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Tag: Erik

  • 4.17 – Pursuit

    4.17 – Pursuit

    For a moment Einarr stared dumbly after her. It had only been a few months since he’d seen her, and yet he could not tear his eyes away. His reverie was finally broken when Barri, his winter rival, elbowed him in the ribs. Einarr turned to look and the man wagged his eyebrows before gesturing for Einarr to go on ahead.

    He rolled his eyes, but took the invitation. Neither Jorir nor Sivid would board before him, under the circumstances. If he’d been the one member of the crew who could not die before they visited the Oracle…

    The others followed right on his heels, the treacherous rocking of the plank under their feet largely ignored as they rushed for the deck of the Vidofnir. Sooner or later the cult would turn up a foe that was not repulsed by the sun, and they needed to be well clear before that occurred.

    “Everyone’s aboard?”

    Erik shook his head, his eyes glued to the familiar skinny frame of Sivid, still below.

    “Oy!” Einarr called down. “What d’ye think ye’re doing? Get up here!”

    “Don’t worry about me.” Sivid didn’t move save to rub his palms together where he stood. “I’ll meet you all back at Kjell Hall this winter, if I don’t catch up to you sooner.”

    “Are ye mad?” Jorir answered before Einarr could, but the sentiments were the same. “Ye’re death won’t even do any good down there.”

    “Sometimes, dwarf, a man just needs to test his luck. I’ll see you all this winter!” Sivid gave them no more time to try and persuade him. Blade in hand, he dashed back out onto the pier.

    Einarr furrowed his eyebrows. He knew the man’s luck ran in strange currents, but no matter where Sivid thought he was in terms of luck Einarr could see no purpose to this sacrifice.

    Erik, too, was scowling down at the pier, although Einarr thought he detected more than a hint of stoic resolve in the set of the man’s jaw. Erik took hold of the plank connecting them all to the pier and started to pull. “Sivid, you rat! Now who’m I s’posed to fleece at dice?”

    Sivid did not answer. Arring came up to see what the commotion was, blinked, and then grinned.

    Einarr frowned at the strong man. “What’s so funny?”

    “You’ll see.” Arring then wandered a few paces further down the deck, towards the far end of the aftcastle. A low growl escaped Einarr’s throat and he turned to watch what would surely be the end of a good man. It was every man’s right to choose when and how to die… but this just seemed so fruitless.

    Those who had been waiting their return already pulled at the oars, with Stigander himself calling the cadence. Down on the pier, no fewer than three monstrous bodies already lay at Sivid’s feet.

    A line snapped tight. Sivid’s hands flew up in the air instinctively even as his face hit the stone below. Einarr blinked, unable to quite credit the sight of Sivid being pulled in like a fish on a pike. Then a splash echoed in their ears even as the figures on the pier pressed closer to the end.

    Einarr rushed to the aftcastle. Arring, hand over hand, was pulling in a rope, and now over the sound of a person being dragged through the water came cries of outrage from Sivid. A peek over the stern confirmed that Sivid, in spite of his protestations, was now climbing the rope that still wrapped about his leg.

    For a long moment, all Einarr could do was stare. Arring had been among those to visit the Oracle, as well: could he know about Sivid’s luck? Laughter welled up in his chest as the thought faded.

    He was still laughing quietly when Sivid’s soaked head appeared over the Vidofnir’s railing, spitting water and cursing at the strong man who had so rapidly reeled him in.

    Arring laughed in his face. “You nearly keelhauled yourself, you know? If I hadn’t heard the commotion you’d be underwater right now.”

    Sivid did not look mollified, but he did snap his mouth closed. Einarr shook his head and looked back out towards the pier.

    Even in the strange half-light of the circle fort behind them the movement on the pier was unmistakable. The forward-most line of the creatures was still, but beyond them was a moving swarm of bodies, all flowing into the ships at dock. Einarr raised his voice to call over his shoulder. “Draken aft!”

    Likely they still had a little time before the ships were prepared, but to douse the lights would disadvantage them more than their pursuers. Stigander increased the rowers’ cadence. What I wouldn’t do for a favorable wind right now…

    Then the Vidofnir rounded the first bend in the cave and the pier dropped out of sight. Certain, now, that Sivid was securely aboard, Einarr hurried forward to take his place on one of the undermanned oars. Haste would be their best ally here: to a man the others joined him.

    For a time, all they heard was the creak of wood and the call of three separate cadences – the Vidofnir’s, the Skudbrun’s, and the enemy’s.

    They rounded another curve, and the grey light of a storm at sea began to make itself known, at first hardly noticeable over the blaze of torchlight, but growing stronger by the minute as they rowed. Einarr took a deep breath, trying not to hope for an easy escape.

    A black shape appeared ahead of them on the water, rowing as languidly inward as the Vidofnir and Skudbrun were hurried outward.

    “Draken, dead ahead!” Came the call from the forecastle.

    “Port side – oars in! Evade!” Stigander barked.

    Einarr was starboard, and they held their oars steady against the Vidofnir’s side while they waited. The unknown draken pressed itself against the far wall of the cave. As the two ships slipped past each other, Einarr did a double-take. He wasn’t likely to ever forget the demon’s head carved at the prow of that boat, or the blackness of the wood. That was the Grendel.

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  • 4.16 – Hammer & Anvil

    4.16 – Hammer & Anvil

    Trapped. Five of them to fight of dozens of the local guards and protect Runa, when the wall of men ahead of them appeared nearly as solid as stone. If they could just reach the Vidofnir they could escape, but it would take a miracle for them to get that far. A miracle, or…

    “Runa?”

    “I Sing, and before you know it we’re buried. They will fixate on my voice.”

    Einarr growled and drew Sinmora. “Fine. Wait till we’re already bogged down, then, but we’re going to need you.”

    Then he lowered his shoulder behind his shield and raised Sinmora overhead. His feet dug in to the stone pier, and then he was off, the others forming a kite behind him with Runa in the middle. Einarr’s shield struck the waiting shield wall of the defenders with a tremendous crash.

    His aim was true: he drove into the space between two guard’s shoulders and their shields turned with him – not much, but enough to open a breach. Einarr slashed down with his blade and cut deep into the defender’s shoulder. Black blood welled around the steel.

    Einarr yanked his sword free just moments before Jorir barreled into the guard’s knees and buried his axe in its hamstring. Momentum carried Einarr over the hole just opened even as Bollinn took down the guard on his other side.

    As though they had trained for exactly this moment, the defenders curled around to come at the flying wedge from the sides and rear. Einarr hacked at them as they came within reach, but he could not care if they lived or died so long as he was able to continue driving forward.

    Inch by inch, the six outsiders fought their way toward the Vidofnir and the Skudbrun and relative safety. With every inch, Einarr thought certain the next one would be their last. Finally, about halfway down the pier, they stalled. The crowd ahead seemed twice as thick as the one they had just fought through, and the grunts of exertion from Sivid and Barri on the rearguard sounded fatigued.

    A long, thin blade swept over Jorir’s head and slashed across Einarr’s bicep. He roared – not in pain, although the fire of a fresh wound definitely made itself known – but in anger totally unrelated to the battle-fury.

    That was the moment when the bright, clear tones of Runa’s voice sounded over the din of melee. It was only a few moments, but fatigue and pain fled from his body even as the rearguard roared their defiance and Einarr made another step forward.

    If the press of enemies had been close ahead, however, now they were pressed on all sides. Einarr would swear that he could feel Runa’s breath on the back of his neck. At the very least, the sounds of battle from the end of the pier were also nearer. He cut at the legs of the monstrous guard ahead of him and followed it up with a vicious kick to the groin. His foe doubled over even as he lost balance and tumbled over: at least some things could be relied on.

    Einarr cut to the side as he stepped forward and felt his blade once again bite flesh. His stomach roiled at the smell of the black blood that now splattered his face, but there was nothing to be done. One thing alone mattered, and that was reaching the ships.

    Though they wore armor, nothing about these guards now appeared human in Einarr’s sight. The last time this had happened, it had been under the effects of Astrid’s battle chant. So, why now? He roared again, allowing the little voice in the corner of his mind to go about its business. Man or monster – on this field, all were one.

    Ahead of them a blaze of light flared – real, yellow fire, so bright it was almost blinding. Their freedom was scant feet ahead: near enough he wanted to laugh, but still too far.

    Now Runa’s voice sounded again, this time in the all-too-familiar rhythm of the Battle Chant. Even before it had begun to take hold of his mind, however, it was joined by the familiar, sultry voice of Reki, and a third voice Einarr did not know. With all three Singers in agreement, Einarr surrendered to the red haze of the battle fury.

    What before had looked like a twisted dark elf in armor now appeared truly monstrous, all teeth and blood-red eyes, with gaping maws in places where no mouth should ever be – sometimes showing through the armor without compromising it. Einarr hacked about himself, twin desires warring in his breast even now. He knew he must reach the blaze of light, or he would perish. He knew with just as much conviction, however, that to leave the abominations alive would be the death of many others.

    He chopped down with Sinmora. An arm that was not an arm, still gripping its sword, fell in his path and he stepped forward. Somehow their circle of six remained intact as they cut their path through the putrid wall of their enemies.

    Arrows fell around them but not among them, fletched in the colors of Kjell and Breidelstein. One struck a creature’s shoulder and knocked him forward, off-balance. Einarr cut up and across and took the creature’s head.

    Runa’s voice dropped out of the trio even as Reki’s song shifted. The haze began to clear from Einarr’s eyes. On the other side of the new-fallen creature was three feet of empty space and the blaze of light that was every torch aboard the Vidofnir and, beyond it, the Skudbrun.

    As the vision ahead of him resolved into sense, Einarr let out a whoop. The light was not just to encourage them. It would also allow them to board. Erik and Irding slid a plank down towards the pier with a mighty shove. It hit the stone pier with a mighty thunk even as Runa slipped between Einarr and Bollinn. The ache of fatigue in Einarr’s shield arm subsided as Runa took that opportunity to squeeze it.

    “Thank you,” she mouthed. Then she scrambled up the plank, and Einarr was left with the memory of that touch imprinted beneath maille and tunic alike.

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  • 4.10 – Strike Team

    4.10 – Strike Team

    “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Einarr said when the crews were assembled on the deck of the Vidofnir. “The bad news, some of you already know. This is definitely a stronghold for some sort of cult, and it seems like a well-established one.”

    He and Sivid had managed to slip back past the gate guards by causing a minor commotion on the far side of the market and disappearing back into the crowd. It had only bought them a moment, but a moment was all they needed. They had been the last pair to arrive: most of the other pairs had remained outside the walls, and those that had not ventured nowhere near the center of the circle.

    “The good news is, I’m afraid, qualified. You see, we found her…”

    The assembled Vidofnings and Brunnings were subdued as they waited for the promised qualifier. Sivid sat on the railing behind him, having graciously allowed Einarr to make the announcement.

    “…In the dungeon of the keep. Healthy, by the sound of things, at least so far, but locked in the dungeon in the center of the hold. …And in slipping out, we were nearly discovered. At the very least they will know that outsiders have broken in to the dungeon stair.”

    A grumbling rose among the gathered crews. The expressions of many of the men of the Skudbrun matched Einarr’s mood. Among the Vidofnings, only Stigander’s came close. These were the men who agreed both that the rescue must happen and that there were no good options.

    Stigander stepped forward into the area cleared around Einarr and Sivid. “So this is where we stand. The Grendel doesn’t seem to be in port now, so we can focus our attention on the young Lady. Two ships hardly seems sufficient to take on the hold in a straight-up fight, so let’s not waste our time thinking about it. When dinner rolls around, I want ideas.”

    Captain Kragnir snorted and shook his head but said nothing. Stigander may not run an orthodox ship, but he did run an effective one.

    “We won’t be able to hide back here forever, people. Move!”

    That sounded more like a captain to the Brunnings. The men scattered in groups of two and three.

    ***

    Dark thoughts of cowardice floated through Einarr’s mind as he stood once more on the dock, his hood pulled up over his face. Had Sivid not stopped him, they could have had Runa aboard with this island behind them already. What good had reporting in done them? It meant there were now five warriors instead of two who would have to sneak into the dungeon, and three besides who would try to sabotage the walls. Two would have been sufficient that afternoon.

    He shook his head. That’s not fair to Sivid, and you know it.

    Jorir stood beside him on the deck this time. Sivid was going, too, of course – he knew how to operate the lock. From the Skudbrun, Barri was along while Trabbi awaited, sour-faced, on deck. The skills of a fisherman were not what would be needed tonight. Rounding out their party was Bollinn, Captain Kragnir’s first mate. Hair as blond as Stigander’s glinted out from under the hood which could not quite hide his hooked nose no matter how far forward he pulled it. Einarr had met the man only a few times, but he always came across as a capable sort.

    The three men of the distraction should be off the pier and climbing towards the wall, now. It was time to go. Einarr strode down the pier as though he belonged there, impatience hastening his steps. Sivid was right behind him, followed in short order by the rest of their team. All was quiet until they approached the gateless face of the wall nearest the port.

    From the top of the wall, warm yellow light sprang into existence as someone lit one of the spear throwers on fire. Cries of alarm drifted down towards them, but Einarr was already running up the road toward the gate. Their window wouldn’t last long.

    The market gate stood ajar and unguarded, evidently forgotten for the moment because of the chaos within. Get in and get out – don’t get stuck fighting on the walls, men. Erik and Arring were both up there, and neither was a man the Vidofnir could afford to lose. Of course, he had insisted on being the head of the spear for the infiltration, so did he really have room to complain about the Brunnings not pulling their weight?

    The market inside was not alight, but it was thoroughly overturned. Einarr and his entourage – bodyguards? A snide corner of his mind supplied idly – barely slowed as they hurdled overturned barrels and crates to get past the market and into the back streets of the circle fortress.

    Once they were away from the commotion at the walls the city felt oddly quiet. Einarr shrugged; the feeling pricked between his shoulders, but if it meant less fighting to do then so much the better. Bollinn’s hood had fallen back as they raced through the market – unfortunate, that. He reached up to tug his back into place and realized that it, too, no longer covered his head. Well.

    With a sigh of annoyance he gave it up and picked up his pace. Five men loped through the nearly deserted streets under the eerie purple glow of the local lanterns. Einarr did not slow until they neared the wide open area about the keep itself. This time, rather than being an apparent class of some sort, the field was filled with the armored figures of warriors.

    Einarr cursed under his breath. “Looks like the distraction only half worked.”

    “Let’s see how things look by the dungeon entrance before we do something desperate, eh?” Sivid answered, his voice low but somehow amused. At what, Einarr could not guess.

    He looked at the gambler for a long moment before shaking it off. “Right. Back we go.”

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  • 4.2 – Alliance

    4.2 – Alliance

    When the Vidofnings gathered for supper that evening, they were joined by the greatest part of the Skudbrun’s crew – all of both ships, in fact, save those left to keep watch. In the Wandering Warrior that night, an air of confusion quickly turned to the sort of friendly banter they had all enjoyed the previous winter.

    At some point in the middle of the first round of drinks, Stigander and Kragnir stood on a table near the center of the room and called for attention.

    “Gentlemen!” Stigander began. “It is with great pleasure that I see the friendship between our two crews is undiminished after this last spring. It gives me great hope for the success of our coming mission… which I’m afraid is nowhere nearly so happy as our reunion tonight. So, first, a toast to one another’s health.”

    The cheer that went up around the room was somewhat muted, as was probably to be expected after that introduction. A chorus of thunks marked the end of the toast as the men knocked their mugs against the tables. Stigander nodded, and now Captain Kragnir stepped forward.

    “Gentlemen, for the last three weeks we have pursued a ship with a demon’s head that rides a storm black as night.”

    Murmurs of recognition rose from most of the Vidofnings.

    “We give chase because to do otherwise would be unconscionable. Last fall, a ship matching this description murdered your Battle Chanter. Three weeks ago, this ship stole away my Jarl’s daughter on her way to meet with an elder Singer.”

    Now there were no murmurs, only the widened eyes of shock and pursed lips of anger.

    “Einarr and I,” Stigander continued. “Were approached early this afternoon by Trabbi. I am sure I don’t need to explain to anyone why I have decided that aiding our brothers from Kjell in finding the foul demon-ship has become our first priority. Bardr informs me that we can be ready to leave the day after tomorrow.”

    Captain Kragnir opened his mouth again. “Here, then, is to the demon hunt!”

    There was nothing muted about the cheers for the toast this time, although the undercurrent was less one of camaraderie and more of anger. Einarr, leaning against the back wall, drained his cup to this toast. It would have been a decent ale, had he been able to taste it.

    Einarr looked around the room, trying to be glad to see the two crews united, looking for his best path forward to the bar for a refill. Maybe he could goad Erik into a drinking contest tonight… the man would drink him under the table, but that didn’t seem like a bad place to be under the circumstances. Not when the alternative was worrying about Runa, and why they had taken her when they had murdered Astrid.

    ***

    Getting stone-cold drunk always seems like a better idea when it’s happening than it does the morning after, and this morning was no exception. Einarr awoke on the floor beneath the table Erik had drunk him under the night before with, blessedly, no room to think about anything other than his aching head and the heaviness of his limbs. Which, he supposed, had been the point.

    Einarr rolled out from under the table with a groan, not terribly concerned about why he had been left there. Probably due to Father’s disapproval. The fact that he did not seem to be the only one asleep on the tavern floor barely registered. Bleary, he shoved his hair back out of his face, his eyes scanning the room for something to wet his whistle with.

    Stigander growled from across the room. “So you’re up, are you?”

    “…’lo, Father.”

    “I trust you got it out of your system last night?”

    “Yes, Father.”

    “Fine, then. Go help load the ship. Bardr and I will double-check the manifest.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Stigander thrust a skin of water into his hands as Einarr trudged for the door. “We’ll get her back, and get vengeance for Astrid while we’re at it. Keep it together.”

    Einarr paused, his hand on the door, to nod in agreement. Then he stepped out into the bright light of morning, blinking against the light and his hangover.

    ***

    At the dawn tide, two days following the announcement of their venture, two ships slipped out of Mikilgata Harbor onto a calm sea, the sound of their oars plying the water the only sign of movement beyond the harbor master counting the rather generous tolls they had left.

    On board the Vidofnir, the Skudbrun’s Mate consulted with Bardr, finalizing the heading they would take in pursuit of the demon-headed ship. There had been some hope, initially, that someone would spot the storm on the horizon, but in vain. Einarr listened with half his attention to the discussion: the other half paid more attention than truly necessary to the cadence of the rowing. If he did not, he would only dwell on the singular problem that stood before him. His stepmother’s murderers had his betrothed under their power. Why?

    Eventually, though, when the harbor was little more than a smudge behind him, a gangplank was passed between the two ships and the Skudbrun’s Mate returned to his own crew and the sails were unfurled. Their heading: east by southeast, towards where the Skudbrun had lost sight of the storm – and where the Vidofnir had broken off her chase before.

    For a moment it almost seemed as though the crowing cock of the Vidofnir were in a race against the Skudbrun’s wolf’s-head, but as they turned their new ally ceded the forerunner position to the crew that best knew what they pursued.

    Einarr set his mouth even as they pulled the oars in. The Grendel, and whoever she was aligned with, would pay for their depredations in blood, or Einarr was not a Son of Raen. Perhaps, in the process, he might even learn what they were after in the first place.

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  • 3.31 – A Full Hold

    3.31 – A Full Hold

    In spite of their exhaustion and soaked feet – and trousers – Einarr’s crew was in high spirits as they returned to the Vidofnir late that morning. The sun said it was nearly midday: as they stepped out of the marsh and onto the sandbar Einarr exchanged a look with Reki. They’d been luckier than any of them had any right to expect. A chuckle rose up from his chest.

    Reki opened her mouth as though to say something, but then closed it again. With a sigh she, too, started to laugh, and soon the men were talking and laughing with the ebullience of relief.

    “All right, Father, your turn,” Einarr called as they approached the ship.

    Stigander studied the approaching group, looking for any sign of new injury and finding none. “Welcome back. Everything’s in order?”

    “The Allthane lies buried in the frozen deep. And none too soon, either.”

    Stigander nodded. “All right, you lot! On your feet. The faster we load the hold, the sooner we can get off this stinking rock.”

    The rest of the Vidofnings pulled themselves over the side of the boat with far less alacrity than was their custom, the fatigue of the night before still showing in the eyes and shoulders of all of them. That few hours’ rest they had claimed while the rites were conducted had not been enough, and everyone knew it. Still, though, as the two strings of Vidofnings crossed paths there were congratulatory gestures all around.

    Einarr locked hands with his father as they crossed paths, almost as though they intended to arm wrestle.

    “Good job out there.”

    Einarr nodded. “Take your time with the portage. Don’t think we’re getting out of here before morning anyway.”

    Stigander barked a laugh. “You sound like Bardr.”

    “Good! That means I might be on to something.”

    Now they both laughed, and clapping each other’s shoulders continued on – Stigander to the treasure hold, and Einarr to the deck of the Vidofnir. When he pulled himself up, he saw that Snorli had remained behind, stirring a cauldron over the ship’s hearth that smelled distinctly of mulled mead.

    “You are a lifesaver, man!” Einarr grinned at their cook.

    “Gotta stay warm while you dry off somehow, right?” Snorli returned the smile without looking away from the horn he was ladling into. “This is the second cask I’ve opened since last night.”

    “And we thank you for both of them. You haven’t seen the haul down there: we won’t need to worry about our resupplies the rest of the season.”

    “Good.” Snorli handed the steaming horn to Troa, who had arrived just before Einarr. “Certainly you lot deserve the treat. It’s been ages since we’ve had a fight like that.”

    Einarr grunted in agreement. A moment later he, too, had a hot drink in hand and was striding across the deck towards his bedroll. He groaned as he folded grateful legs under him to sit, cross-legged, on the blanket.

    “All right, lads. We’ve to keep a lookout… but I’ll be buggered if there’s anything else alive on this rock. Boti, you up for first watch?”

    The scout shrugged. Thus far he didn’t seem to have suffered any worse than a headache and a bad goose egg from his knock on the head. “Sure. Someone’s gotta.”

    “Thanks. The rest of you…” He turned, then, as he realized what it was he saw from the corner of his eye. “Why is there a jar on my pillow?”

    “It was in the cache you found before. Odvir thought you must’ve liked it, since ceramic doesn’t really sell…”

    The jar did look familiar, with its Imperial-style painting that had somehow weathered the centuries unchipped, but Einarr shook his head. “There was an ivory tafl set that I wanted, but this… this is just a jar.”

    He took a drink of his mead, still staring at the strange jar. I could have sworn I threw that away back then… Einarr shrugged, and turned to the nearest man remaining. He thrust his horn toward the other man. “Hold this for a second.”

    Einarr pushed himself up on protesting legs and sore feet. When he picked the jar up, it felt warm to the touch – even accounting for the horn full of hot mead he’d just had clasped in his hands. Odd. He shrugged again and moved aft, towards the sea.

    “May the waves carry you to someone who actually has a use for you,” he muttered. Einarr pulled his arm back all the way, twisting for extra force, and pitched the jar as far as he could out toward the open ocean. Even Snorli did no more than shrug. Ceramic was a dicey thing to keep on a longship, as vulnerable in the hold as on deck.

    ***

    An hour passed before the larger group of Vidofnings began to return with sacks full of gold from the ancient horde, and then Einarr and his companions were moving again, stowing the gold in every spare crevice they could find underneath the deck boards. The way people were moving, no one would be up for rowing without a full night’s rest.

    Stigander and Erik, to no one’s surprise, carried the largest loads slung over their shoulders as though it was nothing, and their two sacks filled the Vidofnir until she was nearly fit to burst.

    “Much still left down there?”

    “We didn’t even get half of it,” Erik laughed.

    Einarr shook his head. “Maybe now we know why they wrecked?”

    “Maybe.” Bardr sounded less amused. “Let’s just hope we’re not too heavy to get out of here.”

    “Vidofnir’s nimble enough. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

    “You mean like we did on our way in, where we almost got a rock through our hull? We’ll be lower in the water now. A lot lower.”

    “I think we all decided that was a risk we were willing to take, wasn’t it?” Einarr looked levelly at his father’s first Mate. This plan had been his idea in the first place, after all.

    Bardr just grunted, acknowledging that fact as well as his misgivings.

    “Long as we all get some proper rest tonight we’ll be fine.” Erik stepped in: Einarr wasn’t sure he was as reassuring as he wanted to be.

    “I’m… sure you’re right.” Bardr didn’t sound convinced, but it wasn’t the sort of thing one argued about at this point in a raid.

    “’Course I’m right!” Erik laughed and clapped the Mate on his shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled. “Pretty sure that’s why the Captain keeps me around.”

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  • 3.18 – Allthane’s Feast

    3.18 – Allthane’s Feast

    “You’re about to go engage a dead man in a battle of wits. I’m coming.” Tyr dusted off his palms as he stepped over toward the other two.

    “We’ll be relying on you, then.” Einarr clapped the old sailor on the shoulder.

    “Y’got that right.”

    “Let’s get to it, then.” Einarr turned from the gathering of his men to face the spectral display and swaggered forward into the light.

    He raised a hand and called out to announce their approach. “Hail, my lord!”

    “Hail, travelers.” The king’s voice was weary, but he stood to greet them anyway. “We have been waiting for you.”

    “My apologies for the delay.”

    “I do hope my men were not overly forceful with my invitation.”

    “Merely a miscommunication, I’m afraid. To what do I owe the honor?”

    “Well you are guests here on my island, are you not? What host would not extend a fitting welcome to those unlucky enough to wash up on these shores? Come! Eat, drink, and be merry, for all who wreck here are lost.”

    “We will join you, then.” Does he not realize, then, what we spoke of earlier? Einarr hoped so.

    “Wonderful! Please, come, enjoy my hospitality and while away the endless hours.”

    Einarr shared a look with Tyr and Jorir. Tyr nodded once, in approval. Jorir shrugged, as though he, too, was not entirely certain how to take that.

    Suddenly about him he realized he could hear the accustomed sounds of a feast now, where earlier the cave had been as silent as the artwork Erik had used to describe it. He could catch a whiff, here or there, of roasted meat, as well, as though the illusion were fading into reality.

    Not good. Einarr’s breast fluttered as he realized how much more real the feast felt up close. It was to the best that he had Jorir and Tyr along, and that they had left men on the outside to break them free should the need arise.

    Einarr took a tankard and pretended to drink as he moved among the other revelers – revelers who, as he moved closer, appeared not-quite solid, or as though their feast day clothes hid nothing but bones. He tried not to shiver: unnerving as it was, he had been granted a boon here. Easier by far to remember the sort of feast one was at when the illusion was thin in spots.

    Easier still not to eat when the main course appeared to be dolphin. No-one hunted dolphins. They were a sailor’s best friend, as true as a hound on land. Had the Allthane been so decadent, or was it another artifact of the illusion? Einarr could not tell.

    “What a curious table you have set, my Thane,” ventured Jorir. “I see dolphin steaks and Imperial confections… how did you come by such a spread?”

    “Oh, one does what one must. The dolphin had been a nuisance for years, interfering with the walrus hunts and stealing fish right from the nets. Finally Svagnar over there… where is Svagnar?”

    “’E took sick, ‘e did, milord,” rasped one of the skeletal figures around the table. “Said ‘e had a splitting ‘eadache.”

    The skeleton whose head Jorir caved in, perhaps?

    “Anyway, finally Svagnar decided enough was enough, got a bunch of the boys together to take him down. Once they’d hunted dolphin, though, we just had to try it. I tell you, some of the best meat around.”

    “So this is that same dolphin, then?” Einarr could hear that his voice was faint. The idea of eating dolphin, even one killed as a nuisance, made him feel vaguely ill.

    “The very same.”

    The food isn’t real. Erik had known that from the very beginning. He had, too, but it was difficult to remember with his eyes and nose claiming otherwise.

    Einarr glanced down at the drink in his hand: it no longer looked like mead, even in the golden glow of the feast, but rather stank of fetid marsh water. He managed not to grimace, but he no longer worried about accidentally drinking from the cup, either.

    “Tell me, my lord, where was it the dolphin was slain?”

    “Just off the southern cape. Come! Eat! Enjoy the bounty of the sea, and the talents of my cooks!”

    “…My lord,” Tyr ventured. “There is no southern cape here. Only shifting sandbars and bog.”

    “Nonsense!” The Allthane slammed his goblet down on the table, and before Einarr’s eyes the cave walls became dressed stone draped with tapestries far richer than anything he had seen in his visions of Raenshold. The golden glow remained, and now he heard the thin strains of a fiddler’s warm-up. “This is Heidirshold! You mean to tell me you have arrived now, just in advance of the Allthing, and you did not even know that?”

    The Allthane seemed to have, at best, a tenuous grasp on reality… although under the circumstances, Einarr wasn’t certain he could blame the man. Spirit?

    “Gentlemen! It seems the food is not to the newcomer’s liking. Who will join us all in the hallingdanse?”

    “My lord-” Einarr started to beg off that, as well, but Jorir stopped him with an elbow in his side.

    “I don’t think we can get out of this,” the dwarf whispered. “Just don’t forget that we’re dancing with ghosts.”

    Einarr nodded. “My lord, we’d love to.”

    The music picked up, and a drum and a fife joined the fiddle. Before Einarr could blink, the spirits who had been milling about the table, filling their ghostly mouths with insubstantial food, were now forming a circle off to the side. The cup Einarr had held without drinking was no longer in his hand. The men to either side began the side-stepping line dance that marked the outer ring of a hallingdanse.

    Einarr waited. He would not be the first in the center. He intended to win – ghosts or no ghosts.

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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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  • 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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  • 3.14 – 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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  • 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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