on board. A silly concern, ordinarily, but after what he’d seen last night…

    “So who all managed to sleep last night?” He made his voice light and jocular as he approached the hearth and the source of the meaty smell. There were only a handful of men up yet and clustered around the warmth of the breakfast pot, and each and every one of them looked as haggard as he felt.

    “How does one typically sleep when the presence of murderous spirits has just been graphically confirmed?” Jorir grumbled. He hadn’t gone along last night, but had awakened when they returned.

    “That depends, I rather think, on how exhausted one is beforehand.” Erik, too, took on a half-joking tone which was nearly spoiled by a yawn. “For my part, morning came too soon.”

    “No joke.” Einarr sat on the deck between the dwarf and the burly man to warm his hands over the embers. “But we can’t just sit on our hands back here. We’ve an island to search and a boat to fix.”

    “That we do, although we’re not likely to do much of either before this fog lifts.” Snorli’s voice sounded from out of the mist as he stepped up to join them and lifted the lid on the pot. “Well, grab your bowls. This cooks much longer and it’ll be mush, not dumplings.”

    Those were the magic words. As if on cue, everyone who hadn’t already been hovering over the pot arrived, wooden bowls in hand, and the Vidofnings fell to eating. Even in those close quarters Einarr could make out the faces of less than half the other Vidofnings.

    It was, therefore, something of a surprise when Stigander’s voice rang across the deck, clear as a bell although he was nowhere to be seen. “We’ll be forming teams today,” he announced. “The repair crew hasn’t changed. The rest of us will form groups of ten and all search in our own area. The sooner we find what we came for the sooner we can get out of here, and hopefully avoid more personal run-ins with the local monstrosities.”

    Einarr pursed his lips. The idea made some sense, but nevertheless left him uneasy. “What does Reki think of this idea? Weren’t we counting on her songs to ward off the dead?”

    Rather than letting Stigander convey her meaning, the low-voiced woman answered for herself. “I believe it sensible.” She cleared her throat, but not before Einarr caught hoarseness in it. “By spreading out our forces, we maximize the amount of ground we cover while minimizing the danger to any one group. While I intend to participate in the search, I believe that, barring some emergency during the day, my voice is best preserved for warding the Vidofnir at night.”

    Einarr bowed his head in the direction her voice came from. “As you say, it is best that your voice be preserved.”

    Stigander took too paces towards where the Vidofnings gathered for breakfast and emerged from the fog. “Bardr and I will each take a team. Einarr, you take one as well. That’s three: I want two more groups. We’ll draw lots for them. I’m passing around a bowl: if you’re interested, drop in your ring.”

    Most of the Vidofnings passed the bowl and continued to eat, but there were more than enough clinks of metal against wood to round out the teams and then some. Einarr went over in his head who he would choose for his team as he chewed: Jorir, obviously, or the dwarf would never forgive him. Erik, if the man wasn’t leading a team of his own. Who else?

    “Is that everyone?” Bardr asked, only partially obscured by the thick fog.

    Unnaturally thick fog? Einarr shook his head to rid himself of the thought. The idea was ludicrous. No-one else answered Bardr, either.

    “Very well then. Captain, would you do the honors?”

    Stigander cleared his throat and turned towards where Bardr was holding out the bowl. The sound of clinking metal carried across the deck. Eventually, he read out the first name: “Arring takes a team.”

    Another long moment of clinking rings followed, and then Father spoke again. “And the last team will be led by… Sivid?”

    Einarr’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. Sivid? It was odd for him to step up like this. He had to be counting on that strange luck of his turning in his favor… but the idea left a queasy feeling in Einarr’s stomach. This seemed like one Hel of a gamble.

    “Finish your breakfast and arm yourselves, then meet on the beach immediately. Daylight’s wasting.”

    “Such as it is,” Erik muttered.

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