Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Breidelsteinn

  • 14.38 – Denouement

    14.38 – Denouement

    Author’s Note: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. This should have been posted months ago. Between March and June of this year, we moved twice – once halfway around the world – and when I wasn’t actively involved in packing/unpacking, I suddenly had the Young Master at home all the time, rather than at Montessori school. None of this was conducive to writing. So, today you will get this last chapter. Then, sometime next week or perhaps in the first part of the new year, there will be a definitive announcement as to my next project. And, at some point in there, this website will be getting rebuilt, as recent changes appear to have broken my old design.

    Some months later, the remainder of the Fleet sailed into Breidelstein harbor, Bea’s Valkyrie ships integrated into their number and most of their dead laid to rest off the coast of the cursed isle. The charred bones of Arring and Thjofgrir rode in state, along with one or two others, to allow the people of Breidelstein the chance to pay their respects, as well.

    Someone must have ordered a lookout for the fleet, because as they sailed into port, the streets were lined with somber crowds. It looked as though the entire city had come out to welcome them back. They had sent no word ahead, so perhaps this – as well as the anxious mood of the crowd – was understandable.

    As they neared the piers, three ships moved out ahead of the rest: The Heidrun, the Lúmskulf, and, between them, the Vidofnir.

    When Stigander stepped to the gangplank and raised a fist high overhead, the crowd erupted into cheers. Soon, he was joined on the pier by Einarr, then by Kaldr, and then, after another moment, by Bea, who grinned at the crowd before her. Her appearance occasioned some little surprise, but not enough to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm.

    These four strode at the head of a long procession of warriors, Captains and crews together, up the cliff road to Raenshold. There, they were met at the gate by Uncle Gorgny, steward during Stigander’s absence, and Runa with Alfvin, flanked by what looked like everyone who lived in the Hold. Einarr blinked in surprise to see how much little Alfvin was grown in less than a year. He still managed to smile at everyone as Stigander accepted back the crown and sword of his office.

    Runa, their son on her hip, fell in beside him as the procession continued on toward the main hall, now larger by the residents of Raenshold. “Welcome home.”

    “I’m glad to be home. What did I miss?”

    “Other than me, I presume?”

    He glanced down, wary, but her expression was impish. He wrapped an arm around her waist, between her and Alfvin. “Of course.”

    “He’s not talking yet, but he can walk. Or, more accurately, he runs. Everywhere.”

    It was all Einarr could do not to laugh. He was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be funny for long. “That’s my boy, I guess.”

    Alfvin giggled and grabbed at Runa’s ear. When she had distracted him again – Einarr had no idea with what – she continued. “Still no sign of any trouble from our little adventure in Svartalfheimr, but we’re watching.”

    “Good.”

    The procession neared the doors of the Thane’s Hall now, and all fell silent. Stigander made a gesture, and the guards flanking the doors threw them open.

    It had not, in fact, been the entire population of the hold who had come to greet them at the gates, for the Hall, too, was packed with people. Certain familiar faces stood out to Einarr: there was his father-in-law, Jarl Hroaldr. His presence, at least, was no surprise: he had probably stayed to play with his grandson. There, the old men from the Althing before they left – Kjartan, and Geirleif, Tore and Olaf and Thorgnyr. Surely they had not stayed here the entire time? Or was the idea that they had returned ahead of the fleet more troubling?

    The Hall was eerily silent as the procession marched up the center of the Hall. When Stigander and Einarr took the first step up towards the dias, however, a low rumble began in the back of the room, and as the returning column filled the hall to bursting it grew into a full-throated cheer.

    Stigander raised his arms and, as though on command, the crowd fell silent once more. “And now,” he intoned, “for the second time in less than a year, the Althing is convened, so that all may know the results of our quest.”

    * * *

    Unlike in the spring, the Althing stretched on, long past what was customary and to the point where some wondered if Breidelstein would be required to host the entire fleet of ships over the winter. This would be no small feat for a country as prosperous as Breidelstein had been under Raen. As things were now, having only just escaped from Ulfr and the Weavess? It would be ruinous. Oh, there was glory to be shared, and honor to be gained, and there could be no doubt that the men who had joined the fleet would gain much face on their return home, but already it began to strain the thin coffers that they had hardly begun to rebuild. Einarr found his time more and more taken up with the daily running of Breidelstein and he stopped following the Althing.

    Runa caught Einarr worrying over it one night and suddenly discovered that she had business to attend to with the other Singers. Some hours later, when she returned, he was too tired from running after Alfvin to worry about much of anything.

    Rumors began to circulate, though, starting among the warriors of the fleet. Whispers that, with as well as the Fleet performed together, unified, perhaps there would be value to the Clans more generally from a similar joining. At first, he thought nothing of it. Truly, it would be a good idea, but he had missed most of a year of his son’s life, and there were precious few of those before Alfvin would have to leave to study under the Oracle. Then he saw an expression on Runa’s face, when two men were discussing it in his hearing, that suggested she was the cat who got the cream. His hackles immediately rose.

    Three days later, a servant came to inform him he was wanted for the discussions in the Hall.

    The doors of the Hall stood open when he arrived, and as he turned to face the Thanes and Jarls in the room before him he smoothed sweaty palms on his tunic. Inside, Runa offered him an encouraging smile.

    Ahead, Stigander stood on the step of the dais, beckoning him forward. Suddenly the expectant looks of the powerful men in the room seemed as heavy as all the stone over Nilthiad. He squared his shoulders and entered anyway. When he reached the dais, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his father and opened his mouth. Before he could ask what this was all about, however, Thane Thorgnyr rose from where he had been seated in deliberations.

    “Einarr son of Stigander son of Raen, you have brought great honor upon your head. Not only did you return at the head of the fleet after a successful quest, every man in this Hall recalls how you fought to bring that fleet together in the first place. In the months since you have left, word has reached our domains of other cities razed by these madmen… some in the time since you must have left their island stronghold.”

    Einarr bowed his head slightly – he was a prince and a war-leader, but Thorgnyr was Thane to his father-in-law. “Thank you, milord.”

    Thorgnyr smirked, and Einarr’s belly went cold. “It has been agreed among the Althing that one is needed whom we can all answer to. We would not have been caught so unawares by the mad cult had we been more trusting of one another. Therefore, for the first time in centuries, the Clans have agreed amongst themselves to acclaim an Althane.”

    The cold in Einarr’s belly turned to an iceberg. Surely they couldn’t mean him? He cleared his throat. “My lords. I have spent the first decade of my career at sea as a humble freeboater. I have claimed my birthright, but it still sits strangely on my shoulders. I do not think…”

    “You are too modest.” A woman’s voice rang out over the Hall, but not from the Singers conclave. Bea stood up and stepped forward. “Your native wit and wisdom – which, I might add, extends to your choosing of advisors – serve you well, such that even I find myself indebted to you. It is no small thing to earn the gratitude of a Gundahar.”

    Thorgnyr inclined his head to Beatrix as to an equal. Any other Imperial likely would have been mortally offended: thankfully, Beatrix was not so minded.

    “The Princess speaks what we all believe. Furthermore, she has suggested that such a joining could bring financial benefits to the Clans, as well as security. Furthermore, while you are currently heir to Breidelstein, you are also Lord over no lands. This is a rare combination. However, acclaiming an Althane against his will would, perhaps, be worse than acclaiming no Althane at all. Will you stand before the Althing and permit the vote?”

    Einarr gaped, aware that he probably looked rather like a fish. Finally, he managed to speak. “Might I have a word with my wife, first?”

    No-one raised any objection. Indeed, Stigander pulled aside a curtain behind the dais and motioned them both back.

    Out from under the watchful eyes of all the Clan leaders, Einarr breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Runa. “Just to be clear, you didn’t… do anything to anyone, did you?”

    She blushed, but shook her head. “I didn’t even start the rumors. Those came from out among the men of the Fleet.” She couldn’t quite suppress a girlish laugh.

    “Aye,” said a voice from behind him. Einarr jumped: he hadn’t realized anyone else was back here.

    “Jorir? What are you doing here?”

    “Keeping my ears open for trouble, mostly. But ‘twas me who started putting bees in people’s ears about the matter. I… hope ye’ll forgive the indiscretion.”

    Einarr sighed and buried his face in his hand, trying desperately not to laugh in his friend’s face. “Of course. Well. I suppose, then, that I needn’t have worried how you would take it, Runa.”

    She nodded, biting her lower lip, and pushed him back towards the curtain. “We’ll work out the succession later.”

    Einarr pushed the curtain aside and stepped back out on the dais to stand beside his father. “Very well. I will stand for the vote.”

    One by one, the leaders of the Clans stood, and one by one they pledged to follow the lead of the Althane, Einarr the Cursebreaker.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    This is what I expect to be the final book of The Adventures of Einarr Stigandersen. After four, almost five, years and fourteen books, I’m ready to move on to other projects – and I’m sure Einarr is ready for me to do so, as well – if only so I stop tormenting him! Fear not, however: my intention is to start a new serial, although not a purely free one. Look for a poll or an announcement from me in the next few weeks as I firm up my ideas.

    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 e-book through Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 14.21 – Fire and Ice

    14.21 – Fire and Ice

    The monstrosity croaked, loud enough to make Einarr’s ears ring. It had been the right call to leave Hrug above – indeed, it had been by far the best way to signal the fleet – but Einarr was not half the sorcerer the mute was. His men leapt at the winged blob again. He heard a whumpf, followed by the crack of stone and a thud. Another man down.

    The formation before him, he thought, would work. Or, he hoped it would buy them enough time to destroy the abomination, anyway. He placed his fingers on the edge of the circle and willed it to capture the creature before them.

    He could see, although he didn’t think anyone else could, the threads of energy racing along the ground, pooling under the creature’s feet that currently hovered about five inches off the ground. Einarr bit his lip, intent on the goal. If the abomination touched the ground with so much as a toe or a wingtip, they had it.

    The pool of magic grew larger, and as it did Einarr noticed a pillar of ice beginning to form in its center. Unusual, but I’ll take it.

    The monster-bird bobbed down just a hair farther than it usually did. The ice brushed its claw, and the freezing threads of the magic began climbing up its body.

    Hastily, the abomination rose, but the cold that had a hold of its foot continued to spread over its body. It was caught now, no matter how much it struggled. Sinmora practically leaped into Einarr’s hand as he rushed to join the fray.

    The creature fought mightily against the forces trying to pin it to the earth. It might have managed to break free, too, if not for the twelve men it also had to fend off if it wanted to survive this. The soothing rune didn’t seem to be having much of an effect: perhaps calm was contrary to its nature? Or, perhaps, the fact that it was under attack prevented the rune from fully taking hold.

    A fourth team was running into the killing field, now, in a fighting retreat from a squad of cursed warriors and their knightly commander. Godsdammit.

    He still had control of his formation, but if he divided his mind that way he risked loosing the abomination. On the other hand, it was already weakened. If they brought it down, they could turn their full attention to other matters. The challenge was in finding its actual vitals.

    He plunged Sinmora deep into the body of the beast, between a wing and an eye. It shrieked – a sound just as hideous as its croak – and stabbed back at him with a beak.

    Einarr dodged, using the momentum of a turn to extract his blade. A gout of black blood spurted forth, hissing where it came in contact with the pool of magic.

    He felt that like a buzzing in his brain. Oops. Einarr put a stop in the flow. It was either that, cutting off the amount of will he could feed into the seal, or risk exposing his mind directly to the corruption.

    Jorir planted an axe behind the wing he had just chopped at, and it fell twitching to the ground. Now Einarr found himself faced with a deep wound, and while it bled profusely it was not spurting at either of them. Once more he plunged Sinmora into the beast’s side, and once more it shrieked and writhed.

    Someone on its other side drove home his own mighty blow, and the abomination flapped harder. The ward still held, however, and its struggles seemed to be faltering.

    That was when flaming arrows began raining down into the killing field from the arrow slits in the fortress tower.

    War drums beat in time from every ship in the fleet, now, and the water below rippled in time with the rhythm calling the sailors to fight. Erik knew even a seasoned warrior should be anxious about a battle like this, with enemies both before and behind and each one of them a match for any ship of the fleet, but it was not fear that made his heart pump and his blood race. The defiled would attempt to swarm them under, and the defiled would be destroyed, he was sure. Any who fell today earned their place in Valhalla.

    Not that he intended to fall. And he truly hoped that between the Singers and their two Rune masters they could avoid losing anyone to the corruption. But today – today would be a battle the skalds would sing of for ages upon ages.

    Sivid’s boat floated next to the Vidofnir. Erik looked in that direction and grinned, certain that his friend would be too busy to see and not caring. His shield was set, and the weight of his axe in his hand felt good, and that was what mattered.

    “Archers! Ready!” Bardr’s voice rang over the deck, echoed by the Mates up and down their line.

    The fwoosh of fire went up in a line behind Erik as one of the deckhands lit the arrowheads. This, too, was done all up and down the line.

    “Aim!”

    From the corner of his eye, Erik could see the line of archers amidships on the other boats, all raise their bows in a wave.

    “Fire!”

    The archers loosed, and a wave of flaming arrows flew forward into the black storm approaching from the open sea. Perhaps a third as many flew towards the harbor – the surer shot, but also the less critical one. The black storm ships were the more fearsome by far. Erik remembered well what they kept belowdecks in those ships. Of the arrows that flew into the storm, perhaps half found their target. He was gratified to see more than one sail go up in flames: that would ease their load somewhat.

    He found himself bouncing on his toes, waiting for the toss of boarding lines. Well, fine: he hadn’t been in a proper sea battle since they re-took Breidelstein. Fighting on land didn’t have quite the same thrill to it.

    Then he looked up and abruptly realized the enemy was returning fire. The answering wave of flame was hard to look away from.

    Bardr noticed at the same moment he did. “Shields!”

    Almost as one, they raised their shields into a wall, protecting not only themselves but the archers behind as well. Getting close, now.

     

    Previous

    Next

    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    This is what I expect to be the final book of The Adventures of Einarr Stigandersen. After four, almost five, years and fourteen books, I’m ready to move on to other projects – and I’m sure Einarr is ready for me to do so, as well – if only so I stop tormenting him! Fear not, however: my intention is to start a new serial, although not a purely free one. Look for a poll or an announcement from me in the next few weeks as I firm up my ideas.

    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 e-book through Draft2Digital, 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.

     

  • 11.28 – The Wedding

    11.28 – The Wedding

    Author’s note: This marks the end of Book 11, if you hadn’t already guessed. Book 12 will pick up near the end of the honeymoon on 3/23/2021. (Fun fact: this is literally where the term ‘honeymoon’ comes from. The newlyweds were expected to drink mead all through their first month of marriage, as it was thought to increase fertility.)

    Einarr stood impatiently behind his father as Stigander took possession of Runa’s dowry. Hroaldr already had the bride price – the Isinntog had been at Kjell since Einarr recovered it, held in surety against the day Einarr proved his merit. He tried not to bounce on his toes with impatience as first Hroaldr and then Stigander spoke at length before what appeared to be half the court and no small number of the Vidofnings.

    When, at last, they sealed the bargain with a handshake, the two old friends also clapped each other on the shoulder with a grin. Hroaldr, it seemed, had relaxed considerably since the Usurper had been deposed. Einarr was just as glad: the idea of constantly being at odds with his father-in-law was unappealing, to say the least. Then he shook Hroaldr’s hand, and finally it was time for the procession to the altar.

    The ceremony was to be held in the very same field where the Weavings had been destroyed last summer. Only now, in place of a bonfire, they had erected an altar. In the center of the table at the back was Thor’s hammer, cast in silver. On the front corner in the right was Freya’s chariot, worked in gold filigree, and in the left-hand corner the golden boar of Freyr. It seemed like everyone in Breidelstein must have come up the cliff, and that wasn’t even counting the guests who had come from Kjell.

    They, however, were little more than a blurred mass in Einarr’s consciousness. He scanned up the aisle until his eyes reached the only person in attendance he actually cared about. There, standing next to the priest, was Runa.

    His breath caught in his throat. She was wearing scarlet, with a gold tabard that matched exactly the gold of her hair and a belt of green and gold that hinted at her soft curves. Her hair hung loose down past her hips, and the bridal crown on her head was garlanded with red campion and holly. He blinked, and a slow smile spread over his face as he approached his bride. When he took her hands in his, she smiled back sweetly – almost shyly.

    Then the priest began to speak. Einarr paid very little attention: he knew what he was supposed to say, and when, and at this moment he wanted little so much as to drink in the beauty before him. Hesitantly, he put up a hand to tuck her hair behind an ear, just for an excuse to touch it.

    After they were all anointed with the blood of the triple sacrifice – Thor’s goat, Freya’s sow, and Freyr’s boar – and the carcasses had been carted off to be butchered and roasted, Einarr drew Ragnar’s sword from its sheath on his baldric and offered the hilt to Runa.

    Her eyes moved up the blade from the hilt to the tip, seeking imperfection and finding none. Jorir had seen to its physical perfection, and he as a rune seithir and the Cursebreaker could feel no lingering malevolence. Almost reverently she accepted the sword.

    Then it was her turn. The sword she had just accepted from Einarr was rested, momentarily, against the altar in exchange for the sword that probably would have been presented to her mother, once upon a time. He palmed the ring, waiting.

    “In the exchange of blades, each of you has accepted that you hold power over one another,” the priest intoned. “But the power to wound cannot make or maintain a marriage. You need also the bonds of honor, of commitment, and of good regard. Hold forth your swords, both of you, and if you accept these bonds place your rings on the other’s blade.”

    Smoothly, as though it were a motion she’d practiced a hundred times, Runa once again lifted the longsword before her, the flat of the blade level with the ground. Almost as one, they each reached forward with one hand to rest a ring on the other’s sword. Hers was a delicate band of intertwining gold and silver, set with flakes of ruby. Jorir really outdid himself. His was thicker gold, bearing the patina of age and engraved, inside, with the runes for ‘enduring.’

    “Swear now upon the rings you have presented one another, that you will honor one another in all things, that you will strive for harmony, and that each of you will care for and protect the other for so long as you both shall live.”

    His hand resting on the ring on the blade of the sword, Einarr looked straight into Runa’s eyes. “I swear it.”

    “I swear it,” she echoed.

    “Then, in the presence of witnesses and before the gods, I pronounce you man and wife. Don your rings and sheathe your swords and let the bride-running commence!”

    Einarr could hear laughter in the priest’s voice as he slipped the ring on Runa’s finger. Ordinarily he would not be the one to announce that, but it seemed as though even the priest was looking forward to the feast. He smiled but otherwise took his time. “If it feels too loose, we can take it back to Jorir.”

    “It’s lovely. …This was my grandfather’s ring, which he gave to Mother on his death-bed, and she gave to me for this very day.”

    Einarr grunted his understanding. Tearing his gaze away from her face to sheathe her sword was almost physically painful: he made up for it by planting a kiss on her mouth afterwards, to the sound of much cheering from the crowd. Then, while she stood still surprised, he grinned out at the audience. “Loser’s party serves the ale!”

    As he bolted down the aisle, he heard her indignant cry of “Wait!”

    Einarr laughed and ran harder. It was tradition, after all: he had to beat her there, or who would carry her over the threshold?

    Jorir sat on the edges of the feast, watching his lord – and new lady – at the head of the room with a wistful look. They, of course, only had eyes for each other, and after the first cups of mead Jorir couldn’t tell if they were drunk or besotted. Or both, he supposed.

    After the hallingdanse, where Sivid once again handily outshone all competitors – although Einarr strutted about some for Runa’s amusement, he could hardly be called a competitor tonight – a red-faced Einarr and a rather giggly Runa fell into a whispered conversation. Very soon, she was also red-faced. Well: that was his cue. Jorir rose and whispered in the ears of the six witnesses – Naudrek, Hrug, Irding, Reki, Aema, and the priestess of Freya – that it was time. Eydri, he noticed, was sitting in the darkest corner of the hall, looking even more wistful than he felt. None of my business.

    Runa left first, while he was still signaling the witnesses to the bridal chamber. Not that anyone really doubted, of course, but there were always formalities to fulfill. Once Einarr had left the hall, Jorir waited another handful of minutes and slipped out himself. His pack was ready and waiting, and down in the harbor was a ship that would take him the one place he least wished to go.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 11.2 – Triumphant Return

    11.2 – Triumphant Return

    Einarr staggered a little under the weight of the unconscious Jarl slung over his shoulder as he returned to camp. The smell of smoke hung heavy over the meadow: here and there, someone had set a rabbit or some fish to roast, but the fires from the battle nearly overwhelmed the smell of meat.

    That men were cooking at all surprised Einarr, especially given the blaze during the battle. He paused just inside the ring of their tents and looked about. There should be, somewhere nearby, a prisoner’s picket… and there it was, with Jorir standing stern guard over someone on the line.

    “There you are,” Einarr said as he approached. He set the Jarl down near the end of the prisoner’s picket, and despite his efforts the unconscious man still flopped about like a sack of cabbages. “How went battle’s end?”

    “Back already, are you? Usually takes longer to hunt a hare than that.”

    “I think this hare got himself turned around in his flight. Turned wolf at the last moment.”

    Jorir grunted, pleased but not surprised to see that Einarr had still managed to return unharmed. “Once you took off after Rosta it was all but over, really. Some of his men tried to keep us occupied, but their strength was just about spent by then. …Faugh! What made Rosta think he had a chance to keep his holdings without Breidelstein. From what I’ve seen, the Vidofnir could have taken them alone, before the curse was broken.”

    Einarr shook his head. It had been like this everywhere he’d gone, this past year. Jarls who were dissatisfied with the Usurper and thought that meant they could do without a Thane at all. Not one of them had the strength of arms to protect his own holdings, though. “Can you really fault those who chafed under Ulfr’s thumb wanting to be free? A foolish impulse, perhaps, but an understandable one.”

    Jorir harrumphed. “Perhaps. You’d think they’d be happy changing a bad master for a good, though.”

    “We know Father is a good man. They don’t. But that’s not important right now. Make sure Rosta is ‘comfortable’ for the trip back to Raenshold. The others can be loosed once we’re ready to sail.” He paused. “Let’s leave Arring behind to keep an eye on things, just in case. Between that and holding their Jarl, we should get good behavior.”

    “Yes, my Lord!”

    When the two ships under Einarr’s command returned to Breidelstein harbor, They were met at the docks by only a small throng, mostly of the sailors’ families or those with families in Jarl Rosta’s territory. It wasn’t that Stigander did not have the support of his people in this – he did. It was that, over the last year, not one of the isles trying to break away had put up a fight. The usurper thane had left his holdings weak, and those who chafed under the rule of another underestimated the true-born sons of Raen.

    Jarl Rosta was marched through the streets of the port to much disinterest. Every time he started to puff himself up, though, and look smugly at his captors, someone along the road would take notice – and, invariably, would congratulate Einarr on another successful mission.

    When they arrived at the long, steep climb of the cliff road, he quailed. At the top waited the Thane he had scorned, and whatever punishment the man who had lived as a freeboater half his life deigned to mete out. A man who had already proved himself unconventional in that regard.

    Einarr himself gave the Jarl a nudge from behind to continue on. With his hands bound behind his back, Rosta stumbled a little, but then they began the long trudge up to Raenshold.

    The gate of Raenshold stood open, and on the far side of the gate house stood the actual welcoming committee. A line of warriors who had not elected to go on this mission lined the path. Standing at the end of this, his arms folded across his broad chest, Stigander waited.

    A cheer went up for the returning warriors as they crested the rise. Einarr took the lead as one of his men took the arm of the captured Jarl. He smiled and waved as he strode towards his father, but much more perfunctorily than he had last fall in similar circumstances. Finally he reached the end of the gauntlet and knelt before his father.

    “My Lord.”

    “Welcome home, Einarr. I see you have brought home another prodigal.”

    “That I have, Father.” He stood and turned to stand beside Stigander. “The matter with Urdr has them spooked, Father.”

    Stigander sighed, although he kept his face bright and welcoming for the men who marched the Jarl forward. “They chafed under Ulfr’s rule, and can’t imagine I’ll be better. The matter with Urdr is an excuse.”

    “Of course, Father.”

    Stigander turned his attention to the prisoner who was now made to kneel before him. “Rosta, of Búethold. Welcome to Raenshold.”

    The captive Jarl spat on the ground.

    Stigander sighed. “I see you intend to make this difficult. I will be plain: I mean to mend my father’s holdings, not see them rent further. If you will swear to me, as your father swore to mine, I will send you back to your own holdings with a handful of my own men. You may count the damages to Búethold, whatever they may be, as your fine. Or, if you still don’t believe me, you can stay here and observe, while some of my men administer your lands for you. And pay for rebuilding out of your own treasure. Your choice.”

    Rosta blanched a little. It was, Einarr thought, so far from what he’d expected he couldn’t quite believe it yet.

    “Take your time. Búethold remains a part of Breidelstein, either way, and the men my son left behind will be capable in your absence.” Stigander turned his attention to the men flanking the prisoner. “Make sure he has a place to sleep. He will join us for the feasting tonight, as well.”

    “Yes, my lord.”

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 11.1 – Tafl

    11.1 – Tafl

    Smoke rose from the roof of Jarl Rosta’s hall, but Einarr was certain his men were not the ones who set the blaze. All around him, men roared in the grips of the battle fury as Rosta’s rebels spat defiance at Einarr and his war band. The man he faced, broad-shouldered and red-faced, bellowed and raised his axe to charge.

    Einarr settled into his stance and readied his shield. At the last possible instant, he punched forward with the edge of the shield. The axe was deflected harmlessly as Einarr’s shield struck the man hard against the bridge of his nose. Einarr heard a satisfying crunch as the man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he crumpled. What is that now? Tólf? Threttán?

    It didn’t matter: the next warrior who thought to end the fighting by taking out the War Leader had arrived. Einarr blew through his long red mustache and reset his stance yet again.

    This was a tall, tow-headed man who gave Einarr a large, toothy grin even as he raised his axe in both hands. He carried no shield.

    This is ridiculous. Einarr charged this time, and struck out with Sinmora from behind his shield to take the man in his exposed thigh. This man, too, fell, clutching the gushing wound in his leg.

    “Breidelings, forward!” Einarr cried, pressing the attack. If they didn’t take Jarl Rosta soon he was liable to escape, and if he escaped they were going to be stuck here on Búethold for gods only knew how much longer.

    Arring’s characteristic berserker scream rang over the field of battle.

    “Forward!” Einarr called again, although he needn’t have bothered. Already the Heidrunings and Vidofnings surged forward, giving chase to the latest batch of would-be freeholders.

    Einarr pressed himself faster, even, than that. He wanted to look the Jarl in the eye before he was subdued.

    The smoke grew heavier, much heavier, and Einarr realized it wasn’t just the Hall on fire: the forest was beginning to catch. Or had been set alight. Either way, it just became that much more urgent to end the battle. He raced to the front of the press, scanning the fleeing warriors for any sign of the Jarl.

    Movement caught his eye off to the left. A glint of sunlight off of polished metal: not a warrior, that. His men had the pursuit well in hand: he veered off to follow this hidden figure.

    He was quick, whoever he was. The figure led Einarr on a merry chase through the wood, crashing through stands of trees and ducking behind bushes, all in an attempt to lose his pursuer. Still, Einarr gained.

    Finally, at the far edge of a clearing in the wood, faced with a wicked looking bramble and out of breath, the figure turned to face his pursuer.

    The man standing, panting, before Einarr wore a heavy leather jerkin and had a longsword strapped to his side. Despite being plainly old and somewhat tattered, though, his clothes were of fine cloth, richly dyed. “You are Jarl Rosta?”

    “I am. Or was, I suppose.”

    “Your cause is lost. Surrender now, and my father the Thane may be merciful.”

    “What, so I will not be executed, the way the Weavess was? Will he merely make me outlaw until the end of my days?”

    “That remains to be seen. But my lord father and those of us from his crew would have peace and prosperity in these islands again. You could not even defend yourselves against two ships of Breidelstein: how long do you think your freehold will last without our protection?”

    “Ulfr was a usurper and used us badly. But it had been a full generation since he took power. Stigander is untried and old, and the very first thing he did on taking the throne was exceed his authority. Casting that woman out into the wilderness as an outlaw would have been as sure a death sentence, and yet her bones are still chained to a rock in the harbor. You would have us gamble on the mercy of such a man?”

    “Aye, I would. Do you deny that there was justice in her death? Remember that her magic allowed her not only to see but to change the future, and she did so without compunction. Not one but three Singers agreed that was the best possible solution. The sons of Raen wish to end the discord in this land. Will you surrender, so that we can talk about this like civilized men?”

    Jarl Rosta hung his head. For a moment, his shoulders stooped, but then he shook his head in violent denial, still looking at the ground beneath his feet. With a desperate growl he jerked his sword free of its sheath. He held it raised in both hands at his back shoulder, and the look on his face was pure despair.

    “So be it.”

    Einarr raised Sinmora as the man committed to the only cut he could possibly make from that charge and the blade was deflected easily. The Jarl hopped backward, and Sinmora’s blade sliced across his heavy leather jerkin rather than through it. The Jarl was a more practiced warrior than Einarr had expected: he settled down into his accustomed stance.

    After his first mad charge failed the Jarl, too, settled into a more sustainable stance. Einarr was not sure if the man typically fought without a shield or not, but he suspected not. A Jarl was too valuable to risk on the field with such an aggressive style.

    Einarr advanced cautiously, judging where best to strike. Even in his more cautious stance the Jarl was full of openings. He frowned. Father would still want the man alive, if at all possible. He pulled back to punch the man with the edge of his shield.

    That was when Jarl Rosta made his move. Had it not been for the brokkrsteel maille Jorir had insisted he take, Einarr might have taken a mortal blow. As it was, he was sure his ribs would bruise from the blow.

    The Jarl was not quite so quick to recover that time. Einarr brought Sinmora’s hilt down hard on the back of his head and the Jarl crumpled to the ground.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 10.48 – The Thing

    10.48 – The Thing

    Over the course of the next three weeks, something more than half of all the jarls who once swore allegiance to Raen arrived in port at Breidelstein or sent pigeons explaining why they couldn’t. Stigander made a point of greeting each and every Jarl personally, after which they would spend some time in hushed conversation while their crews unloaded barrels of ale and mead and other contributions to the coming festival.

    Tyr, Kaldr, and Jorir had disagreed with Einarr’s thoughts on taking oaths, and in the end their thinking won. The renewal of vows would take place after the trial of Urdr.

    Thus, at the end of three weeks, when careful note had been made of those Jarls who had not arrived for the Thing – excuse or no – a true Thing was held in Breidelstein for the first time in more than a decade. When the Jarls assembled in a circle around the courtyard, they stared at the figures in the center with grim solemnity.

    A wooden seat had been brought out for Raen. The old man sat, stooped and feeble but alert, and he stared about himself with childlike wonder. Many was the man who winced to see their former Thane in such a reduced state – and winced again when Urdr was brought forth in chains, led once more by Arring and Erik and Thjofgrir. Raen physically shrank away from the crone. Gorgny, who attended him on the stage, comforted him like he would a child.

    Einarr, from his place at Stigander’s side, fought to keep a straight face at the sight of his grandfather. He could see from the corner of his eye the knotting of muscles in his father’s jaw. But the two of them had to remain neutral, despite being among the aggrieved.

    “This Thing is assembled,” Stigander intoned. “Before you are Raen, your former Thane, and the Weavess Urdr, who is accused. Gorgny, you may state your case.”

    Raen’s oldest and most loyal liege-man straightened, leaving a comforting hand on Raen’s shoulder. “Men of the Thing, this woman and her son are solely responsible for the current state of these islands. She used her Weaving to bind the fates of all Breidelstein and unseat Lord Raen. In his place, she installed her son Ulfr, and the two of them have taxed the citizens beyond all measure. She has imprisoned and tortured Lord Raen, whom she claimed was her husband, as well as countless others who have passed through the dungeon here. She has practiced Black Arts in order to hold power for herself and her son. Free men of the Thing, I lay all these things at the feet of this woman.”

    A low rumble passed around the assembled Jarls. Then Stigander stepped forward. “Weavess Urdr. You stand accused before the Thing of high treason, treason against your Thane, practicing the black arts, murder by means of magic, and of practicing the torturer’s arts. Among your accusers, your victims, are members of this Thing. Have you any defense?”

    The crone straightened, haughty and defiant even now. “You dare to try me here, with my accusers among the judges?”

    “I see none in this circle who have added to the weight of charges laid out by Gorgny.”

    “And yet you yourself are a son of Raen. Does that not make your judgment invalid?”

    “It is not my judgement you have to fear. You will offer no defense, then?”

    A cold stare was his only answer. Stigander shrugged. “Are there any present who would stand in her defense?”

    No-one stepped forward. On its face, Einarr thought Urdr’s claim had merit. Unfortunately for her, that was the nature of crimes against a Thane, and there was no way to call an Althing. Her tricks would find no purchase here.

    “Very well,” Stigander boomed. “The penalty for any one of these crimes is death, and so I put the question before this Thing. Did this woman conspire to overthrow the rightful Thane of Breidelstein?”

    A chorus of “Ayes” rang around the circle.

    “In the overthrow of the Thane Raen, by whom she bore a son, did she practice the black art of curse-weaving?”

    Once again each man in the circle answered aye.

    “Was the rightful Thane, a man she has called her husband, tortured by her hand?”

    There were fewer ‘ayes’ this time, likely because the Jarls hesitated to confirm a charge that was not so self-evident.

    “Very well. Based on the determination of this Thing, who have witnessed the actions of the accused, the weavess Urdr is guilty. You shall be stripped of all you posess and chained to a rock in the harbor, where you may look upon the lands you so desired until your bones fall into the sea.”

    “Arring. Erik. Thjofgrir. See to it.”

    The three men named snapped off an “Aye,sir,” as though they were still aboard ships before leading the crone out of the circle of the Thing. If there was one thing that could be said to her credit, it was that her pride did not desert her as she was led to her death. She held her head high and stared defiantly forward.

    “Now that the unpleasantness is concluded, there is one more bit of formality to handle before the festivities begin. Kaldr Kerasson, step forward.”

    Kaldr moved with the calm grace that everyone who knew him was accustomed to and knelt before Stigander.

    “Earlier, during the fighting, you laid your life before me. Now I will have your oath.” Stigander drew Grjóthrun from the scabbard on his baldric and held the hilt out toward the man called the Ice Wolf.

    The reswearing of those whose bonds had been severed, first by the witch and then by Einarr, took until it was full dark. A bonfire – a real one, this time – was lit in the field, and the feast table laid near it. Musicians from the town had offered their services for a place at the table and been welcomed.

    It was a night of celebration and the reforging of bonds long tested. Finally, Breidelstein could begin the long road toward rebuilding its former glory.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    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 Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

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  • 10.47 – Unbinding

    10.47 – Unbinding

    A light like golden dawn shone from the grass behind Einarr, illuminating the faces before him. Those who were bound most loosely by the curse – Stigander, Kormund, most of their crews, Kaldr – watched in respectful silence, as they would a grave ship. Among the townsfolk, some looked pained. Others, nauseous. That was a result of the dissonance, and would pass in time.

    Those who had fought under Ulfr had, in general, stronger reactions. Some vomited. Others dropped to their knees, clutching their heads. A bare handful had been bound so tightly their minds could not accept the dissonance and they fled into the forest. Einarr watched calmly, hiding his surprise that there were any of those here to witness the ritual.

    Urdr had aged a century in a little over ten minutes. Einarr had called her a crone before, but the destruction of her work sapped her of vitality. Once again he stifled a pang of pity: for what she and her son had worked on Breidelstein, this was only a partial measure of justice. Arring stood behind her, holding her on her feet to witness the undoing of her schemes.

    Eventually, those with homes in the city below began to drift towards the gate house and rest. Of the warriors who remained, those who were less affected aided those in greater distress towards rooms where they might rest. Arring, Erik, and Thjofgrir led Urdr to the dungeon, where she would await the convenience of the Thing.

    The bonfire of tapestries continued in the center of the circle. Stigander’s eyes did not rest, searching over the faces that remained, plainly looking for someone, although Einarr could not guess who.

    He was not needed here. Einarr drove the end of the distaff into the rune circle. For just a moment, the ivory inlay flashed with the same light as the working below. He was not entirely certain what that meant, but now that it was there he did not think he should move it – at least not until the working was finished.

    The Örlögnir stood on its own. With a sigh and a mental shrug, Einarr left the bonfire of light to join the rest of his crewmates.

    When dawn broke, Einarr rose from his sleeping couch not quite able to accept that it was his. The odd sense of displacement, though, he knew was temporary. More urgently, there was work to be done.

    Einarr followed the smell of wood smoke to a cookfire outside the hall, where he found his father and an older man crouched near the fire, speaking in hushed tones. Einarr thought he recognized the man, but with the haze of long years he couldn’t be certain.

    “His Lordship is resting in town, under the care of an herb-witch,” the old man was saying.

    Stigander nodded in understanding. “I only saw him for a moment. He looked weak. How is he, really?”

    The old man looked up and straight at Einarr, his eyes suddenly hooded. Stigander turned around and waved for him to join them.

    “Uncle Gorgny, you remember Einarr, don’t you?”

    Uncle Gorgny! So that’s why he looked familiar. Einarr smiled.

    Gorgny looked poleaxed. He finally stammered out “The Cursebreaker is your very own son?”

    “My very own.”

    “It’s not that surprising that he wouldn’t recognize me, Father. Last time I saw Uncle Gorgny, I was just a small boy.”

    Stigander turned his attention back to Raen’s closest advisor. “Well? How is my father?”

    “…Weak, as you say, Lord. I have reason to believe much of the blood in those tapestries was his. But that was not the only way in which she tortured him. Now that she is gone, and he is free, I hope he will recover.”

    Stigander set his mouth grimly. “I understand.”

    “You are not surprised.” Gorgny watched Stigander for confirmation.

    “I suspected. Last spring we paid a visit to an Oracle: she left me virtually certain.” He sighed, then shook his head. “We will need to visit him, sooner rather than later, and not just because he’s family.”

    “Then…” Einarr couldn’t finish the thought.

    “Trying to give your grandfather back his seat is likely to be impossible, based on everything I’ve heard.”

    “Unfortunately true,” Gorgny agreed. “Even if Raen were as hale as you, the years under the usurper cost him a great deal of support, and even more honor.”

    “That should be mitigated once the Jarls realize Ulfr didn’t actually have Grandfather’s support.” That his grandfather was still alive was nothing short of miraculous. Unfortunately, it also made what came next complicated.

    “Not enough, I’m afraid,” Stigander rumbled. “But it’s moot anyway. Be thankfull, Einarr, that your sorcery in the harbor brought Kaldr to his senses. You are no more prepared to be a Thane than your uncle was. How long before the Thing can be assembled?”

    Gorgny sighed. “At least a week. More likely two.”

    “Good. I want careful count kept of who comes and who doesn’t. Clans have fractured over less than this.”

    “Of course, my Prince.” Gorgny pressed his hands against his knees and rose, allowing himself the luxury of a groan. He, too, was getting on in years, but he had not been subjected to the witch’s tender ministrations. “There is much yet to do before the Jarls begin to arrive. If you will excuse me.”

    “Of course. And, Uncle Gorgny, it’s good to see you again.”

    The old retainer offered Stigander a tight smile. “It’s good you came back.”

    Einarr furrowed his brow. Once Gorgny had crossed half the courtyard, he turned his attention back to his father. “What’s wrong with him?”

    Stigander sighed. “You heard it too, then. I have never questioned his loyalty to your grandfather, not once. I suspect he just has some soul-searching to do. He may blame himself. He may be worried about Father. Maybe it’s all of the above.”

    “You should start taking men’s oaths, Father. The sooner the better.”

    “You’re not wrong. But that won’t help him.”

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    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.

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

  • 10.36 – An End to Fighting

    10.36 – An End to Fighting

    “Very well, Kaldr Kerasson. Stand, and hear the judgement of the Thane of Breidelstein.” Stigander watched the man from the corner of his eye. When Kaldr stood and turned to face Stigander, his expression showed grim acceptance.

    Stigander reversed his grip on his sword even as he lowered it, so that it came around in a smooth sweeping motion, and thrust the hilt towards Kaldr. “You will swear to me, before my Vidofnings tried and true, that you will serve me and strive ever and always for the good of this land.”

    Kaldr blinked, evidently nonplussed.

    “I will not waste talent laid before me. We will put an end to this senseless fighting, and then I will have your oath.”

    Kaldr dropped to his knees and his shoulders sagged, as though he had been relieved of a great weight. Stigander could not quite repress a smile as he sheathed his sword and offered his hand instead.

    “Stand, Kaldr Kerasson. There is work yet to be done before all can be put to right.”

    “We had best hurry if we are to catch the Witch. She is likely in her workshop in the tower, but once she learns all is lost there’s no telling what she will do.”

    The pulse of will that exploded out from the deck of the Heidrun left even its creators stunned for a time. The wolflings who had attempted to assault their deck were blown backwards into the water. No-one who was on board was in any state to pull them out, though, even assuming they were not still hostile.

    Einarr shook his head as he came out of it. That had easily been the most intense rune-working he had ever been part of, and he had been mostly fresh when they set it off. He looked at Hrug: the mute was slumped over, half-conscious at best and breathing heavily, but still breathing. That was something. Einarr had relied on him too much since they began retaking his homeland, and the strain had been evident even before this.

    Jorir had already shaken off the effects of the magic and stood steadfast. Naudrek looked shaken but otherwise unharmed. And evidently Frigg had determined that their task was not yet done, because the Örlögnir still lay at his feet in the center of the expended runic circle. Einarr nodded to himself and then met Naudrek’s eye.

    “Keep an eye on him.” Einarr gestured with his head toward Hrug. “Jorir and I have to get the Örlögnir up to the Hold. Send Vali if you run into anything you can’t handle.”

    “Yes, sir!”

    Truth be told, Einarr would have preferred to have those two with him, but Hrug was in no condition to climb that cliff, and Naudrek would never leave his sworn brother behind. He scooped up the Örlögnir and threaded it through his baldric before turning his attention to Jorir. “Let’s go.”

    The dwarf just grunted and lifted a plank to let them down to the pier.

    As Einarr and his liege man made their way through the town of Breidelstein, Einarr was struck by how busy the place was – or, rather, should have been. Despite the evidence of a long string of lean years this was a city that had once done brisk business.

    He heard the sound of fighting from time to time as they jogged, but only in small pockets far from the main thoroughfare. But stamping out sparks was not how he ended this. The fighting would only stop when he destroyed the Weavess’ work and ended her curse for good. Einarr shook his head and jogged on, Jorir keeping pace easily.

    He did slow when he started up the cliff road, and was pleasantly surprised to find it clear of enemies. At the top, lounging in the gate house, he saw Erik and Irding – somewhat the worse for wear, but nothing like how badly injured they’d become on the Isle of the Forgotten.

    “Erik. Irding. Well-fought.”

    “Well-fought, Einarr!” Erik clapped him on the shoulder as he came within range. “We were in a spot of trouble before your spell went off, I don’t mind telling you. Whatever that was you did, it was like they lost all their will to fight.”

    Einarr smiled back at his friend. “I’m glad it helped. Where’s Father?”

    “Headed for the Hall, last I saw.”

    “Thanks.”

    He had not been to Raenshold since he was a small child, but the Hall was the centerpiece of the entire courtyard and hard to miss. He jogged off in that direction, but had not gotten far before he saw a sight he never would have imagined: Bea and Runa were tending each others wounds.

    Einarr stopped in his tracks. Why by all the gods is Runa here? All the Singers were supposed to have stayed back with the ships. She knew that, and she’d even been told why, so… She had some bruising around her mouth, and what looked like a minor gash on one arm, but Bea looked only a little worse. He needed to find Father, to hear where they stood, but how could he not check in with her? “Runa? What happened? Why aren’t you with the other Singers?”

    She gave him a rueful smile even as Bea dabbed at a cut on her face. “I wanted to help. Didn’t realize you weren’t with the assault until the magic swept by.”

    Beatrix rolled her eyes at Einarr, but whatever was going on between those two he intended to stay out of it. Besides, given their personal positions, they would be needed at the Hall in short order. “I’m glad you’re all right. …Come on: there are messages that will need to be sent, I’m sure Father will need both of you.”

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 10.35 – In Raen’s Hall

    10.35 – In Raen’s Hall

    From the time the three groups of their forces rejoined at the base of the cliff road almost to the tower gate, all they saw was the backs of the defenders fleeing before them. For all that Stigander did not want to slay more of his clansmen than he had to, it made him more than a little worried his half-brother had turned them all into cowards.

    With two switchbacks left before the gates the wolflings set up a defensive line. Stigander raised his shield and charged, all his allies hot on his heels. The man who had rallied the line plainly had some skill, or there would not have been one at all. It was not enough to let them hold, or even offer more than token resistance, though. The line buckled like thin kindling.

    Stigander refused to give up the momentum of his charge, and so they kept going. Running up the road was not generally recommended, even for a young man, but when they came up to the last stretch before the gate Stigander was not even winded. Ahead, about half the number of warriors as had tried to hold below now bristled from the gate house like a hedgehog.

    They were about as fearsome as a hedgehog, too. Blades clashed against shields for two exchanges before Ulfr’s men were once again overcome with – what? Stigander hoped it was doubt, induced by Einarr’s runes, but he saw fear on more faces than he was truly comfortable with. Where he would expect the defense to be growing more fierce, it instead seemed to be the opposite.

    It had been sixteen years since Stigander had set foot in his father’s hold, but in spite of everything done to the city below the courtyard looked almost exactly as he remembered it save for one, small detail: there were no people. Not that he expected to see the movements of daily life when an invasion was happening, but still there should have been someone – even if only messengers running from the crumbled battle lines to their supposed thane.

    It was not until he flung open the door to the Hall, his men flanking him in victory, that he remembered the differences in the vision the Oracle had given him. He stopped. His father’s hall, built large, felt twice as empty without the rugs and tapestries and trophies. Cold, and barren, and he suspected even if there were a fire in the hearth it would be the same. His father’s seat sat empty on its low dais.

    A man sat on the edge of the dais, his sword held upright with its point resting on the flagstones between his feet, watching the door as a man who has accepted his fate. Blood was spattered across the man’s face and tunic. His expression was calm and resolute, although his eyes were hooded. This could only be Kaldr, the Captain who had caused them so much trouble on their journey here. On the floor behind him, Stigander saw a headless corpse and an expansive puddle of blood.

    Stigander had only seen his half-brother once, and that in passing, but he had no doubt whose corpse that was. Although he had long harbored the hope that he would not have to kill Ulfr, would not become a kinslayer, he was still surprised to feel sorrow at the man’s passing. Was I truly so foolish as to believe he would not have to die? He clenched his fist, but still his arm shook.

    As Stigander took in the scene before him, Kaldr spoke. “Lord Stigander Raenson. The usurper, your half-brother, is dead. As the slayer of your kin, and a steadfast enemy of your approach, my life is forfeit should you wish to claim it.”

    Stigander tore his eyes away from the fallen body of the usurper to look more closely at the one who had slain him. “Why?”

    “The blood price must be paid…”

    “That is not what I asked!” He snapped in spite of himself. “As early as this morning, you called this man Lord, and yet you slew him. Why?”

    Kaldr’s mouth tightened and he lowered his gaze toward the floor. “Because I learned the truth and knew he must die. By the laws of the Althing, it should be the rightful Thane who dispenses justice, but to go from the rule of a usurper to that of a kinslayer… it was too much.”

    Stigander nodded slowly, chewing over the man’s words. This should not be complicated, and yet… He stepped up onto the dais and walked slowly towards the corpse sprawled on the ground. Ulfr’s body still clutched Grjóthrun in both hands, his grip proclaiming that he had never before used a sword. Stigander reached down to grasp his brother’s head by its hair and lift it up. The man’s grizzled hair stuck out in every direction where it had slipped free of the cut-off braid. Its face was contorted with rage and desperation: at least Ulfr had not died a coward. Stigander placed the head back near its former body. He turned and stepped back off the dais, not caring that his boots had picked up some of the blood.

    Facing Kaldr once more, he drew his father’s sword. He held it upright, studying the blade as he spoke. “Very well, Kaldr Kerasson. Stand, and hear the judgement of the Thane of Breidelstein.”

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  • 10.34 – The Ice Wolf

    10.34 – The Ice Wolf

    “What?” Ulfr demanded, his smug certainty suddenly evaporating into angry confusion. A vein twitched at his temple as his eyes grew wide.

    Kaldr’s blood boiled in fury, not merely at the truth of having been ensorcelled – enthralled! – but at the lack of mettle of the man who had controlled him. With the practice of long years, he forced his emotions down. This was a battle like any other. Calmness was the order of the day.

    The sounds of battle drifted in through the arrow slits. The Vidofnings drew nearer at a rapid clip, if Kaldr was any judge of matters. Thjofgrir had not held, and although he hoped his Mate had not fallen Kaldr was glad.

    “Have you forgotten, Usurper?” Kaldr breathed out his icy rage. “By your own words, if I go to seek justice, I will forget, and you will escape.”

    He chuckled bitterly. “No, perhaps you will not escape this time. Breidelstein cannot hold Stigander back now, if the men defending the hold have even a fragment of my doubt. By all reports, they have more than that. But that seems an un-fitting end for a man of your stature, does it not?

    “So you command that I go. I will not. You command that I forget. I will not. Consider it my last loyalty, as Breidelsteinn’s Ice Wolf. If justice cannot be had… then only injustice remains, does it not?”

    “You cannot!” Ulfr responded, a hint of desperation beginning to enter his voice. “You are bound in the Weaving! You should not be able to even think such things!”

    “Have you forgotten so easily, Thane, your loyal captain’s advice about relying on magic?” Kaldr advanced on the throne, marveling at the ease of it. He drew his blade with a slow, satisfying rasp. “Magic fails. I do not know what the ritual performed on Stigander’s ships did – but something has unraveled. The Witch’s threads have slipped – and I am unbound.”

    He paused. “Your crimes against Breidelsteinn and its people demand death, but I do not wish to kill an unarmed man. Draw your sword and die on your feet, if you are a man at all.”

    Ulfr bore no weapon, though the great blade, Grjóthrun, hung in the Hall as the sign of his Thaneship. The Usurper scrambled from the throne toward the hanging sword. “Does your fifteen-year oath mean nothing to you?”

    “Strange you should say that, Ulfr, considering that you were just mocking me for my loyalty.” Kaldr strode easily after the fleeing man. “But if you think about it, you’ll see that my oath demands this.”

    Ulfr grasped Grjóthrun and turned, confusion evident on his face as he raised the blade in unpracticed hands. Kaldr responded with the feral grin of a wolf who has captured his prey. “As you said – I am fated to be loyal to Breidelstein’s Thane.” And a man who makes thralls of his free subjects is no Thane.

    Ulfr opened his mouth – to protest, likely, that Kaldr had made his point for him – then stiffened as he realized the true meaning of Kaldr’s words.

    The sounds of fighting echoed more strongly through the Hall. They were at the gate, by the sound of things, but if Thjofgrir could not hold the gate would crumble. He maintained his icy smile, though it did not touch his eyes. “Stigander and his men draw near, Ulfr. One way or another, it ends.”

    Ulfr raised the blade with a shout and lunged at Kaldr, throwing himself entirely off-balance and nearly falling on his face. He had spent decades in indolence, and Kaldr was a Captain of warriors, trained as a warrior himself from his youth. Kaldr stepped aside easily and struck, his blade steady and sure. Ulfr’s body collapsed to the stone floor, his head rolling over twice before coming to rest in the rapidly expanding pool of his own blood.

    “You lived as a coward and a tyrant. For honor, you should have died as a dog, executed by the rightful Thane when he retakes his place.” He regarded the headless body of the man who had raped his home for so long. “But we cannot permit Breidelstein go from the hands of a Usurper to those of a Kinslayer.”

    This would be his last act, in all likelihood, but it would be the act of a free man. The price for killing one of the Thane’s blood – no matter how deserved – would need to be paid. But with his sacrifice, Breidelstein would be able to move forward.

    I wish I could see it.

    Kaldr did not give a second glance to the body on the floor, but moved to sit on the edge of the dais by the foot of the throne. He rested his sword point-down between his feet, his elbows on his knees, and took a deep breath as he awaited his Fate.

    When the door swung open not many minutes later, he faced the true Thane with the equanimity he had always prided himself on.

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