Tag: Paron

6.30 – Discoveries

“As for you, my Lady Singer, I have questions.”

Runa smiled up at him impishly, hugging his arm. “Walk with me, my Lord, and I may have answers to give.”

Einarr and his betrothed wandered the empty streets arm-in-arm, neither of them minding in this moment that desertion that had bothered him not long before. Eventually they came to a broad, tree-lined green, and Runa guided him over to sit in the shade of a large oak. Only then did she let go of his arm, to turn and lean against his side.

“Even half a season seems like such a long time…” She sighed, content.

Amused, Einarr arched an eyebrow. “Even after waiting seven years from our first meeting?”

She jostled his ribs with an elbow. “That’s different.”

He chuckled. “You’re not wrong. And when Trabbi told me you’d been captured…”

“You have no idea how surprised I was they’d gone to Lord Stigander for help.”

“Surprised… and glad?”

She nodded, then changed the subject. “So what did you want to ask me?”

He laughed again, this time thoughtful. “Oh, where to begin. Let’s start with how you knew the ghost’s story.”

Runa shook her head. “Honestly? I guessed. There are a limited number of reasons someone ends up here, most of which have blessed nothing to do with offending Wotan’s familiars.”

“Hey now.”

“I tease, I tease. In all seriousness, though, most people end up here through cowardice, ignominy, or both. When it didn’t burst our ears immediately, I thought I might be on to something.”

“And naming it Päron? How did you jump from ignominy to a children’s fable?”

“Stories… change over time. It’s one of the things the Matrons teach us, early on.” Here she paused, as though considering.

“While we were with the Matrons, I was given a good-sized list of manuscripts to copy – it’s part of how they teach us. Mixed into this stack were some shockingly old parchments. The sort of thing the Matrons typically handle themselves, because of how delicate they are. It may have been a mistake, but I doubt it. Anyway, one of these manuscripts had a much older telling of the Päronskaft story, followed by someone’s extrapolations of the story’s original source…

“And it was like a puzzle box popped open in front of me while you were fighting. The Päron who was described in that history, whose story morphed into an imp spinning gold, would fit exactly with the character I had just described.”

“Huh.” Einarr sat for a minute, considering the wild improbability. “I guess,” he added after a long moment. “I guess that’s lucky for us.”

Runa sat very still, almost as though she were frozen. “Maybe so, or maybe…”

A long pause followed, and the next words she spoke all came out in a rush. “Einarr, I think someone is looking out for you. Someone powerful. Most Cursebreakers don’t survive their first challenge, but just since you were named this spring you’ve bested three.”

Einarr blinked and tried not to laugh. Not just after, but because of the events of this summer, she decided he was being protected? It was almost ludicrous on its face.

He must not have hidden his reaction as well as he thought, because she elbowed him in the ribs again. “Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry. But you have to understand, this has been the roughest season I can remember, especially for lost crew, and we haven’t much more than the Althane’s horde to show for it… Don’t cheapen those lives we lost, Runa. The only outside ‘help’ I’ve had this summer came from that weird elf who insisted on giving us that broach.”

He could feel her stiffen, as though he had managed to offend with that. Well, so be it, then. The Vidofnir had paid in blood and treasure for what they’d accomplished, and he did not wish that lessened by giving credit to some nameless other.

Neither, though, did he want to weather the storm of an angry Runa – and there was yet one thing he needed to ask of her. “Runa, I need a favor -”

“There you are!” Erik’s voice cut through the air, shattering the stillness even as he cut off Einarr’s request.

Einarr sighed. It would have to wait, then. Erik wouldn’t have come like this without good reason. “Here I am. What’s going on?”

The big man grinned. “You need to see this. And then remind me of it if I give you crap about the raven feathers again.”

“Oh?” This should be good. Erik was practically bouncing with excitement.

***

Erik led Einarr and Runa back to the harbor, where Arkja’s less experienced men waited. (At least, Einarr hoped they weren’t trying to guard anything. A child could have snuck past them.)

“So what was it I just had to see?”

“Just wait.” Erik walked up to the large double doors that led into a boat shed. Swinging the shed open, he said, “That little tunnel of Arkja’s isn’t the only secret in this town.”

Inside, the building was dominated by a large trestle such as one might use for boat repair – not that Einarr thought it would be worthwhile bringing the Gestrisni all the way here before they tried to fix her. But that wasn’t the interesting part.

In what would otherwise be a wall of cabinets and hanging tools, a door stood open. Behind that door, Einarr saw what was unmistakably gold. He looked at Erik, agog.

Erik grinned. “My thought exactly. Gestrisni’s got a good-sized hold for what she is.”

“And the gods only know we could use a break like this. Have you…”

“Counted it? No, not hardly. I’d guess something less than half what we got from the Althane’s horde.”

“How did you…” Einarr shook his head. “No. There’s a story here, I’m sure, but it can wait. Who found it?”

One of the fishermen, a man with lank yellow hair and scars crisscrossing his earnest face, stepped forward. “I did, milord.”


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6.28 – Reap the Whirlwind

Päron? Einarr knit his brows in confusion. Why was she calling it a pear? Päron… Päron… Runa’s story had seemed oddly specific. Päron… “Päronskaft? As in, the imp who spun gold?”

Against all reason, the creature froze and the howl of an angry wind rose above the wailing.

Runa’s voice rose above the wind as well, singing more normally now, and slowly the revenant was absorbed into the whirlwind. Einarr stood watching, wary, even as Jorir and Erik fell back to regroup at his side.

The whirlwind did not advance. Something new seemed to be taking shape within it, blown up from the dust of the street. Slowly it resolved itself, indistinct at first, into the shape of a man.

The reformed revenant stepped forward, through the last vestiges of the whirlwind, looking less tattered and somehow more real than he had before. A leather jerkin hung from his bony shoulders, and the longsword in his hand, held point down, looked better tended. The wailing ceased.

Einarr and his companions were not able to recover their footing quickly enough to take advantage of the creature’s lowered guard, however. In the next heartbeat, the gaunt grey revenant had brought its blade up in a two-handed grip that shielded its body.

Einarr brought Sinmora back up to ready even as Erik and Jorir hefted their axes once more. Einarr had many questions for Runa, but they would have to wait.

Einarr charged forward, a battle cry bursting from his throat. He had duelled the Allthane: now that the revenant was apparently solid the four of them should be more than capable of handling it.

Jorir was only a half-pace behind, though he did not yell. Erik, who did, soon pulled ahead of all of them. His axe came down in a mighty chop.

The revenant hopped backwards with surprising nimbleness as Erik’s axe plowed into the ground.

Thus began an intricate dance, the three living men circling the revenant. Each striking when they saw an opportunity, but rarely connecting. The revenant had, Einarr thought, been a better swordsman in life than the Allthane had, or at least his skills had atrophied less before death.

Before long it became plain to Einarr that they were being toyed with. This “Päron” never once struck back, even when Einarr deliberately left an opening in his guard. It was trying to tire them out – and why not? With the unflagging strength of the dead, it would long outlast its oh-so-mortal attackers.

Worse, it seemed to be working already. Einarr knew he had begun to tire even before Runa named the creature. Erik’s face had gone red, and while Jorir did not yet look tired, Einarr could tell he was beginning to slow down.

Runa had attached three epithets to the creature’s supposed name. One of them, Lecher, Einarr could think of no acceptable way to exploit. Perhaps, however, there was an answer in one of the others. Päron the Avaricious, and the Vain. There had been those traces of gilding on the sword before…

Einarr hopped backward out of the clinch, where his most recent blow had brought him. The revenant smelled like the grave. Erik and Jorir moved in to strike.

“What a waste of gold, putting it on a sword hilt,” Einarr sneered. Jorir’s axe cut at its leg even as Erik chopped higher up. As expected, it jumped over Jorir’s cut and ducked Erik’s in the same movement.

“What sort of man pours his money into a bejewelled sword? It’s a weapon, not a bauble for some woman.” Einarr dashed in to take another swing at the revenant’s chest. It dodged again, but it felt somehow sloppier.

Erik smirked. “Must’ve been compensating, don’t you think?”

Jorir dashed back in for another attack, grinning. “I don’t know any warriors who waste money on fancy swords like that. Only kings and the impotent.”

That got it. The gaunt face of the revenant still managed to contort in rage despite the decayed muscles and another howl rang out.

For one brief moment, Einarr regretted goading the creature to attack. The sword may have once been gilt and bejewelled, but its owner was still a fine swordsman. Then he and Erik and Jorir were wrapped up in the battle to bring the creature down. Its attacks were vicious, and every bit as quick as its defense had suggested. Einarr contorted in ways he hadn’t thought possible to avoid its blade.

Its rage seemed focused on Jorir, though, and it was Jorir that drew it out. In the moment it overextended, all three Vidofnings struck together. Jorir embedded his axe in its foot, pinning it in place. The back of Erik’s axe knocked its head back, so that it stood nearly straight. And then Sinmora clove the revenant in twain, from head to toe.

There was no blood. Instead, the revenant’s body began to crumble like ancient parchment until there was nothing left but a pile of fine dust at their feet. A breeze came up and swept even that away.

Einarr stood still for a long moment after. The spirit had seemed to have an affinity for wind, so none of them were willing to credit their victory so quickly. After a long moment had passed in silence, save for the whistling of the wind, they all sheathed their blades.

“Runa,” Einarr said, straightening and taking a deep breath. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?” That innocent tone didn’t fool Einarr.

“How did you know what story to tell? And how did you get from there to Päronskaft, of all things?”

Runa gave a small, mysterious smile. “My Singer training comes in handy sometimes.”


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

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