Tag: Jarl Hroaldr

  • 4.28 – Duel

    4.28 – Duel

    Captain Kragnir’s face was flushed scarlet with rage as he faced his Mate in the middle of the challenge circle. Bollinn, for his part, seemed possessed of a colder anger.

    “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t challenge you for command?” Bollinn’s voice carried across the water, level and firm. “When you accepted their surrender, you put our crew in danger, and tried to bring our Lady into the same hazard. Had we reached home it would have been not just our crew, but all of the Jarl’s domain.”

    “Jarl Hroaldr charged me to take the defeated as thralls. By challenging me, you challenge our lord.”

    “I think even our Jarl would have looked at those creatures and ordered their execution. If you cut them, they bleed black – same as those monstrosities they hid in their boats. Give them half a chance in battle and they no longer even resemble men. If my choices are to drown or to challenge you, then lift your sword.” Bollinn dropped into a ready stance, his eyes glued to his Captain’s.

    “So be it.”

    Then the two men were in the clinch, long sword against hand axe, and the rest of the Brunnings cheered from the circle. More than half of them looked to be cheering for Bollinn.

    On the deck of the Vidofnir, wagers were quietly being placed – not just for who would win, but for how they would win. Einarr ignored the organizer when the whispers came around to his ear, his mouth set in a grim line. Meanwhile, across the way, Bollinn was weaving around his Captain’s guard like a dog worrying a bear.

    The Mate may not have had the raw power of his Captain, but Bollinn more than made up for that with the speed and skill he had displayed down in the circle fort. Three times Einarr noted a moment where Bollinn could have ended the fight, but didn’t – waiting, he would guess, for his Captain to yield and take the lesser loss of face.

    Kragnir’s swings became less wild as rage gave way to wariness. Too late, however: Einarr could see the path of the duel, and the Skudbrun’s Captain was rapidly running out of options. Einarr looked away from the fight to see a grim look on his father’s face, some paces to his left. Stigander must see the same thing Einarr did, perhaps even more plainly: having pressed Bollinn to the challenge, it was Kragnir who would fall this day.

    Stigander shook his head and turned away from the duel. Resolved, Einarr turned his head back towards it even as Kragnir dropped to his knees.

    Bollinn stood before his former Captain, his axe extended for a final strike, and swallowed. “Yield.”

    “Finish me, then.” Kragnir’s voice was weary, to Einarr’s ear.

    “No.”

    The former Captain of the Skudbrun was the only one who looked shocked.

    “I did not wish to challenge you in the first place, and I see no reason why any other Kjelling should learn of this. You will live. When we return home, we will say you have decided to retire. And none of us will ever say a word about why. Isn’t that right, men?”

    An affirming shout rose, first from the Brunnings and then from the Vidofnings.

    “Are we agreed?”

    Slowly, reluctantly, Kragnir nodded his assent. Einarr did not know if the man had a family ashore, or any other trade to turn to, but even without those things it was a fair agreement.

    “Back to work, men, and weigh anchor! The Lady Runa was expected weeks ago.”

    ***

    As the uneventful weeks passed following the battle against the Grendel and her allies, Einarr felt his unease begin to dissipate. Runa’s presence, and that of no few friends from Kjell Hall, surely helped. Even so, that uneasiness still lingered at the periphery of his awareness. I’m sure it’s just that we’re so undermanned…

    He shook his head, trying to clear away the unseasonably gloomy thoughts, as Breidhaugr’s green shores drew nearer. Here they would find a shipwright for the Vidofnir, and here they would have a chance to recruit men for their lost cause (that might not be so lost as he had thought).

    The Skudbrun, now under Bollinn’s command, led the Vidofnir around the north shore of the island until they arrived at East Port – the only town on the island. Compared to Mikilgata, East Port was both small and bright: there would be a shipwright, although more than likely only one. Einarr hoped he would be good. As the Vidofnir docked, Trabbi approached Einarr.

    “Been talking with Lady Runa’s guard,” he said without preamble.

    “And?”

    “And as her betrothed we think you ought to join us as we escort her to the Skald’s Hall.”

    Einarr cocked an eyebrow and, unable to keep mockery from his tone, replied. “Are you sure? After all, I might try to run off with her again.”

    Trabbi actually laughed. “I don’t think anyone save maybe the Jarl believes you would. And even if you were that stupid, how would you get off Breidhaugr?”

    “I’m sure she’d think of something.” Einarr rolled his eyes. “But no, I’m not dumb enough to try and elope when we’re already promised.”

    “And that is exactly what we decided. Are you coming?”

    “Yes, I rather think I am. I may have some questions to ask of the Matrons of the Hall.”

    Trabbi shrugged as though that were unimportant and clapped his former rival on the shoulder. “Good to have you along. I’ll make sure the Captain knows. We leave straightaway after docking.”

    Einarr shook his head, suppressing a chuckle. For a man he’d bested at glìma not four months back, the fisherman was surprisingly friendly. But if Einarr would be joining the escort, he had tasks to accomplish as his father’s heir before they docked.

     


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  • 4.26 – A New Deal

    4.26 – A New Deal

    Einarr froze a moment, frowning, certain that he’d offended her but not sure why. Then, unbidden, the memory of the bird-thing’s transformation forced itself to the forefront of his brain again and made his stomach twist. Reki was no monster, but everyone was going to be on edge today.

    Some more than others, it appeared. One or two of the younger deck hands were still cowering beneath the railing, covering their heads or hugging their arms tight across their chests, their eyes still plainly fixated on one of the two monstrosities that had revealed itself today. Einarr left them their privacy: either Runa’s song could mend their minds or it couldn’t, but there would be no honor in calling them out for cowardice.

    Runa was tending the wounded, still, a very full water skin in her hand. He would give her time for her voice to rest – and maybe see if he couldn’t help Reki out with that as well. Decided, now, he headed back to where his father and Captain Kragnir still stood. They were not arguing – not yet – but from the set of their shoulders they couldn’t be far off.

    “This is not a matter of trusting your honor, Stigander,” Kragnir was saying. “The boy has already tried to steal his bride once. My Jarl would have my head if I left her unsupervised on your ship.”

    “So instead you want to keep her aboard a ship with the ones we just rescued her from? Who may not even be men anymore?”

    “They surrendered themselves to be made into thralls. Would a beast do that?”

    “A cunning one, aye.”

    Einarr cleared his throat.

    Both Captains turned to glare at him. “What?”

    “Father, not all of the men have reacted well to what they saw today. I suspect it may be the same for them. What if some of the Brunnings – those who might be uneasy, say, with the new thralls and their strange cult – came aboard? It’s not like we’re in any position to go raiding now.”

    “You are proposing that I send the feeble-minded to guard the honor of our Lady?” Captain Kragnir’s eyes appeared ready to pop out of his skull and his face began to redden.

    “Who said anything about the feeble-minded? I’ve seen the cultists exposed for what they are three times now: you’ll not get me aboard ship with one, let alone your crew of thralls. Even if you do cut out their tongues so they can’t spread their filth.”

    “My son does have a good head on his shoulders, when he bothers to use it.” Stigander grumbled. “What’s more, he’s right about something else, as well. We’d be hard-pressed to defend ourselves right now, let alone go raiding, and we do have business with the Conclave. Send over Trabbi and some of the others while you train your new ‘prizes,’ and we’ll make sure to take care of any wounded you get while defending us on our way there. It even keeps the young Lady out of harm’s way should there be a fight.”

    Kragnir’s glare fell on Einarr, but he said nothing. After what felt like a long time, he seemed to realize there was nothing to say – nothing reasonable, anyway. With a growl, the Brunning Captain gave a nod and a wave of his hand.

    “Think on taking their tongues, Captain,” Einarr said, meeting the man’s eye again. “We don’t know how they win converts, after all.”

    Captain Kragnir harrumphed, and Einarr refused to push the issue. When he turned, he saw Bollinn speaking with Jorir: one way or another, the thralls would be dealt with. Finally, it felt as though the day were at an end. The wave of exhaustion that had pushed him back from the front lines early in the fight against the Grendel started to reassert itself, and with it came an unaccustomed queasiness.

    Einarr blinked and looked at the sky: at some point, afternoon had started to dim into twilight. No wonder he felt tired, then. Given the fighting that day, both inside the cave temple and on the open waves, surely none would blame him if he were to rest until Snorli had supper prepared. Wish I could wash first…

    On his way to his bedroll, Einarr glanced over the side: however far they may have floated since battle’s end, it looked as though there was still blood in the water. Even if he convinced someone to help him back aboard, taking a dip would just leave him bloody and salted. He folded his legs beneath him on top of his blanket and practically fell backwards. Halfway down he stopped when what felt like a knob of glass jabbed into his ribs.

    Einarr sat up with a jolt and felt the color drain from his face as his throat clenched. The post-battle nausea was definitely not normal… but that could hardly be called a normal battle, either. He swallowed and tamped down on the feeling before turning to find out what it was that had tried to stab him.

    Sitting in the middle of his bedroll, as though he had placed it there himself, was an Imperial-style painted ceramic jar with a knob in the center of the lid. Einarr furrowed his eyebrows. Those red figures on the black background seemed familiar, somehow. “Where did this come from?”

    He did not realize he’d spoken aloud until someone answered him – Asi, from three berths down. “It’s not yours?”

    “I mean, I suppose I’m the one that found it, back in the Allthane’s stash… could’ve sworn I’d tossed it, though.”

    “Huh. Might hang on to it this time. You don’t look so good.”

    Einarr grunted. “Nothing a good sauna wouldn’t solve, I don’t think. I’ll check with the Singers later.”

    He would, if he still felt sick once their voices had a chance to rest. In the meantime, he had no intention of moving from this spot until dinner called.


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  • 4.11 – Blitz

    4.11 – Blitz

    The area of the yard in front of the dungeon entrance was, if anything, more heavily guarded than the front had been. As Einarr had feared, their hasty disposal of the torch before had given them away and made getting back in much harder. He glared at Sivid, despite knowing why: should Runa be lost, Jarl Hroaldr would need to name a new heir and Einarr would need to find a new bride. Should Einarr fall, the Cursebreaker fell, and with him all hope of reclaiming their home. It was not a fact he liked to dwell on. Thankfully, the situation ahead of them demanded too much attention to allow room for such things.

    Ahead of the dungeon door stood twenty warriors, who for all their helms revealed could as easily have been monsters as men. Einarr was abruptly reminded of the Grendelings appearance under the effect of Astrid’s battle-chant. He frowned. “Looks like it’s four apiece. Think we can kill them quick enough not to draw more from around front?”

    “Dicey,” Bollinn muttered. “Wish our distraction had drawn a few more men away from the keep.”

    Jorir grunted, scowling at the group blocking their way. “Always like that, isn’t it? Anyone a quick shot with their bow?”

    Barri nodded. “Maybe even fast enough.”

    Sivid agreed. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can cover you.”

    “Good,” Einarr breathed. “I think we’re gonna need it. …Jorir, you come in from the left and I’ll take the right if you’ve got center, Bollinn.”

    The hook-nosed man nodded.

    “Fast and quiet. Give us to a slow count of ten to get in place, would you?” Einarr directed the question at the two archers, who also indicated agreement. He breathed out, suddenly nervous. “All right. Fast and quiet.”

    Jorir dashed off to the left, both faster and quieter than a man would expect of any dwarf, while Einarr hurried a distance to the right, ducking down an alley to put a building or two between himself and the Skudbrun’s Mate. Even a slow count of ten didn’t give them very long to get in position before –

    The first arrow whizzed through the air, lodging itself underneath the helmet of one of the guards near the edge of the group. He crumpled.

    Time’s up. Einarr pressed his lips together in a grim line as he charged out of the byway toward the stone door they had found earlier.

    Another arrow sailed through the air, and another guard crumpled. The guard Einarr charged at looked about himself in a frantic way. Einarr did not give him a chance to figure out what was going on: he cut upwards with Sinmora and the guard’s head snapped backwards unnaturally with a spray of dark blood. Ein.

    A few paces ahead of him, a flash of gold caught Einarr’s attention as one of the warriors toppled like a tree, taken out at the knee. A second flash of Jorir’s axe took the enemy’s head before silent shock could transform into a scream. A third man fell to an arrow even as Bollinn impaled another on his blade through his maille.

    Now their enemies were reacting, however. The next arrow clanged loudly off of one of their enemies’ helmets even as Sinmora struck another in the throat. Tveir. Jorir tackled the one who tried to run, his ears probably still ringing from the arrow. They were running out of time.

    Sivid was charging into the yard now even as another pair of arrows found their targets. Barri’s boast had been no idle one, with shooting like that.

    “Cover me!” Sivid made a beeline for the dungeon door. Between him and it were six of the remaining ten guards. Bollinn was locked down. Jorir was still getting back to his feet after dispatching the tackled guard.

    Einarr growled and the man who would have been his next target dashed away. All yours, Barri. If they wanted to succeed, they had to get Sivid to the door.

    One of the two guards on Bollinn had put his back to Einarr: that was a mistake. Einarr dashed forward and kicked hard at the back of the man’s knee. He staggered forward and then Einarr was moving again, running hard for the cluster blocking Sivid’s path. Bollinn joined him four paces later.

    “My thanks,” the other man breathed, his pace not slacking.

    Einarr only grunted, his attention on the fight ahead.

    Sivid got there first, his own sword flashing like a silver fish at the first of the guards in his path. He knocked the helmet from his opponent’s head.

    The face that was revealed there belonged to neither man nor beast, nor any strange hybrid of the two. Einarr pulled up short, but only for a heartbeat. Long enough for Sivid’s blade to flash again and the monstrous head to be parted from its body.

    Einarr shook his head. He couldn’t afford to waste time gawking. Sivid was no slouch, but it would be the worst sort of cowardice not to assist with a mob like that. He surged forward, hacking at the nearest guardsman.

    Bollinn surged ahead even as another pair of arrows whistled past Einarr’s ears, embedding themselves in the eyes of two more helmets.

    Moments later, Bollinn, Einarr and Sivid all stood in front of the dungeon door, catching their breath. Moments later they were joined by the other two.

    “We get everyone?” Barri asked as he jogged up, the last to join them.

    “Seems so.” Einarr had been watching their little battlefield for signs of life and finding none. “Sivid? Whenever you’re ready.”

    Sivid took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s get to it, then.”

    Einarr moved to stand behind the man, his arms folded in a defiant gesture. “We’ve got your back.”

    The mousey little man turned his attention to the stone door, now ignoring the world around him. The others joined Einarr, forming a ring to shield the man who worked at the hidden lock.


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  • 2.13 – Fidelity & Honor

    2.13 – Fidelity & Honor

    “Runa is my only child, and likely to remain so. He who marries her will become my heir. Rise, son, and take the hand of the prize you’ve fought so hard for.”

    Raenshold. The Jarl was asking him to forswear Raenshold… his father… his birthright… and accept a jarldom in its place? Einarr shook his head as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, certain he must have heard wrong. “My lord, surely you jest?”

    “Not at all.” The Jarl’s face was open and honest, as though the thought never crossed his mind that Einarr might be bound by another oath.

    Einarr risked a glance back at the hall: his father’s face was grim, as was Bardr’s. Erik and Tyr looked concerned. Now he glanced down to Jorir, and unless Einarr was very much mistaken that was fear he saw there. Runa, though, gave him an encouraging smile and nod, trying to convince him to go ahead and accept. As though she did not know what her father asked of him.

    Einarr set his mouth and turned his attention back to the Jarl. “My lord Jarl, every man under my Father’s command has sworn to return and reclaim Breidelsteinn.”

    “Do you not have your own ship, your own crew, now?”

    “Why would that matter?”

    The Jarl blinked now. “Is Raenshold truly even a memory for you? Is it not merely the stories your father’s men tell to while away the time as you wander the waves? I am offering you the security of your own lands with my daughter’s hand.”

    “It is true, we have lived as vagabonds since the Weaving, and my memories of home are faint and dim, their patchwork filled in by the stories told aboard the Vidofnir. But Raenshold is and ever will be home, and I was born to be a Thane, as was Father before me. You ask me now to settle for a jarldom in foreign waters, and let my birthright be usurped again?” Einarr raised his gaze to meet the Jarl’s, unflinching, and pursed his lips. Anger was beginning to smolder in his breast, and he worried he would say too much.

    “You have been a homeless wanderer, sailing from port to port with never an end in sight. While you are unwed, that is fine for you, but I am no father if I allow my one and only daughter to lead that kind of life. Her hand in marriage is bound to these lands by a chain even the gods might not shatter.”

    “Bound by you alone, and you hold the key.” Rage threatened to boil up, but if he fought his father-in-law over this he lost, no matter who won. “You say you are my father’s friend, and yet you try to seduce me into betraying him? Nay, Jarl. Runa shall be my bride, and none other, and no other than Raenshold shall be our home.”

    “You’re being unreasonable.”

    “Actually, I rather think you are. You would make a nithing of me.”

    The sound of silver bells filled Einarr’s ears and the Jarl froze. Einarr looked about, surprised: no-one in the Hall so much as blinked, save one. The strangely familiar lady’s maid with the long golden hair and the elfin features. She curtsied, and as she rose she turned to walk away. The scene in Kjell hall faded with every step she took into the distance, until it was replaced with the alpine meadow where he had first seen the woman. Einarr shook his head to clear it before stepping back toward the path where he had evidently left the rest of his companions. I hope I’m not too far behind.

    ***

    The sound of silver bells rang in Jorir’s ears and he stepped forward over the threshold between reality and dreaming. He didn’t know how it was done, but he had been through the tests before.

    The scene in front of his eyes was the last one he expected, however. The light faded, its color yellowing, until he stood in a torch-lit stone hall. To every side svartdverger made merry. It took his eyes a minute to adjust, but when they did he saw the sigil of Chief Soggvar – King of Iron and Brass. I’m… home?

    Jorir’s face lit up, for now he recognized the faces of his kinsmen. Some of them he was quite sure were dead, and others he suspected were, but in the world of the Oracle’s trial that did not matter. His eye lit on his brother’s face and he could not smother his astonished grin. He stepped over and put a hand on the other dwarf’s shoulder. “Brotti? What’re you doin’ here?”

    “Waiting, little brother. We all are.” When his brother turned to face him, Jorir had a moment’s double-vision: Brotti’s face turned ashen, and the shadow of an axe cut across it. Jorir blinked and the vision cleared.

    Jorir smiled again at his brother, but this time it was wan. I had a feeling.

    “Go. The Thane would welcome you himself.”

    “Aye.” He nodded, studying Brotti’s face even as he clapped him on the shoulder. Living or not, this would likely be the last time Jorir saw him. After a long moment, he turned towards the throne where Thane Soggvar sat looking dour – moreso even than Jorir was used to. Things must have got bad after he left.

    Slowly Jorir stepped towards the throne, and slowly he knelt before his chieftain and bowed his head. He felt the large, heavy hand of the king settle on the back of his head with surprising gentleness. It was cold and clammy.

    “Welcome home, son of the mountains. We have expected you.”

    “I beg you to forgive my tardiness, my king.”

    The hand raised again off his head. “It is of no matter. We have endured.”

    Have you? “Thank the gods,” he said, as though he had noticed nothing amiss.

    “What have you discovered on your long journey?”

    “I have found the Cursebreaker.”

    “Well! Cause for celebration indeed! Bring out the mead! In the morning, we will sacrifice to the gods for their beneficence!”

    Jorir tried to smile in response to the Thane’s enthusiasm, but the signs within his vision suggested he was too late.


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  • 2.12 – Faithless Hospitality

    2.12 – Faithless Hospitality

    The tinkling sound of silver bells filled Einarr’s ears. Testing the fidelity of my love for Runa? Nothing simpler… surely that can’t be it, though? Well, no matter. He hefted the sack of treasure slung over his shoulder so the weight rested more comfortably and the coins tinkled again. Walking along the path up towards Kjell Hall, he whistled a jaunty tune. Jorir was only a pace behind him with another sack of treasure, and over this last quest they had filled out the crew of the Hvalaskurdr. His longship Hvalaskurdr. He had a ship. He had a crew. He had brought more gifts than even Jarl Hroaldr could have thought to ask for. If that wasn’t sufficient, even yet lacking a hall of his own, Einarr could rightly accuse the man of faithlessness.

    Einarr stepped through the tree line and into the meadow. Not another quarter-mile in, the gate of the palisade around the hall stood open for them. The crew of the Vidofnir awaited inside, with the Kjellings, for news of his success. A broad grin split his wide moustache and he strode on, stopping just two steps outside the door.

    “Hail to the Jarl of Kjell! Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen, has returned from his quest!”

    “Hail, and well-met!” The Jarl’s voice carried out of the hall nearly as cheerfully as it had for Stigander just after their encounter with the Grendel. “The son of Stigander is welcome to my hall!”

    Einarr stepped across the threshold and into the shadow of the hall. He reached up to remove his knit cap – when did I put that on? – as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. The smells of meat and mead filled his nose, and rowdy calls of greeting and good cheer assaulted his ears. Stigander stepped up in front of him and clapped him on the shoulders, grinning behind his yellow beard.

    “We carried word ahead of you, my boy, since you had someone to retrieve. Everyone’s dying to hear it from your own lips, though.”

    He returned his father’s smile in kind, certain that Stigander saw the warmth of his affection behind it. Soon, very soon, they would find a way to reclaim their birthright, and then Stigander could be the thane they all knew he should have been.

    The Jarl’s voice rose above the crowd. “Come! Show us the proof of your valor!”

    “Well, go on.” Stigander took his cap from him and offered a wordless nod of appreciation to the dwarf.

    All eyes – Vidofning and Kjelling alike – were on Einarr and his liege-man as they strode the length of the hall towards the clearing in front of Jarl Hroaldr’s seat.

    The light shifted, and Einarr caught a glimpse of Runa, sitting with her lady’s maid in the corner. It was strange: Einarr had thought the maid was a mousey little brown-haired woman, but today the one who attended his love had elfin grace and ridiculously long gold hair – fairer, if it were possible, than Runa’s. He took in so much with a glance before his eye was drawn back to the princess. She sat with her hands pressed against the seat and her shoulders thrust forward, looking up at him furtively from under lowered brows. When she met his gaze, she bit her lower lip. His heart began to race. My lady…

    The Jarl cleared his throat: evidently Einarr had been staring. Abashed, he knelt before his father’s friend and set the sack down in front of him with a clatter of precious metal.

    “My lord Jarl, I have returned under my own sail and with my own crew, bearing gold and treasure in accordance with the tasks you have placed upon me.” He opened the sack and reached down in among the silver and gold and jewels, looking for the artifact he knew the Jarl would want. There it is. He reached both hands down into the treasure sack and carefully began to remove the goblet.

    “In token of these accomplishments, I offer you the Fierbinte, taken from the Imperial city of Krasimirburg during our raids.” He raised the goblet by its stem, resting its base on his other hand to keep it steady. The cup was solid gold and encrusted with rubies and sapphires over every inch of the outside. Inside, it was perpetually filled with a blood-red wine that never seemed to spill. “According to the Imperials we questioned, it is said that the one who drinks from the Fierbinte shall know neither disease nor the progress of time for a full turning of the seasons, but that the god of war shall be their constant companion.”

    Jarl Hroaldr reached out to cup the goblet’s basin with both hands and lifted it overhead. A cheer rose up around the hall from the Kjellings: the Vidofnings, Einarr was certain, wanted no part of such a thing. Not until they reclaimed their home.

    Once the cheering had died down, the Jarl turned and set the goblet carefully on the table as though it were capable of spilling. His attention returned to Einarr. “Rise, Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen. Your dedication is most admirable, and so I am willing to overlook that you have not gained a hall. Rise, and take the hand of Runa, and make Kjell your home henceforward. My Thane, Lord Hragnar, sails for Kjell even as we speak to take your oath to him and this land.”

    The hall fell silent. To Einarr, the sudden stillness felt as though the world were crashing around his ears. His face felt slack. “I… what?”

    “Runa is my only child, and likely to remain so. He who marries her will become my heir. Rise, son, and take the hand of the prize you’ve fought so hard for.”

    Raenshold. The Jarl was asking him to forswear Raenshold… his father… his birthright… and accept a Jarldom in its place? Einarr shook his head as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, certain he must have heard wrong. “My Lord, surely you jest?”


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  • 2.2 – On the Way to Market

    2.2 – On the Way to Market

    The rest of that day and into the next morning, there was still no sign of Runa at the Hall, and that left Einarr unaccountably anxious. While he was assured that all was well, none would tell him where she was. When Stigander informed him the three of them – Einarr, Bardr, and himself – were headed for the village boatwright that morning, he nearly refused.

    “What good will it do to sit around here?” Bardr elbowed him in the ribs. “Beyond that, we’ve matters to discuss.”

    “Fine.” Einarr resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he took another bite of the morning’s mash. “Fine. You win. I’ll come. I’d just… hoped to see her already.”

    “And who wouldn’t, in your shoes? Come on. Finish up and let’s go. Captain’s already waiting.”

    “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Einarr lifted the bowl to his mouth and started to shovel his food more quickly. Keeping Stigander waiting was rarely advisable, and doubly so when you were under observation – as Einarr most certainly was, until his father determined the proper discipline for him.

    He swallowed the last bite. “All right. I’m ready.”

    “On our way, then.” Bardr rose and tossed him a summer cloak before swinging his own over his shoulders. “No time to lose – no evening stroll, here.”

    Outside, the weather was already warm enough that Einarr wondered how necessary the cloak was. Goats grazed in the meadow near the hall; a few kids scampered in the morning sun. Near the palisade, a black-haired dwarf stood holding the reins for three horses, talking apparently amiably with the large, blonde figure of his father.

    “Good morning!” He called, letting Stigander know they were there. Both figures glanced at the two of them before returning to their conversation.

    “…we can talk about that further this evening,” Stigander said, and Jorir nodded in response. The Jarl might not care for the dwarf, but after so many years as a landless thane Stigander had become remarkably open to allies from wherever they happened to appear.

    “We’re riding today? That’s unusual.”

    Stigander shrugged at his son. “Going to start the resupply. Sooner we get there, the better.”

    The three men were well down the trail to the village before their conversation turned away from friendly banter. “So, what was the real reason you wanted me to come along for this, Father?”

    “What makes you think there’s only one?”

    Bardr snorted. “We have a few things to commission before we sail again. A couple of them, you get a say in.”

    “Father, you don’t seriously mean to commission a second ship?”

    “I do. Fifteen years now, I’ve been trying to find a way to undo the Weaving. In that time, I’m afraid I’ve neglected something important.” Stigander looked back over his shoulder at Einarr. “It’s long past time you were married. Now you’ve found a bride, and I’ve nothing to offer for your future.”

    “Father…”

    Stigander continued as though he hadn’t heard, all regret fleeing his voice. “The second ship is only the start, of course. Be ready. This is going to be a hard summer, and we may have to take on some chancy raids to pull it off. Not to mention finding a crew for her. On top of all that, you went and swore a warrior to your service with no way to equip him. That fancy shield looks nice, but it’s gold.”

    “Not pure, I don’t think. Metal wasn’t even scratched after everything I took it through on Svartlauf.”

    Bardr grunted. “So he has an axe, and potentially a shield. Not enough, unless you want a one-armed smith. We’ve room for a grindstone on board at least, so that’s something.”

    “Oh.” Stigander put in, almost off-handedly. “And I’ve decided on your punishment for dishonoring the clan. You’ll be carrying the resupply back to the Vidofnir.”

    Einarr sighed in spite of himself. That the punishment was light for the offense did not mean he relished the prospect. “Very well, Father.”

    They rode in silence another few minutes. The sounds of village life began to drift to their ears. “What do you two make of Jorir, anyway?”

    Stigander set his mouth, leaving it for Bardr to say what they must have both been thinking. “He’s a svartdvergr. As a rule, they are cunning and not to be trusted.” A long moment passed. “But, for all of that, he seemed sincere when he spoke of his oath. And certainly he’s shown nothing but respect for us since we’ve met.”

    Stigander sounded reluctant. “I think he, too, is bound by a Weaving.”

    Einarr drew down his brow. “What do you mean?”

    “A Weaving, or a curse of some kind I suppose. I can find no other explanation for the importance he lays on your gift of the tafl king. …And if that’s the case, perhaps he can help us.”

    Kjellvic town bustled in the midmorning light, with sellers of all the expected kinds making all of the usual noises over the sounds of bleating goats and clucking chickens. After Kem it seemed tiny, but Einarr much preferred it this way.

    “We’ll speak with the smith first,” Stigander declared. “Be thinking about what we should call our new boat.”

    “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. But this way we’ll have an idea when it’s ready come winter.”


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  • 1.34 – Homecoming

    1.34 – Homecoming

    By the time the Gufuskalam made landfall in the Kjelling lands, not far from where the Vidofnir once again moored, nearly a month had passed since they departed Kem. The seas were smooth and the wind friendly, thanks probably in part to the presence of the Isinntog, and Erik could now move about with the aid of a crutch acquired during their resupply.

    Erik was at the rudder as the Gufuskalam approached the shore under the orange light of sunset, his mending leg extended out straight ahead of him. Einarr, for his part, was just as glad to have to row: it helped distract from the gnawing anxiety that had built over the course of their return. I have the Isinntog in hand, he reminded himself. And I have a friend who is explicitly loyal to me. Surely this will settle things.

    It was no longer even strange thinking of the ruddy-faced, black-haired dwarf as a friend: after more than a month largely confined to a skiff like the Gufuskalam, the only other option was hatred. For his part, Jorir was presently sounding the depths off the prow and watching for rocks, even as he regaled them with a tale from before he was trapped on Svartlauf.

    “Easy does it,” Jorir interrupted himself.

    Einarr’s oar scraped sand. He pulled it in as Tyr did the same on the other side, moments before they heard the low grind of wet sand against their hull. Jorir vaulted the side of the boat, landing with a splash. Once he was out of the water, Einarr tossed him the line. A moment’s thought gave him another idea, and he, too, hopped out of the Gufuskalam.

    “What are you doing, boy?”

    Einarr waded toward the back of the boat, where the still-frigid water came nearly to his chest. “Making it easier for Erik to get out.”

    Tyr raised his hands in a “what can you do” gesture, and Einarr heard Erik’s answering guffaw. He probably did not, in fact, need the help out, but Einarr still thought it better to ease the transition. Better to be doing something by far. He had wanted to provide something extra for Erik’s sacrifice, but now that extra would become Jorir’s reward.

    “Line secure,” came the call. Only a moment later, the stern lodged itself on the sandy shore. Einarr pulled himself into the boat from the water side to see Tyr offering Erik a hand up from his seat near the tiller.

    “Go on ahead. I’ll be right after.”

    Erik accepted Tyr’s shoulder for balance as he sat on the edge of their boat and swung his legs out over the shallows. Once his feet dangled, he lowered himself the rest of the way down and balanced against the boat until Tyr passed down his crutch. Einarr waited until Tyr had descended to pull the treasure sack from beneath the deck boards. Only then did he join the other three on shore where they set to making a camp for the night.

    * * *

    The spruce wood their path led them through in the morning was in full bloom. That, combined with the knowledge that his father was already returned, lightened Einarr’s heart as they stood at the head of the path for Kjell Hall. “Before we continue,” he said. “I just want to say it has been my honor to travel with all of you. Thank you for accompanying me on this quest.”

    His odd moment of sentimentality was met by laughter from the two who had joined with the Vidofnir, and statements to the effect that there had nearly been fighting over who would be released to go. Jorir, though, said nothing, and his expression had something of the odd twist it had shown when he received the tafl king as a token of his oath. In the full light of day, it almost looked… wistful.

    “But. I’m sure the Jarl’s lookouts already know we’re here. We should get going.”

    * * *

    Einarr led his crew up to the open gates of the Hall, stepping two strides outside. “Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen, and his companions have returned from their quest!”

    “The son of Stigander and his crew are well-come to this Hall,” came the formal response – somewhat less warm than the response his father had gathered last winter, but that was only to be expected. He could not help breathing a sigh of relief: that they were invited in at all meant that the Jarl had probably not changed his mind.

    When Einarr stepped through into the perpetual dimness of the Hall, he saw his father striding across the room toward him, arms outstretched. “You made it!”

    Before he could blink, Einarr was clapped into one of his father’s infamous bear-hugs. “Good to see you, too, pabbi.”

    “What kept you? I thought you’d beat us here.” Then he looked more closely at his son’s companions and his brows knit. “Where’s Erik?”

    “On his way.” Einarr offered a smile of reassurance. “He’s not moving so quick right now, but I’ll let him tell you why.” He shifted the weight of the shield on his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room and not finding the one face he hoped most to see. “Any luck on your hunt?”

    “Not as much as I’d like, but unless I miss my guess you’ve brought something.”

    He turned his attention back to Stigander’s cheerful face. “A few somethings. Before that, though, there’s someone you should meet.” He gestured behind himself for the dwarf to come forward.

    Once again, Jorir went even a step farther than Einarr expected. When he stepped up to Einarr’s side, the dwarf knelt.

    “Father, this is Jorir, who swore to me on Svartlauf under circumstances better described later. He has served admirably and well in the time since, and so I am pleased to call him my liege-man.”

    Stigander raised his eyebrows, but the expression was proud. “Well well well. Rise, Jorir, and I will welcome you among the Vidofnings. We three shall discuss this later, however, when the company is not quite so public.”

    “Agreed, and I believe I see Erik coming up on the palisade.”

    Stigander spared a look outside. Einarr wished he could have spared his father more of the shock of seeing one of his strongest warriors hobbling along on a crutch, but it was not to be.

    “It’s why you beat us here. We took a detour to find a healer.”

    Stigander nodded, mute for but a moment. “Since everyone’s here, you’d best be on with it.”

    Anxiety grasped Einarr’s belly, but he nodded. His first step towards the Jarl’s throne was hesitant. Deep breath. One step at a time. Einarr swallowed, and then strode forward as though his father’s kingdom still outranked the Jarl’s. As he walked, he slipped the Isinntog out of the sack he carried. Two paces from where Jarl Hroaldr sat, staring with what to Einarr felt like contemptuous amusement, he dropped to one knee and bowed before his father’s oldest friend.

    “My Lord Jarl. At the dawning of spring, you sent me forth on a quest to prove my devotion to your daughter, and declared that the artifact you sent me after was to be her morning-gift. Today I return to you with the Isinntog, as you demanded.” He held the torc between his hands as though about to crown someone with it and raised it toward the jarl. “I have fulfilled the quest you asked of me, my lord, and I would ask that you now fulfill the promise it rested on.”

    The torc was lifted from his hands. Jarl Hroaldr examined it, still standing, and spoke. “You have demonstrated your devotion amply enough, but you still have not demonstrated your ability to provide. You bring me her morning-gift, but there is still the matter of a bride price, still the matter that you have no hall, and still the matter that you have no men to crew the ship you also lack.”

    “I beg your pardon, jarl, but that is no longer strictly true. We left as three, and returned as four.”

    Jarl Hroaldr’s lip curled in a sneer. “I see one svartdvergr. You have no men. Even should we accept your dwarf, however, there is still the matter of a bride-price, of which I will accept none until you have a hall. Or did you intend to give me grandchildren aboard your father’s ship?”

    Laughter rose up around the hall: Einarr blushed.

    “I accept the Isinntog as we agreed, and as proof of your intentions toward my daughter. I shall not attempt to marry her off until you have returned to me with proof of lands of your own, and at least a handful of loyal men, or until five years have passed.”

    Einarr’s blush turned to a blanch. Five years, to undo the Weaving or found a new holding. “I understand,” he said.

    “Excellent.” Now Jarl Hroaldr smiled, and for the first time in a long time Einarr thought it friendly. “Rise, and enjoy the merriment.”

    “My thanks. If I may, there are some few gifts I should like to present those who helped me.”

    The Jarl raised his arm in assent, and Einarr turned to face the rest of the room. It was odd having so many eyes on him – odd, but not bad. “Well then, first off, Father. This would have been impossible without Erik and Tyr along, although I understand competition was fierce.”

    Stigander came forward slowly, evidently a little perplexed as to why he would be honored even still.

    Einarr pulled the gold flagon from his sack. “I saw this during my search, and since the best one on the ship was buried with Astrid I thought you should have it.”

    “Thank you, son.” Stigander’s voice was unacustomedly quiet, and he slipped back into the crowd as soon as Einarr nodded.

    “Tyr. Without your quick thinking by the kalalintu islands, I don’t think we all would have made it to Svartlauf in the first place.” Tyr came forward a little less reservedly than his father had. His place in the quest had definitely entitled him to a reward. “I’m afraid everything I saw that you might have had use for was sized for the giant, but I thought you might find something to do with these.” He handled the string of rubies almost as reverently as he had the Isinntog just minutes before.

    The older man grinned, and Einarr knew he, too, was thinking of his wife. “Lovely.”

    Tyr tucked the rubies into his belt and melted back into the crowd. Einarr was down to two, and choosing who to honor first was one of the more difficult choices he had ever made. In the end, he settled on “Erik.”

    He paused to give the burly man time enough to hobble forward on his stick into the clearing ahead of Einarr.

    “Your bravery and sacrifice on the island of Svartlauf is worthy of more than I am capable of rewarding. Thank you, my friend, and I hope you find some merit in this.” Einarr now held out the giant-sized ivory ring with pearls. It seemed to shine in the dimness of the Hall, but thankfully was not nearly so effeminate as the Isinntog had been. Erik turned it over in his hands before blinking and peering at the inner ring.

    “There is more merit in this gift than you give it credit for,” he said as he bowed his way back out and into the crowd.

    “And now, finally, Jorir, if you will step forward.”

    The dwarf moved unhesitatingly, either to spite the Jarl’s scorn or because it did not reach him.

    “When you swore to me, I had my misgivings, and yet over the past weeks you have been as loyal a retainer as I could have asked for. If it were not for your efforts, we might have lost Erik before we reached Kem. As your lord, it falls to me to equip you. Please, take this shield, and use it well.”

    “Gladly.”

    Einarr could not later have said how he managed it, but in a single smooth motion Jorir accepted the golden shield from his hand and pressed his forehead against Einarr’s knuckles. Einarr stood a moment longer, perplexed once again by the level of loyalty his liege-man displayed. He did not notice that the rest of the hall was surprised into stillness until he, too, slipped away from the Jarl’s seat.


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  • 1.13 – Glíma

    1.13 – Glíma

    Einarr stood in the dirt ring cleared for glíma, studying his opponent. For a hundred feet around it the field was filled with people watching and cheering and drumming. Jarl Hroaldr and all those at Kjell Hall gathered around.

    This occupied only a small fragment of Einarr’s attention. More important by far was the swarthy, salt-and-pepper brick of a man standing across the ring from him – Trabbi. The man’s chest and arms were just as muscular as Father’s, and while his beard was thick it was also short and neat. The two men wore only trousers and boots, and the breeze tried to raise goosebumps on their bare arms. Einarr dropped into a fighter’s crouch, and his much larger rival did the same. Among the Vidofnings, the only man smaller than Einarr was Sivid. If there was one fact of wrestling that had been impressed on Einarr, though, it was that size was not as important as it appeared to be.

    “Begin!” Jarl Hroaldr gave the signal, and the two men charged to the center of the ring, their arms joining in the clinch.

    Einarr’s arms strained against strength born of pulling fish from the sea. Trabbi pulled right and Einarr stepped in, allowing his opponent the throw. No sooner had his back touched the ground than Einarr kicked his legs back into Trabbi’s knees. Einarr sprang back to his feet as the older man fell. A hand reached out to grab his ankle and he danced backward.

    Trabbi stood, not bothering to slap the dust off, and the crowd cheered. They moved into the clinch again. Out of the corner of his eye, Einarr saw Runa watching anxiously. He tried to put it from his mind.

    Einarr slid his hands up his rival’s arms to clasp them behind the man’s head. The older man’s head lowered with little resistance. Einarr’s eyes widened when he realized what was about to happen. Trabbi abruptly let go of his shoulders and lunged forward, knocking the wind from his rival’s chest even as he took hold of Einarr’s wrist to wrench the arm backwards.

    Einarr twisted around to avoid the break and kicked at Trabbi’s hip. The man jumped backwards, releasing his grip on Einarr’s arm. They both dropped back into a crouch and began circling the ring. The crowd cheered wildly, and Einarr couldn’t tell for who. He spat, watching his rival.

    Trabbi started the charge this time, and Einarr saw his opportunity. He went low, driving his shoulder into his rival’s stomach and lifting Trabbi’s legs as he straightened. Einarr rolled into the throw. Trabbi’s momentum carried him over to land on his back with Einarr sitting on his chest.

    “Yield,” Trabbi wheezed. “I yield.”

    Einarr stood and helped the other man to his feet. The crowd went wild with cheering. Jarl Hroaldr had to shout to be noticed above the din. Eventually, it quieted enough that he could speak. “Victory goes to Einarr, son of Stigander, Captain of the Vidofnir. The betrothal between my daughter and Trabbi has been annulled, although what you thought you were defending her from eludes me.”

    “The Lady Runa is a strong, intelligent woman, my lord. I defended her against a future she did not wish, and claim her in hopes of fulfilling one she does.”

    “Forgetting, for a moment, the things we spoke of last winter: tell me, boy, what makes you think I will give her hand to you? Given your actions of the past week, why should I not have you executed? Banished?” Jarl Hroaldr’s voice was cold. “You ran away with my daughter and betrayed my trust in your own father. Why should I now entrust her to you?”

    “I did only what I thought was right, based on the wishes of the Lady Runa herself. I ask you, what is worse – a lifetime, potentially short, of wandering, or a longer one with a mate you do not love, and who I think does not love you?”

    Trabbi shook his head. “The boy is right. I’d have treated her kindly, of course, but it is no accident that I have not remarried.”

    “Against my better judgement, I will not pronounce him a criminal. However, I shall require tasks of him if he wishes to court my daughter.”

    “Name your task, my Jarl, and I shall do it.”

    The Jarl nodded once. “But first, let us retire to the Hall. I seem to smell another snowstorm on the wind.”

    ***

    Kjell Hall was abuzz that evening with drinking games and the excited chatter of men recounting the afternoon’s match. The Vidofnir was to sail the next morning in search of the Grendel, and Einarr sat near the head of the room with his father, Runa, and the Jarl.

    “Since both your father and Trabbi forgive you, and I know my daughter well enough to recognize when something is her idea, I have decided on your first task.” The Jarl’s voice was level, and his tone suggested that the request would be eminently reasonable. Doubt chewed on Einarr’s stomach nonetheless.

    “The goddess Eira was once possessed of a torc studded with diamond and fashioned of gold filigree so pure it shines white – the Isinntog. It is said to have power over ice and storms. You know it?” He waited for them to nod. “The Isinntog was given into the care of the elves of Skaergard many hundreds of years ago to await Eira’s awakening, but it was stolen from them by the jotün Fraener and taken to Svartlauf. Bring me the Isinntog, and it shall be your morning gift for Runa.”

    Einarr paled a moment, then nodded boldly. Stealing the Isinntog from a jotünhall was supposed to be the easy task? “Certainly any jewelry less fine would be too drab for her. I will return with this treasure.”

    The Jarl nodded; that was the response he’d expected. Stigander clapped him on the back, hard, with a hearty laugh. “Sounds like we each have our impossible quests then, doesn’t it? For you a legendary torc, for me a rogue ship that travels with the storms.”

    Einarr laughed in agreement, although he could not put more than half his heart into it. “Is there a boat sufficient to carry me there and back?”

    “Runa’s little skiff, if you can find a man or two willing to help you crew it.”

    “That I think I can do. Father, may I take a few of my comrades for this?”

    “If they’re willing to go.”

    “Thank you, Father.” Einarr rose and left to ask some of his fellow Vidofnings who might be willing to join him on such a quest.


    1.12 – Negotiations 1.14 – Setting Sail
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  • 1.12 – Negotiations

    1.12 – Negotiations

    “Erik.”

    The burly man nodded, rain streaming from the end of his beard.

    “You’re not going to make me fight you, too, are you?”

    “Cap’n’s mighty unhappy, Einarr, but he don’t want you dead an’ he don’t want either of us injured. Sent me to give you an offer.”

    “And?”

    “You come back aboard the Vidofnir and Runa goes to the Skudbrun, so everything’s done proper-like. Trabbi’s on board over there, but between we three and the fishes he’s not as unhappy about all this as the Jarl. Cap’n Stigander wants a word or three with Trabbi, thinks they can work something out.”

    “How do we know this isn’t just some sort of trick? If my father sent a priest along…” Runa’s eyes were wide, as though the thought of marrying Trabbi instead of Einarr kindled fear in her.

    “Runa.”

    She turned her gaze to him, her eyes pleading.

    “Runa, even if this all goes south, your father had his choice of suitors. I know he’s getting old, but I don’t believe you would be treated poorly. If we refuse, there are now two ships worth of men I would have to fight off before we could escape. On the other hand, I think there’s a good chance my Father will be able to work something out. Will you trust me?”

    She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Runa pursed her lips and lowered her eyes before finally nodding her acquiescence.

    “Thank you. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we might not end up outcast after all.”

    “Captain’s going to want words with you no matter what happens, you realize,” Erik put in.

    “That’s fine.”

    Barri and the other two Brunnings were standing, now, but prevented from rejoining battle by Erik’s muscular frame. Now the big man turned and addressed them. “You heard me. Go ahead and take your princess aboard, and tell your Captain that Captain Stigander Raenson of the Vidofnir requests permission to board.”

    If it had been someone with less presence than Erik, or if Barri had been less honorable of a man, Einarr might have worried about treachery from the Skudbrun. As it was, though, he was able to clasp Runa’s hands in his own with a genuine smile of encouragement. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.”

    He let Barri take Runa’s arm. Her worried gaze never strayed from Einarr as Barri carried her up to the Skudbrun on his back.

    Einarr looked at Erik, squinting a little against the wind trying to blow rain in his eyes. “I’m getting busted back down to deckhand, aren’t I.”

    Erik barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t suprise me.”

    ***

    When the storm died down, both Skudbrun and Vidofnir were still tethered to the small skiff Runa had acquired for her daring escape. With many agreements shouted across the waves, the boats were brought alongside one another and planks were extended between their two railings. Standing in front of the gangplank on the Vidofnir was Stigander, a cask of mead under one arm, flanked by Bardr and Einarr. On the other side stood the captain of the Skudbrun with his first mate and Trabbi. Einarr searched their deck for sign of Runa, but did not see her.

    Stigander cast a pointed look over his shoulder at his son before beginning. “Under flag of truce,” he called across. “I, Captain Stigander Raenson request permission to come aboard for the purpose of mediation with Trabbi Aridson.”

    “Under flag of truce, and with full consideration of the long friendship between Kjell Hall and Raenshold,” the other captain answered. “I, Captain Kragnir Hokarson, grant permission to come aboard.”

    Only then did Stigander step up onto the gangplank and stride across to the other ship, followed by Bardr and Einarr in quick – if not hasty – succession. Einarr steadied himself with his knees when a swell rocked their two boats with him in the middle of the plank. His father was presenting Captain Kragnir with the cask as a ceremonial gesture of goodwill – a gesture whose importance Einarr well knew was magnified by his actions.

    The Fates did not decide to drop him between the two boats for his earlier temerity, and moments later he was able to complete the crossing. Captain Kragnir led them back to the Captain’s awning. Runa stood outside of it, red-faced and wringing her delicate hands. Einarr wished he could go to her, comfort her, but under the circumstances feared that would only make matters worse. Trabbi looked her way, pursed his lips – in frustration, anger, or concern Einarr could not tell – and did not look again.

    The six men settled around the low table in the center of the sheltered area – Brunnings on one side, Vidofnings on the other. Kragnir opened the cask Stigander had brought as a peace-offering and poured everyone a cup of the sweet brew. Once they had all drunk, the ceremony was concluded.

    “What is there that the wandering Son of Raen believes must be discussed?” Trabbi opened. The bitterness in his voice planted a rock in the bottom of Einarr’s belly.

    “Perhaps the unwillingness of your bride?”

    “My Jarl asked me to marry his daughter and keep her safe and well. To what part of that am I supposed to object?”

    “He did not even mention her happiness?” Einarr had not intended to speak, but the words would not be contained.

    “If this is also not something you wished, I believe we have a solution where you can back out and no-one has to lose face,” Bardr interrupted

    “I will confess to mixed feelings on the idea of wedding a girl my sons’ age.”

    Stigander nodded. “As would I, in your situation.” He looked sidelong at Bardr, who had the good grace to look embarrassed. “What say you to a duel?”

    “Captain, I may lead a fleet, but it is a fleet of fishermen. I hardly think that a test of swordsmanship…”

    “Glima, though?”

    “Wrestling?”

    “Wrestling. We may be getting on in years, but unless I miss my guess you’re not slowing down just quite yet. Your experience versus my son’s youthful vitality.”

    Trabbi set his jaw and turned his gaze to study Einarr.

    “Loser yields the right to marry the princess.”

    “I won’t throw the match,” Trabbi warned.

    Einarr met the man’s weighing eyes. “You’d be a coward if you did.”

    “Just so long as that’s understood.”

    “Of course.” Stigander shrugged as though he’d expected nothing else.

    “In that case, I agree. Runa should stay on board the Skudbrun until we return to Kjell Hall. My Jarl would never forgive me if I allowed her to remain with the man who tried to steal her away.”

    Einarr opened his mouth to protest, but before a sound could escape Stigander had already answered. “Agreed.”

    Not two steps after he had left the awning, Runa had thrown her arms about Einarr’s neck. “Easy, easy. We’ve got it all settled.”

    “I heard. You think you can win?”

    He smirked now, lowering his voice to avoid being heard to insult his rival. “Against a fisherman? Come now.” His face fell then and he shook his head. “Even if I don’t, though, I think it might not make much difference for you. After what we did, Trabbi would be well within his rights to cancel the engagement.” It might matter for him, though, depending on how forgiving the Jarl felt.

    She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, nodding before she let it out. He thought she might have been about to protest. She looked as anxious here as she had earlier, on the boat, when he was fighting off her countrymen.

    “You’re that worried I’ll lose?”

    She shook her head. “I’m worried you’ll be hurt.”

    Bardr and his father were nearly to the gangplank, but Einarr found a moment to wrap her in his arms and kiss her hair before hurrying on.


    1.11 – Capture 1.13 – Glìma
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  • 1.9 – Spring Thaw

    1.9 – Spring Thaw

    For three more long winter months, Einarr attempted to court the Princess Runa, and for three more long winter months Stigander attempted to nudge the Jarl toward acceptance. Fortune was not in their favor, however, and the Jarl would not budge. The sons of Raen understood the reason all too well, but that made it no easier for Einarr to bear. Not when Trabbi the fisherman – Trabbi, who had not once sailed out of Hroaldr’s territory; Trabbi who had no ambition outside his fleet of fishermen; Trabbi, who was nearly as old as Stigander, whose chief virtues were loyalty to his Jarl and an established homestead, whose affection for the girl more resembled a fond uncle’s than a lover’s – was the favored suitor.

    Einarr seethed each and every time that Trabbi stepped in before him to speak with Runa, and seethed more to remind himself of the cause. The Jarl did what he believed best for his daughter and his own holdings, and attaching either of them to the cursed line of Raen was not likely to be either. He stopped short of cursing his grandfather. Tempting as it was, he had no hand in the Weaving that drew calamity on his descendant’s line.

    For her part, Runa accepted his attentions with a smile that was merely polite, and gave Trabbi as little encouragement as she could manage. Einarr almost pitied the man, in truth, because he suspected in the end none of the three parties involved had much say in the matter.

    Eventually, though, the soothsayers and the wind proclaimed that spring was on its way. Soon the Vidofnings would be able to refit and prepare for the first expedition of the new year. On the first clear day of the thaw, Einarr volunteered to give their ship its initial inspection. He wanted – needed – to get away from the Hall and the stifling awkwardness that had settled in the air as the months passed. The cold stares Einarr got from the Jarl only made things worse, of course: that their presence this winter was suffered for the sake of his friendship with Stigander was plain. The more Einarr had pushed himself forward, tried to show himself a good match despite his handicaps, the less welcome he felt.

    Snowdrops were beginning to show their heads, he noticed as he skied over the still-snowy field surrounding the hall. The idea flitted through his head to collect some on his way back, but before he could settle on the idea a voice reached his ears.

    “Wait.” The sweet note that carried halfway across the field to him was Runa’s voice. “Wait, please.”

    Einarr stopped and twisted to look behind him. The fur of her cloak was dyed crimson, and drew his eye to the long blond braid that caressed her figure. He sighed, obliging, as she closed the distance. She would make an excellent wife. But not for me, at this rate.

    “Thank you,” she said. Her face was already red from the cold.

    “You shouldn’t come out this way alone. There are wolves about, even in your father’s holdings.” He affected formality; since the Jarl did not intend her for him, it would be best to put some distance between them.

    “I’m not alone, now am I, so long as you allow me to walk with you.”

    “Such a thing would hardly be proper, under the circumstances.”

    “Oh, come now. I only wish to talk with you, and you are far too much the gentleman to try anything.”

    “Am I?”

    “Aren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

    He laughed in spite of himself, lowering his head to hide the smile he could not quash. “As you wish, my lady.”

    “Excellent.” Runa closed the distance between them and threaded a hand about his arm, under the cloak to leave his sword-hand free.

    “My lady. . .”

    “There is no impropriety in a young man escorting a woman this way, especially at her request.” She played at haughtiness, teasing him for his formal mask.

    He looked over at her, about to protest, but sighed instead. The look of her sea-blue eyes brooked no opposition and the feel of her bosom pressed against his arm sapped his will. “Well then, since you insist, let us continue.”

    It was not until they were starting down the switchbacks leading to the beach that she spoke again. “You know that my father has formally proposed my betrothal to Trabbi?”

    “I wish I was surprised.”

    “They haven’t been exactly subtle, have they.” She sighed. “Why must I marry a graybeard?” She wailed, and the change in tone was enough to make Einarr jump, even with her arm wrapped around his own.

    “So Father has failed, then. …That may be partially my fault. If I had backed off after that Hall dance…”

    “I would still be engaged, but I would be even more trapped.” Runa looked at him, her eyes as earnest as he had ever seen them. “You do love me, don’t you?”

    Einarr looked at her sidelong, trying to ignore the unseasonably low cut of her dress, trying equally to find the strength to lie. “Yes,” he breathed, his heart winning over his head.

    “Then if I tell you I have a plan…?”

    “That may depend on the plan.”

    She nodded once and fell silent again. Einarr offered her a hand for balance going down the steep path crossing from the forest to the beach. He could see the ship, now, and from here it looked as though nothing untoward had happened, but a thorough inspection was what he had come out to do.

    “You know when I decided I would marry you?”

    “When?”

    “When you teamed up with me to bring in the goats all those years ago.” She couldn’t quite stifle a giggle, and it lightened Einarr’s mood enough that he smiled.

    “Has your father told you why he is against it?”

    “Yes. I’m afraid I can’t quite bring myself to worry about it, though, and the Weaving must be nearly unraveled by now.”

    He pursed his lips. He wasn’t at all sure of that, not after the encounter with the Grendel last fall.

    “Will you take me away?”

    “To what? A life on the run, with neither hearth nor hall nor port of call?” He recoiled at the idea, ashamed that some small part of him was still tempted.

    “Am I not worth fighting for?”

    “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

    “Playing a courtly game you can’t win. My father won’t change his mind for that. I see three choices, only one of which is likely to be acceptable to both of us.”

    “Oh? And what would those be?” Einarr started up the ladder leading to the Vidofnir‘s deck, only half listening as he tried to find the argument that would convince him not to go along with it.

    “First: we accept my father’s judgement and I marry Trabbi.”

    Einarr twitched. It was the safest option, but the thought of losing her to a man his father’s age was physically painful.

    “Not acceptable to me, and I don’t think to you either. Two: you take me like a common serving girl. We aim to get caught, preferably after I’m with child. Surely then Father will yield.”

    He turned his head to stare down at her, wide-eyed, hardly able to believe what she was suggesting.

    She cut him off before he could object. “Somehow, I think you too much Stigander’s son to go along with that.”

    “I am appalled you even thought it worth mentioning.” That traitorous corner of his mind noted that she mentioned no personal objection to the plan. He was doubly betrayed when the thought kindled desire. He stamped it down.

    “Indeed. Three: we get a boat and sail away. On the first island we come to, we wed.”

    He sighed and did not answer immediately. The idea was tempting, but it would be a betrayal of everything his Father had taught him. He was standing on the deck by the time he trusted himself to answer, and at that point she was halfway up the ladder. He needed to look her in the eye for this.

    No sooner had her second slipper met the deck boards than he took her by the shoulder and spun her to face him, affecting more anger than he felt. “What sort of man do you take me for? The Sons of Raen do not steal wives. You really think I could let some pretty face – even one like yours – convince me to betray my own father? To end their friendship like that?”

    “Not a face, perhaps, but what about a voice?”

    His mouth hardened. “You wouldn’t.”

    “I could.” Despite the difference in their heights, she managed to peer down her nose at him. Then her face fell. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t, even though I do not love him. You would abandon me?”

    He stared at her for a long moment, weighing how serious she appeared and how much he wanted her against the combined wrath of Hroaldr and Stigander. He would be surprised if anyone at Kjell Hall did not realize how he felt. It would make him a renegade, the very scion of cursed Raenshold cast out as a traitor to their Thane, but as he gazed on her the last of his resolve melted away. He knew his answer to her question. “No…. No, I cannot abandon you. You put me in a difficult position, my lady.”

    “Just as my father has placed me in one.”

    He clasped both her tiny hands in his own, nodding and hoping she understood his agreement. “Runa.” The name tasted sweet on his tongue, and at that moment it was the only word he could say. A long moment passed before he remembered his task. “I have work that must be done before I can return to the hall. Will you aid me in my task?”

    “I will, my lord.” A playful smile curled the corners of her mouth.


    1.8 – Dance Fight! 1.10 – Runaway Bride
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