Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Sinmora

  • 5.24 – Second Chance

    5.24 – Second Chance

    That cut on his side was going to be a problem. It wasn’t likely to kill him, he didn’t think, but the blood showed no sign of slowing yet. Well. A bandage was just cloth, and he was wearing plenty of that. Einarr gripped the hem of his tunic and tore.

    The fabric came off in a spiral. When he thought it was long enough, he held the strip tightly against Sinmora’s blade and sawed down. Then, gritting his teeth the entire time, he wrapped the makeshift bandage about his chest and over his opposite shoulder to hold the rest of the tunic tight against his wound.

    Once it was tied, Einarr tested his work with a pair of deep breaths. That should hold. He looked around the room at the statues, now out of any semblance of order… except the statues of his father and the Jarl had not budged. He furrowed his eyebrows: that was plainly the clue. What else might it mean?

    A brightness caught his eye from the floor at his feet: the Valkyrie’s feather. He stooped to pick it up, and Einarr’s fingers tingled as they gripped the shaft. Why she had left it, he could not begin to guess. Carefully, to avoid dripping blood on it, he threaded it through the buckle of his baldric.

    His hand brushed against the pouch at his belt, where the wooden broach rested. Mysteries upon mysteries. Einarr sighed. Even should those runes spell out the answer to this puzzle, it was of no use to him here. He shook his head and harrumphed. If the answer was not in the relationship ties between the images, what might it be?

    Einarr stepped slowly over to stand before the images of his father and Runa’s. They stood – or sat – implacably, facing each other. The Jarl sat on his throne, looming over all below him, while Stigander stood exhorting unseen hosts. It would be hard to imagine two more different images…

    That’s it! For all that Jarl Hroaldr and Stigander were old friends, they were in many ways mirrors of each other. Thus, if his hunch was right, each image would have a mirror of sorts on the floor somewhere.

    He thought he had the trick of it, at least. Moving the statues had been cumbersome before. Now he was tired from the fight and wounded besides. Each step across the room reminded him of the shards in his shins, but at least his makeshift bandage quelled the fire in his side.

    He slotted Arring, with his massive strength, opposite of Barri, who like Einarr was faster than he was strong. Jorir faced Tyr, the ageless and wise blacksmith against the aged and wise sailor. Einarr frowned at this one, but could think of no more sensible option. Runa, the Jarl’s daughter, would be matched with him, Jarl’s daughter to Thane’s son and so many other mirrors besides.

    The real trouble was attached to the image of Erik and Sivid dicing together. Ordinarily, Einarr would have matched each as the other’s opposite… so then, what to do when they were shown together? Einarr paced a lap around the room, pondering this. There were few other options remaining.

    He stopped when he once again came face to face with the pairing of Jorir and Tyr, which he had not been happy with. The two had as much in common as in opposition. The image of Jorir, however, showed him working at a forge. Erik and Sivid, on the other hand, were at play. It was so simple he had almost missed it.

    Finally, once all the statues were in place, Einarr approached the last remaining depression in the floor with some trepidation. His hands had started to shake, which he blamed on fatigue. That what remained of his tunic was sodden with blood had nothing to do with it. With a deep breath, Einarr took his place in the display.

    Instead of a lance of pain through his head there was a grinding noise as the statues all turned on their bases. Some of the pairs rearranged themselves on the floor, leaving a broad open path across the floor of the room. At the end of the path, he could now see a door that had not been there before. Einarr breathed an unconscious sigh of relief as he hurried down the path. He did not think he could face the Valkyrie a second time.

    Einarr raised his uninjured hand and pulled on the door. A blinding light flashed.

    He stood on the landing of a stairway heading up. Around him on the landing were Jorir, Runa, Erik and Irding. He smiled and opened his mouth to greet his friends, but suddenly the world tried to turn upside down.

    Einarr blinked several times, partly in surprise to see he was leaning on Erik’s shoulder – When did that happen? – and partly because the world seemed to have gone blurry around him.

    “He’s hurt,” Runa was saying, and he could hear sogginess in her voice. “Come now, quickly, we have to get him someplace flat at least.”

    Erik started slowly up the stairs. Einarr tried to lift his feet, but with each step it felt more as though he were being dragged. Something about the situation seemed familiar, and recently so.

    “My medicine pouch is down on the boat,” Jorir grumbled.

    “Why on earth would you leave it there?” Runa’s question was a good one. She growled in frustration and then began to sing.

    The song was like a cool breeze across Einarr’s face, and he relaxed into it. Runa mumbled something about the wound looking bad, and Jorir’s sarcastic rumble answered. He lifted a foot to aid Erik, but the combination of injury and song magic was too much for him right then. Einarr drifted into unconsciousness to the sound of Runa’s voice.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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.

  • 5.23 – Valkyrie

    5.23 – Valkyrie

    “Let’s take this more seriously, then, shall we?” With a blast of wind the Valkyrie was in the air, hovering as no natural creature could, her sword leveled at Einarr. He swallowed, cursing the bravado that made him call her out. This was not how he won, not if he had a choice in the matter. He was not Erik or Arring with their massive strength, or Sivid with his speed, and calling her out had been not at all clever.

    The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. On impulse, he dove into a forward roll: the wind of the blade’s passage chased his back, and a small piece of red hair dropped toward the floor.

    Einarr rolled back to his feet and took a wild swing towards where the valkyrie had been only a moment before. His blade met only air. He spun on the balls of his feet, searching for his opponent. That was three, right?

    “I think not, mortal. You wouldn’t deprive me of the thrill of the contest, would you?”

    I was afraid of that. But, how can…?

    “I am chooser of the slain, young thief. I must have some way of sorting the chaff from the wheat.”

    Of course she could read his mind. As much as he had immediately regretted his choice to call her out, now he regretted it more. Not clever at all. “So now I must fight an opponent who can read my thoughts? That hardly seems sporting.”

    “I thought you wanted a challenge. Come, Cursebreaker! Let us test your mettle!”

    The same impulse that made him roll forward last time now froze him in his tracks. In that same heartbeat he felt the passage of a blade before his nose. Stone shards flew from the crack that appeared on the floor before his feet, embedding themselves in his legs. He hissed and tried to strike forward at where she must be, but her attack had not yet finished. With a crack of wood, steel pierced through his shield and into the flesh of his arm. A howl escaped his throat. Still he could see neither Valkyrie nor blade.

    Einarr risked a glance up. White flickered in his peripheral vision and he hurried to follow it. No matter how fast he turned, however, the creature was always just a hair faster. The effort threatened to make him dizzy, and the shards in his legs throbbed with every step.

    Rather than continue the futile effort, Einarr stopped. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and listened. It had not been by sight, thus far, that he had evaded her blows but by reflex. He would wait, still, for that same reflex to guide his blade.

    Her voice echoed through the room. “Let this strike be engraved on your soul.”

    That didn’t sound good. His focus wavered, just for a moment. Enough to remind him of his own weakness. He tried to put the thought from his mind, and mostly succeeded. Well enough, at least, that when the urge to move came he twisted and brought Sinmora around. Steel rang against steel.

    Einarr grinned, although the pressure on his blade was enormous. His arm shook with the strain of it. In the tales he sometimes heard about blind warriors with preternatural skill, but he had never credited them much. Perhaps there was something to those stories after all.

    It wasn’t enough. Sinmora’s tip, braced against the stone of the floor, gave way with a scrape and a spark. The blade practically flew back from the blow as the valkyrie’s blade cut deep into his ribs. White-hot agony flared from the wound as he stumbled backwards, clutching a hand to his side. He hardly noticed the shards in his legs now.

    The Valkyrie hummed. “Not bad, Cursebreaker. But how long do you think you can keep that up?”

    “That was five by the terms you set,” Einarr said through gritted teeth. Blood ran down his side and arm, and his shins felt hot and wet. His shield was nearly broken, but even if it was whole he would have trouble holding it now.

    The valkyrie’s chuckle filled the room with its statues. “Was it, Cursebreaker?”

    He could feel the ball of emotion that was the Valkyrie circling him, now, as though she were a wolf and he the rabbit. With a little luck, he could take two more. He hoped. Einarr pressed his arm against the slice on his side. He couldn’t afford to lose too much blood here.

    “Somehow this is unsatisfying.”

    So she intended to continue insisting the first two were invalid? That rankled, but Einarr was far more focused on keeping pressure against the wound in his ribs than on calling her out. If she intended to attack him again, all he could do would be to weather the storm.

    Einarr stood clutching his broken shield, Sinmora at the ready. His eyes remained closed, listening. Concentrating. Waiting for the Valkyrie to strike. Feeling the sticky wetness of blood on his side. On his hand. He felt no urge to dodge, or freeze. No need to do anything at all. After a while, Einarr opened his eyes.

    He was alone in the room once more. The statues had once again been scattered about the room, seemingly at random. Something glowed at his feet: when he looked down, he saw a single feather. Einarr furrowed his brow. Why…?

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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.

  • 5.22 – Mortality

    5.22 – Mortality

    There was no statue of Trabbi, the loyal retainer, or of the former Captain Kragnir – but there was one of Bollinn who replaced him, which would fill the same role. On he went, connecting a figure of Bardr pouring over sea charts to Stigander, and on back through the crew and the Kjellings. Something strange happened when he found himself face to face with a simulacrum of the apothecary from Kem. Ordinarily he would have paired him with Erik, given the events on the island, but Sivid had not been there at all, and the only image of Erik had them together.

    His next best guess was, as with Jorir, to connect the man to himself. He thought he knew where he would have to stand for that, as there was no simulacrum of himself to be found on the floor.

    Einarr dripped with sweat by the time he slid the statue of Jorir into place. That was the last one, though, and as he expected there was still an empty depression on the floor, with connections running to several other figures. With a deep breath, he stepped down into the last remaining depression.

    At first, nothing happened. Then, when he was running over who might be improperly tied, lightning lanced through his brain. A scream of pain tore out of his throat at the sudden onslaught. Einarr dropped to his knees.

    When he recovered his feet, Einarr stumbled over to the stand where the verse of his clue had been.

    The bit of doggerel was no more – or at least the page had been turned. In its place, he saw these words writ large:

    Fool! Lack you wisdom as well?
    Mortal ties such as these are easily severed
    Think ye deeper.

    A sound like thunder cracked. Einarr, his head still aching, winced. When he looked back up, he realized he was no longer alone in the room.

    Standing between the images of the Jarl and his father, the tip of her sword planted between her feet, was a woman beside whom even Runa would appear plain. Long auburn hair hung in a braid past the bottom of her gleaming breastplate, and on her head was a golden-winged helmet so finely worked the feathers looked real. Even in her floor-length skirt there could be no doubt she was dangerous: the giant white eagle wings on her back alone would have dispelled that notion.

    Einarr’s mouth went dry even as his palms grew clammy. “A V-v-v-valkyrie?” he asked under his breath as he dropped to his knees. He knew sneaking in here for the Örlögnir was always going to be riskier than going after the Isinntog, but somehow he had still not expected this.

    “Do not fool yourself, young warrior. That you have come this far is because you were allowed to, but even when the cause is just my Lord’s forbearance is finite.” The Valkyrie’s voice was a deep alto, but sharp and clear like good steel.

    “Of course, great lady.”

    “You may have a second chance.”

    Einarr lifted his head and opened his mouth to thank her, but the valkyrie was not done yet.

    “If you can survive five exchanges in battle with me.”

    Einarr felt his face grow pale. Survive five rounds against a real, honest-to-goodness Valkyrie? He swallowed once more, trying to find his voice. “And should I refuse, or fail?”

    “Your soul is mine.”

    “To become Einherjar?”

    She smiled a wolf’s smile. “To be cast down to Hel. You will die as a thief, should you die here.”

    He swallowed again. I don’t have to land a hit. I just have to not get hit. No problem. He did not find this particularly reassuring. What he said, though, was “It seems I have no choice.”

    The Valkyrie nodded. “Make ready, then.”

    With the scrape of steel on steel, the comforting weight of Sinmora was in Einarr’s hand. He raised his shield and stood at defense, studying his opponent.

    She, too, took a battle stance, raising her long, double-edged sword until it was vertical. She bore no shield: Einarr had no doubt that should someone get past her native skill those pauldrons and bracers would blunt any blow.

    He could not see her feet under the long, heavy skirt. That would make this more difficult, but still not impossible. Not by itself, anyway. Pressing his mouth into a line, he met her gaze and nodded.

    The Valkyrie moved almost impossibly fast. In the space between two breaths she had crossed the distance between them, her shoulders turned into the blow she intended to bring down on Einarr’s head. Before sight could become thought he had brought up his shield, and her sword struck the boss like a bell.

    He danced back, his hand tingling from the force of the blow even as the ringing continued in his ears. His own blow had swung for her side and somehow been turned away by the very air.

    She offered him a nod. “You have decent reflexes, but it will not be enough to save you.”

    “I rather hope you are wrong, there. You’re quite quick.”

    “That’s not all I am.”

    She rushed in again, this time bringing her sword up in an underhand swipe toward Einarr’s legs. He slid to the side, away from the blow, even as he brought Sinmora down and once more steel rang against steel.

    “That’s two.”

    “You have not yet attacked me seriously.”

    “Nor have you. You let me see both of those attacks coming.”

    She flashed her lupine grin again and chuckled. “Perhaps. I rather wanted you to feel you were doing well. I hate for people to die unfulfilled.”

    The Valkyrie unfurled her wings, and the tips brushed the heads of two statues ten feet apart. With a blast of wind she rose up into the air and lowered her sword at him. “Let’s take this more seriously, then, shall we?”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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.

  • 5.15 – Altered Memory

    5.15 – Altered Memory

    The edge of the spiral staircase he hurtled toward marked a bright line between safety and the abyss beyond. Jorir twisted around in midair, reaching with the axe in his hand for the steps.

    The axe bit caught with a thunk in a join. He hissed in pain as it dislocated his shoulder.

    Einarr’s boots scraped against the steps, and Jorir had a moment’s panic that his future master would kick his lifeline free. Instead the sound was followed by the creaking of the door’s hinge and the solid sound of wood against stone as he pulled it closed behind him.

    Jorir blew through flared nostrils before climbing hand over hand up the haft of his weapon until the lip of the stair was within reach. Then, with a heave, he pulled his chest up over the stone and swung his legs around. For a moment he lay there, catching his breath and enjoying once more the sensation of being alive.

    “Right,” he said aloud to the empty chamber. “Now for the next unpleasant task. Time to go talk to my erstwhile master.”

    ***

    That part, at least, played out the way he remembered. Now Jorir was following his new master through the passages leading away from the midden and towards his own domain on the island. Every step of the way, his decision to surrender to the man had become more and more obviously the right one – even if in the event he hadn’t realized it.

    After far longer than Jorir thought it should have taken him, Einarr finally arrived at the stair leading down to the water. Rather than taking the obvious path, though, the red-haired man stood gobsmacked at its top. Jorir shook his head. Fine. My turn, I guess.

    Jorir charged, his boots slapping against the smooth stone of the floor here.

    Einarr pivoted to see what was coming and his eyes grew wide, but he had no more time to react. Jorir barreled into Einarr’s belly shoulder-first, and they both went tumbling down the spiral staircase.

    Down they fell, Jorir and the man who was his ticket off this island. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? He threw his weight to the left to avoid bashing his head against the edge of a step. Thankfully the cave below was a much shorter distance than the surface. He managed to avoid rolling into the wall at the foot of the stair, but barely, and took his time dusting himself off from the fall.

    Einarr drew Sinmora. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t run you through, dwarf.”

    “Oh, because fighting me worked so well for you before.” Please don’t think too hard about that.

    “You mean in the way that it gave me time to get what I came for?”

    Jorir shook his head. “I want to offer you a deal. Once that torc leaves this island, anyone still here is trapped. He’ll have my head if I’m here when that happens. I can gamble on beating you in a fight, or I can lead you off this rock – provided you take me with you.”

    “Why should I trust you? Three times now you’ve tried to kill me, four if we count alerting your master.”

    Jorir barked a laugh, although for a different reason than the first time around. “Because I can see which way the wind’s blowing. Lord Fraener owns me for trying exactly the same gods-damned stunt you’re up to, but I’ll be buggered if I don’t think you might actually manage it. Make me your prisoner and take me to your Captain if it makes you feel better.”

    Einarr raised a skeptical eyebrow and did not sheath his sword.

    “This is me surrendering, fool.” As if to prove his point, the dwarf folded his hands against the back of his head. “There’s rope over against the wall if you feel the need to bind me.”

    “I might just do that. Drop your axe on the ground and kneel.”

    Jorir shrugged, unhooked the axe from his belt and tossed it off to the side before dropping to his knees. Einarr kicked it farther away as he backed away toward the rope Jorir had indicated. That’s going to be an issue.

    Einarr bound him hand and foot, tightly enough that he thought he might lose blood flow to the area, and then circled back around to face his captive. End of the rope in hand, and Sinmora’s blade pointed at Jorir’s throat, Einarr faced the dwarf. “Now. Swear to me before the gods that you intend us no ill.”

    The dwarf’s face turned sober. He remembered this oath well: it was among the strongest among his clan. “By steel and by stone, by the one bound beneath a tree and she who stirs the winds, I, Jorir, shall cause no harm to you or yours. By axe and by spear, by flame and by frost, I swear myself to your service. So shall it be until the heavens perish or my lord releases me.”

    Einarr nodded, but stood in silence for a long moment. His arm twitched back, and Jorir suppressed the urge to flinch.

    Did I make it?

    Finally, after what felt like an eternity of kneeling on the stone, his new master turned the sword around to offer Jorir the hilt.

    ***

    Jorir’s eyes snapped open, his face covered in sweat, to see that he still stood in the room full of bubbles, and he still felt every bruise he’d taken in that altered memory – although, oddly, not the shoulder injury. He was not about to complain about that, although it looked as though he would have to search for his axe.

    The path to the doorway was clear. Good. It also seemed as though the bubbles were no longer hunting him – even better. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

    All four of the others were in the room, staring blankly off into space with horrified expressions on their faces. Not one of them was unmarked by injuries, and a good number of them more serious than Jorir’s bruises. Irding was bleeding from an eye, and Einarr from the corner of his mouth.

    Without a second thought, Jorir sprang back towards his Lord’s companions. Aren’t they also your companions, a voice in the back of his head whispered. He ignored it.

    “Time to end this,” Jorir growled. With a leg sweep, he brought his liege lord to his knees and slapped him across the face. Three times he did this, until Einarr began to blink rapidly and his eyes started to refocus. Then he moved on – Irding appeared the next most critical.

    “What happened?” Einarr sounded dazed.

    “Help me wake the others. I’ll explain later.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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. I just reworked my reward tiers, so I hope you’ll give it another look.

  • 5.12 – Among the Leaves So Green

    5.12 – Among the Leaves So Green

    Einarr was quite pleased with himself for spotting a fresh trail before his grandfather pointed it out to him, not many minutes up the forest path. Then they were off the beaten path, Einarr peering at the ground as they went for pellets or for the nigh-invisible shadows of hoofprints on the needle-strewn ground. At every turn he tried to find the mark before his grandfather could point it out. He managed perhaps half the time.

    “Why do deer have to hide so well,” he grumbled at one point.

    “Because they’re weaker than the wolf and the bear, of course. There are three choices in life, Einarr: be strong, be clever, or be dead. Best of all is to be strong and clever.”

    “Yes, afi.” It was far from the first time Einarr heard those words of wisdom.

    They finally caught up with the young buck where he slept high on the mountain, near a stream bed thick with berry bushes. The summer was young enough that its antlers were still velveted. That it was a buck was good: that meant their quarry was fair game. Does, he knew, were off-limits until almost the end of raiding season.

    The buck raised its head while they crept into position, its ears pricked, and looked around warily. The best is to be both strong and clever, because there will always be someone better than you. It was the end of his grandfather’s saying, and even at ten Einarr understood its meaning in his bones. If Grandfather Raen had been a little stronger, or a little cleverer, Raenshold would not be lost to him and Father would not be dependent on Grimhildr’s family.

    Having satisfied itself that there were no predators around, the buck lurched to its feet and stepped daintily down to the water’s edge.

    “Be ready,” his grandfather whispered even as he knocked an arrow to his own bow. Einarr nodded and followed suit.

    The buck looked around again, to make doubly sure he wasn’t being watched. After what felt like ages, every moment Einarr afraid they would be spotted and their quarry would flee, it lowered its nose to the stream and drank.

    His grandfather drew back his bow in one smooth motion. Einarr copied the motion, as he had been taught. Not quite smoothly, though: the arrow clacked against the bowstaff and the buck raised its head in alarm.

    Afi’s arrow flew true and struck the deer behind its shoulder. A moment later, as the buck tried to turn and flee, Einarr’s arrow stuck in its flank.

    “Tcheh.” It was a bad shot and he knew it, but there was no time to berate himself over it. His grandfather was already running after the buck, easily as spry as Father.

    Their target made it three bounds away from the stream before collapsing in a bramble of berry vines. With a shrug, Einarr drew the hunting knife at his belt and began cutting a path through to the deer inside.

    There was something wrong in the air, Einarr thought, but his ten-year-old self did not have the experience to recognize it. At this moment, dressing the deer to carry it back to amma occupied his full attention. When afi threw their prize over his shoulders, Einarr picked up a pair of the berry-laden vines he had just cut. Even if amma didn’t use any with the venison, there would be plenty for dessert and breakfast the next day.

    They cut sideways across the mountain towards the main path, and reached it in the middle of a fair-sized meadow. The view over the island below took Einarr’s breath away, the forest and fields spreading out and blending into the sea beyond almost seamlessly. The sea, on which a pair of longships loomed entirely too close to their freehold. Smoke rose from the roof of his grandmother’s hall.

    His grandfather froze in his tracks like a frightened buck, staring at his home. “Svari,” he breathed.

    Einarr’s grandfather flew down the mountain path faster than any arrow, the buck forgotten across his shoulders. Einarr raced to keep up, willing his comparatively short legs to move faster than they ever had before. The freehold was under attack, and there was no-one below save his grandmother and the two thralls in the field.

    Einarr ran with all the speed his young legs could muster, but even still his grandfather quickly outpaced him. Why would anyone raid a freehold like this one? A single farm on an island that was mostly covered by forest didn’t exactly scream treasure.

    He could hear the raucous laughter of the raiders as soon as he reached the forest’s edge, his vine whips dropped somewhere on the mountain above. Steel clashed, and Einarr hoped it was his grandfather’s blade against the raiders’. A last gasp of fear propelled him onward even faster, when he thought such a thing should have been impossible.

    He was too late. They were too late: afi knelt over amma’s lifeless form, weeping and covered in blood. Einarr could not tell how much of it was his. The Hall was a disaster: even the paving stones of the floor had been pried up in the raiders’ search for treasure.

    “What… why?” Einarr managed to choke out.

    His grandfather shook his head, his shoulders shaking. “Your Father is cursed, Einarr. I knew I never should have let Grimhildr marry into your line, and now look what happened.”

    “Afi…”

    “This is not your fault. Nonetheless, this will be your last summer here.” He paused, staring at the face of his dead wife, for what felt like eternity. “Go to my bed. There is a small compartment under the mattress – I very much doubt the raiders will have found it. Bring me what you find inside.”

    “Yes, grandfather.”

    Einarr’s eyes opened. His cheeks were soaked, and all around him were bubbles filled with glowbugs. His hand was clutched tight about Sinmora’s hilt – the last thing Grimhildr’s father ever did for him. He could see the way out now.

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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. I just reworked my reward tiers, so I hope you’ll give it another look.

  • 5.9 – Undersea Assailant

    5.9 – Undersea Assailant

    Einarr cut his shout of surprise short as frigid water closed over his head. The thing that had hold of his leg yanked again, pulling him farther down. Then the downward pull stopped, although the creature did not let go. In that moment, the rope about his waist grew taut and he felt the water begin to move the other direction. His friends were pulling him up, the creature still attached to his leg.

    The pause in downward pressure was a brief one, however. What felt like a hundred needles dug into his calf, and then the tug-of-war began between the men aboard the Gestrisni and the creature of the deep. More air escaped his mouth as he screamed involuntarily and he looked at his captured leg.

    Staring back at him were the murderous eyes of a great eel, its jaw clamped around his calf. Already his lungs began to burn and the rope cut into his waist, but he hardly noticed between the teeth digging in to the muscle and the primal fear engendered by those eyes. Sinmora was at his belt, but he could think of nothing save getting to the surface, out of the water. Einarr reared his head up and lent his energy to those pulling on the rope even as the eel’s teeth tore into his leg. Better that than to let the creature drown him and feast on his entrails.

    Abruptly the creature changed direction, surging up towards the surface – still without letting go. Einarr was able to grab a gulp of fresh air as the rope slackened with the sudden shift before the eel dashed off at an angle to the boat. In desperation he took hold of the rope about his waist in both hands and kicked at the jaws that dragged him along.

    “Kill it!” He cried as the rope grew taut again, bringing his head once again above the water. “Kill it now!”

    An arrow sailed through the air to land in the water near where the eel gripped Einarr’s leg. He took a deep breath and tightened his hold on the rope.

    Another arrow flew and the eel convulsed, but did not stop. Jorir’s arrow – at least, he thought it belonged to the dwarf – now marked the path of the eel through the water. Einarr kicked at the creature again, but his boot just slid over its back. The eel paid him no more mind than any other struggling prey, which galled Einarr to no end. Still he did not dare draw his sword, as much out of worry to lose it in the deep as reluctance to let go of the rope.

    Another pair of arrows flew, landing near the one that marked their target, and Einarr was glad of the torch he had placed. Without it, they almost certainly would have been unable to see the eel at all.

    The rope was more than tight now: the eel was still fighting its way forward, but it seemed to be tiring, and they were not moving nearly so fast as they had been. The Gestrisni had not put down a sea anchor: it must be pulling them along, as well! A laugh tried to escape his throat, but it transformed midway into a groan. His leg was mostly numb, but not numb enough to dull the pain of those teeth.

    A fourth arrow embedded itself in the eel’s back, farther forward this time, and it stopped its struggle. Even in death, however, it did not release its grip on his calf. When the men on the boat reeled Einarr in, they also brought in the giant eel that had thought to make a meal out of him.

    When the eel had been hauled aboard in the net left for them and Einarr sat against the railing in a puddle of seawater Runa and Jorir set to work mending the wound on his leg while Erik and Irding began to butcher their catch.

    Einarr laughed, his quiet chuckle growing into a full-throated guffaw. Everyone else aboard looked at him as though he’d snapped. He shook his head at the deck before throwing it back to look up into the foggy dimness. “Next time, someone else gets to be the bait.”

    Erik was the first to laugh, and laughed the hardest. Runa didn’t seem to think it was funny in the slightest, but he at least got a chuckle out of Irding and Jorir.

    “How far did it pull us?”

    “Far enough that I can’t see your torch,” Irding answered. “Although I think if we just row backwards a ways we’ll find it again.”

    Einarr frowned, contemplating his options. Finally, he decided: “Do it. Once the light comes back into view, let’s place another one before we move forward again.”

    ***

    For hours the Gestrisni’s crew plied its way down the path opened by the unfortunate eel, placing torches where they could, with a little luck, mark their way home. How they would find their markers again after they went out, everyone tried not to think too hard about. Even an extinguished torch, they hoped, would be better than nothing.

    After a time which was not identifiable to anyone on board the mist began to lighten around their boat again. Einarr still stood at the tiller, his leg bandaged but not yet fully whole. Perhaps it was something to do with their proximity to the tower, perhaps it was some unknown property of the eel, but even with Jorir’s medicines Runa’s song had not been able to fully heal the wound. He barely noticed it, in truth, except when he shifted his weight too suddenly. Everyone aboard held their breath, this time.

    The fog around them began to thin, and soon his friends resolved from shadows to ghosts to flesh and blood once more, wherever they stood on deck.

    The cry of gulls, muffled but somehow still nearby, reached their ears. Once more the oars dipped into the water, and as the Gestrisni glided forward a spire seemed to jut up out of the water, as though it aimed to pierce the white sky above. Einarr’s eyes followed the upward movement of the tower until it was lost in the mist, to where birds flocked about its upper reaches.

    They had arrived.

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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. I just reworked my reward tiers, so I hope you’ll give it another look.

  • 5.5 – Whispering Woods

    5.5 – Whispering Woods

    Einarr set his jaw. Cursing himself for a fool, and glad he hadn’t moved his feet just there, he turned himself exactly around. He was a decent tracker, even if he’d never been able to do a lot of hunting: with a little luck he’d be able to retrace his own steps.

    Behind him, though, the path soon disappeared into an impenetrable bramble of thorns into which his boot prints disappeared. He attempted to follow around the outside of the thicket, but there, too, the thorns grew – so quickly they seemed to sprout and curl before his eyes. Whatever else this trickster spirit is, it certainly is persistent. Frowning harder now, he turned back around and marched further in.

    “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I will have you return me to my friends,” he announced to the forest around him. No answer came, save the trilling of bird song. At least it’s not cawing. Of the many hazards of stealing the Őrlögnir, one that he had not until this moment contemplated was that he would be going against Wotan’s personal spies. He cursed aloud.

    “Oh, there’s no cause for that now.” The voice was light and airy, although still masculine, and seemed to come out of thin air.

    Einarr stopped, his hand traveling to Sinmora’s hilt. “Who are you?”

    The slender, almost effeminate form of a male alfr separated itself from a tree just ahead of him on the path. “Does it matter?”

    Einarr would swear the elf had not been there before: his clothes were the color of tree bark, true, but his hair was as golden as the Oracle’s, and his skin fairer than Runa’s. Einarr stared openly at the creature, waiting for an answer.

    “You may call me Ystävä.”

    Well, that name couldn’t be more obviously fake. “I shall choose my own friends, thank you. What do you want?”

    “Let us say that I, too, have an interest in your success on this quest. I have something which may aid you…”

    “I see. And what would the price of this aid be?” Everyone knew that alfr “gifts” came at a heavy price.

    The elf smirked. “Are you, perhaps, not so stupid as you first appear?”

    Einarr bristled, but was not given a chance to retort.

    “But I am not here to play games with you. As pleasant as that can be, I must mind your mortal time if this is to work. There is a small task I will ask you to perform with Frigg’s distaff once you acquire it – nothing major, and you will alleviate a great deal of suffering by doing so.”

    “And if I refuse?”

    “Refuse?” The alfr laughed, the notes as musical as any Singer’s. “Perhaps you are entirely stupid. You allowed yourself to be drawn into my domain, and in my domain you will stay until I decide otherwise. You have my word, on the font of Art itself and by the hand of Tyr, that my request will not violate your conscience or your father’s.”

    Einarr glared at the elf. “I mistrust this mysterious task of yours, but you make it plain I have no choice. Very well; give it here and I will be on my way.”

    “Wonderful!” The alfr smiled, and a chill ran down Einarr’s spine when it did not touch his eyes.

    “Why all this subterfuge, if what you want is so harmless?”

    “Well, you see, I am known to the Circle of Singers…”

    “And they don’t trust you either?”

    “You wound me! What possible reason have I given you to distrust me?”

    Einarr did not dignify that with a response even as the elf pouted at him.

    “Very well. Spoil my fun. Here. Once you get to the tower, you’ll know what to do with it.” The elf shoved a wooden brooch into Einarr’s hand. When he opened his palm to look, it was in the shape of a raven and covered in runes.

    “What -” But when he looked up from the brooch, the elf was already gone. A low growl escaped his throat.

    The lush greenery almost seemed to grow back into the earth, it faded so quickly back into the oak wood he had been walking through just this morning.

    A thread of song filtered through the trees from off to his right: Runa. How long had they been searching for him? Einarr set off at a jog in search of the voice.

    It was not long before he could see his companions stopped on the road: they looked tired, and Reki in particular looked very annoyed by the way she held her shoulders under her cloak.

    “Sorry,” he said as he approached the road, before any of them could begin to scold him. “Some ass of an alfr decided he was going to help us whether we wanted it or no.”

    Reki scowled at him from under her hood. “Tell me what happened. In detail.”

    Einarr sighed. And, as expected, she was even less happy with this turn of events than Einarr had been after hearing the tale.

    “I take it this ‘Ystävä’ is known to you?”

    “Unfortunately. And while I’m glad he returned you to us with only minimal delay…”

    “You also mistrust the ‘task’ he wishes to ask of me. How long since I disappeared?”

    “Half a day,” Trabbi grumbled.

    Einarr bit off a curse. “Then let us discuss this further once we’re out of his little playground… whoever he actually is.”

    Now Reki was not the only one setting a brisk pace: if they wanted to reach East Port before dark, speed was of the essence. Even so it was late afternoon before they emerged from the shadow of the forest, and deep into twilight before they arrived at the outskirts of the town. Einarr flared his nostrils: from here everything appeared normal, at least. There were no screams of tentacled horrors that came to his ears – or any screams at all – which had to be a good sign. He shared a glance with Reki. “Let’s go.”

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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. I just reworked my reward tiers, so I hope you’ll give it another look.

  • 5.2 – Wise Women’s Table

    5.2 – Wise Women’s Table

    “Please, be seated. There’ll be no leaving until morning at the earliest anyway.” The old matron moved deftly to the side of the door and began shooing their party in, towards the long table with its pot of stew – rabbit, if Einarr’s nose didn’t lie. He allowed himself to be swept into the Hall and to a place at the table.

    There were nine of them, and eight empty bowls set along the table. Given that Runa had been sent to stand at the back with the servants, that accounted for all of them. Einarr had never known Singers to be able to divine: perhaps there was something to the rumors about the wood? Einarr shrugged and settled on the rough wooden bench.

    “Now. I know why our wayward apprentice has come, although she shall be expected to explain her tardiness.” The crone spoke as she settled herself back into the seat at the head of the table. “I was surprised to hear that the daughter of Fjori was returning to the Hall. Is the sun troubling you again?”

    “Not at all, Amma.” Reki was near breathless, as though she actually were a child addressing her grandmother. “During a recent raid, we found a chest filled with instruments. I convinced my Captain that the Conclave might wish to buy them.”

    The old crone snorted. “Buy them. Feh. We shall have a look in the morning.”

    “Thank you, Amma.” In the worst case scenario, they would be demanded as hospitality gifts. For all that the Vidofnir needed the coin, Einarr would be hard pressed to see that as a loss if the Matrons were able to answer his questions.

    One of the other old women at the table – more like a willow in stature than like the oak of her superior’s mein – was staring at them as they settled. Einarr stared a challenge back at the woman’s face, but she appeared not to notice. Once everyone was seated, she waved imperiously towards the back of the room.

    A young woman in plain white wool stepped hurriedly forward.

    “Add some extra nutmeg to tonight’s mulling, and a good amount of angelica.”

    The girl curtsied and hurried out the back of the hall.

    Reki’s brows drew down in concern. Evidently that combination meant something to her. “Is something amiss?”

    “Yes, child,” said the willowy crone, her voice somewhat less desiccated than her oaken superior. “There is corruption at work among you… on all of you save the apprentice and him.” She pointed at Trabbi.

    “Corruption?” Barri stood, shock warring with offense on his face.

    “Sit down, Barri.” Einarr could share neither emotion with the man, and even he heard weariness in his voice. “Think. Did any of us feel entirely well after that last battle?”

    “The Heir of Raen knows of what I speak?” The willowy crone’s surprise sounded genuine.

    “Unfortunately. Of those of us here, the Lady Runa and Trabbi are the only two who did not come into direct contact with the black blood of those monsters. I know I, for one, felt ill following that battle, and it had nothing to do with fatigue.”

    Sivid was nodding along. “I, too, felt strangely ill, although I put it down to my own imagination.”

    “But tell me,” Einarr sat forward, leaning over his bowl and absently reaching for the stew ladle. “How could you tell?”

    All six of the crones at the head of the table burst into laughter at the question, the sound of rustling leaves and water burbling over stone. “We are called the Matrons of Song, are we not?” Asked the oaken leader of the crones.

    When Einarr nodded, she continued. “The world sings to us, and in this way we can see your plight… Cursebreaker.”

    Einarr wanted to swear. On top of everything else, she could see that?

    The willowy crone cackled. “And why wouldn’t we? These herbs I’ve ordered, they will hold the corruption at bay – for a time.”

    The headmistress cleared her throat. “Such matters are better discussed in the bright light of day. For now, there is stew and bread aplenty, and berries besides. Eat and be welcome.”

    A third Matron, this one plump and warm like the grandmother Einarr remembered, clapped her hands and three of the young women in the back of the hall stepped off to the side and began to play.

    It was a quiet, contemplative tune, and before Einarr had finished half his stew he felt the tension of the summer’s journey begin to melt away. By the time they had finished their meal, as they all sat around sipping at the spiced mead, every last one of them was fighting an exhausted sleep.

    “Rest, children.” Through half-lidded eyes, Einarr saw the oaken crone standing over them. “Rest now, for on the morrow there is work to be done.”

    ***

    Einarr awoke with a start to the clear light of early morning filtering in through the door of an unfamiliar hall. He patted his chest to find that he had been stripped down to just a tunic and breeches. Horror rising in his gullet, he blinked to clear his vision and cast his eyes around.

    There, at the foot of the mat he’d been lain in, the rest of his clothes were folded neatly with Sinmora laid across the top. So why did they put us all to sleep, then?

    He snatched up his clean-smelling clothes and began to dress. Somehow there was no longer even a hint of darkening from the blood that had nearly covered him in the battle against the cultists.

    …Purification of the corruption. Of course. He exhaled loudly and finished dressing, a smile now tugging at the corners of his mouth. They were not some Jarl’s hall full of warriors, whose only recourse against monsters such as those was bloodshed: they were wise women, and the Conclave of Singers could be counted on to act for the benefit of the Clans. When he snugged Sinmora’s belt about his waist and strode out into the daylight, a jaunty tune popped into his head and he began to whistle.

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    Hi, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have  other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through 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. I just reworked my reward tiers, so I hope you’ll give it another look.

     

  • 4.23 – Changing Tide

    4.23 – Changing Tide

    Einarr had Sinmora at the top of her swing when a pair of shoulders barreled into his knees from behind. His eyes widened in shock as he fell, moments before yet another tentacle shot across the open space where his head had been.

    A man among the archers screamed. Einarr caught a glimpse of hair even redder than his own on the struggling Vidofning above and flinched. There was nothing he could do from here. Skora. I’m so sorry.

    An arrow flew up from behind them, but even as it bounced off the monstrosity’s tough hide Einarr heard the sickening crunch of bone and their crewman went limp. He rolled to the side, off the back of the man who had tackled him and saved his life.

    It was Sivid. Einarr offered the mousey man a hand back to his feet and a nod of appreciation, although the latter was waved off as the smaller man limped back towards where the archers were preparing to launch another volley. Einarr shook his head to clear it: there was only one thing to be done right now, and that was break free. He raised Sinmora high overhead again, waiting for the moment when Irding’s blade withdrew and he could strike.

    If there was one benefit to the soaking rainstorm that surrounded the Grendel, it was that the monstrosity’s blood did not cling to the deck and the crew as it might have. Even still, the fetid stink was beginning to work on Einarr’s insides as he brought his blade back down with force. His efforts were rewarded with not one, but two spurts of the foul black liquid – one from Sinmora’s strike, and one from the team behind him. A section of the foul flesh fell to the deck between them and the first of the three arms slid away from the prow. What I wouldn’t give for a bath house at the end of this…

    Another pair of arms reached for the Vidofnir, but hesitated. It seemed the thing was not insensate to pain. Rather than grab for the ship again, it used these arms to slap at its side. Two more men went overboard, and soon there was a cloud of red in the water where they disappeared. For perhaps the first time in his life Einarr wished he had an Art, that he might use it to curse the beast.

    More fire sailed across the gap to embed itself in the chitinous flesh of the beast across the way. The wail was louder this time, though no less chilling, and the second of three tentacles loosed its grip on the Vidofnir. It did not retreat, though, as much as the Vidofnings might have wished it would. No: this arm raised itself up in the air to slam down into the water next to the Vidofnir. A span to the right would have capsized them: Einarr heard muttered prayers from among his crewmen but could not take the time to join them. That second arm was already raising back up, only this time he thought it was going to strike at the crew.

    Einarr gulped air, trying to catch his breath, and brought Sinmora up to strike as it did.

    A third volley of fire filled the air between their two ships. With a scream, the demonic octopus withdrew the last of its tentacles. Einarr watched as an inky black blob pushed itself out of the hole in the Grendel’s deck, uncounted arms still whole, and rolled itself into the sea. Einarr wanted to be relieved when it slipped into the water, its black blood forming a trail as it swam away. Wanted to, but could not. He swallowed, but it was not enough to wet his suddenly dry throat. “What…” he started.

    “Was…” Erik continued, his face a mirror of shock.

    “That?” Stigander demanded, looking square at Jorir.

    The dwarf shook his head. “Something that should not be.”

    “Will it come after us?”

    “I don’t think so, not right now anyway.”

    “Can it be killed?”

    Jorir again shook his head, this time adding a helpless shrug.

    “Father.” Einarr interrupted before Stigander could demand more answers his liege-man plainly did not have. He still felt sick, and there was at least one more matter that was more urgent. “I think Jorir is as clueless as the rest of us, here.”

    Stigander harrumphed but did not press the dwarf further.

    “How did you know there was something there?”

    “The keening. It… it sounded like something I heard before I left home. Never saw it, though it always set my teeth on edge.”

    Stigander growled. “Fine. All right, men, row for all you’re worth! The Brunnings are waiting.”

    Einarr stepped over next to where Jorir leaned against the side of the boat. “So what do you place the odds at that each of those other ships will have something equally wrong filling their holds.”

    The dwarf exhaled loudly, blowing the edges of his black moustache. “Too high. Hand me your blade, I’ll make sure she’s sharp before we catch up.”

    Without a word, Einarr handed his sworn vassal the sword. Soon the sound of steel on a whetstone could be heard over the rapid cadence of the ships rowers and the wind billowing in the sail. Ahead, the nearness of the thick storm clouds showed they were catching up to their targets.

    Einarr retrieved his sword, and it was immediately followed by Erik’s axe at the blacksmith’s whetstone. Already they were nearly out of time for sharpening, but at the promise of another fight like the last one it was worth it. Meanwhile, their reserves of pitch had been brought forward, and quivers’ worth of arrows had their heads wrapped to rain fire on their foes. Sinmora’s edge glinted brightly, even in the overcast light, as he sheathed his blade once more and went to join the ranks of archers. Already there had been plenty of glory to go around today: for the best if they did not have to risk any more of their men in boarding.

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  • 4.22 – Black Horror

    4.22 – Black Horror

    A report as of the snapping of planks rang out over the ocean, echoing loudly off the rocks that had hidden the Vidofnir from three of their four pursuers. Everyone aboard stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at the burning Grendel, half expecting the ship to have cracked in two somehow.

    If only it had been that straightforward. Smoke billowed up from the deck, even under the constant barrage of rain from the Grendel’s storm, but the fire had not yet caused their enemy to capsize. Instead, several tendrils of blackness extended upwards, waving about where the mast had been. One of them had wrapped itself about the mast and was waving it about in the air. Were it not for that one tentacle, they might have mistaken them for smoke.

    “Row! Row, you fools!” Jorir shouted, and some of the Vidofnings began to stir themselves – Stigander among them. It wasn’t going to be fast enough.

    The Grendel’s mast went sailing overhead, just barely missing their own sail. Einarr turned to face the last, desperate gasp of their foe, shield and sword at the ready. How are we supposed to fight this thing?

    Not with the battle fury, that much was certain. Even if they hadn’t all just come down from it, Einarr was sure this thing was the source of the keening that had shattered the effect before. The distant sound of splashing said the Grendelings – those who still lived, anyway – were abandoning their ship.

    A tentacle stretched across the gap between their ships – widening, now, but only slowly. A triad of arrows embedded themselves in the blackish flesh, but it did not seem to care.

    “Kraken?” Someone asked, incredulous.

    “Can’t be.” Einarr shook his head, not that he expected anyone to be looking at him. “Its body is under their deck. Somehow.”

    If they weren’t careful, it would soon be on their own: that first tentative tentacle grabbed hold of the Vidofnir’s railing. Others were trailing in their direction, but the one in the lead mattered most right now. He charged forward and hacked downward with Sinmora once, twice, three times before he even managed to draw blood.

    “Erik! Arring! Where are you?” If Sinmora could barely scratch the thing…

    Erik’s laughter sounded from two paces behind him. “You telling me you can’t even break free of a little octopus without my help?”

    A moment later a pair of axes drove into the break in its hide like wedges and black blood sprayed out over the defenders. The tentacle flinched but did not let go.

    “Some octopus. Anyone care to wager whether it’s going to eat us or just bust open our ship?” Einarr was not really in the mood for Erik’s jokes, but it was better to roll with them. The big man laughed again even as he was drawing his battle-axe back for another swing.

    Someone screamed from the other side of the deck, followed by a splash when they were knocked overboard.

    “More chopping, less laughing.” Arring grunted, frowning, before hurrying across to deal with this new threat.

    Einarr stabbed deep into the tentacle in front of him, to be rewarded by that eerie keening wail from the Grendel. Sinmora popped free just as Erik’s axe bit home again, and then there was a monstrous tentacle thrashing about on deck.

    Einarr and Erik danced out of the way, although not before being further doused in its foul blood. The other defenders at the prow rushed in to hoist the thing overboard.

    Across the deck, Arring had organized four or five others so that they all struck in sequence before taking the thing itself in a bear hug. The tentacle stretched as the rowers began to pick up speed. Another round of strikes severed it, and then Arring tossed the end overboard as though it were nothing.

    Not fast enough, unfortunately. Three more grasping arms wrapped themselves about the Vidofnir’s prow – enough that Stigander gave the order to stop rowing. Einarr heard but could not care as he rushed forward to hack at the sickly black-green flesh that now grappled with the ship he called home.

    He was not alone. Like woodcutters, the young warriors of the Vidofnir hacked at the trunk-like appendages with the only weapons they had to hand even as a fresh volley of flaming arrows soared overhead.

    Einarr glanced up at the sound, and could not make sense of what he saw rising from beneath the deck boards of the Grendel. It almost seemed to bubble upwards, as though it was made of boiling pitch, but as it rose thick stone-colored carapace seemed to harden around it from the bottom up.

    He paused, unable for a long moment to draw his eyes away from the spectacle on the enemy vessel. The flaming arrows that struck it – as most of them did, for there was no way the monstrosity could ordinarily have fit beneath the deck boards – caused another keening wail to rise. Whatever it was, it did not like fire.

    The sound of an axe striking hide beside him brought Einarr back to his senses and he caught Irding giving him a dirty look. Einarr shook his head and brought his sword back down into the narrow cut Erik’s son had widened for him – by more than one stroke.

    The tentacles were twitching, now, and Einarr could hear the wood of the railing begin to creak and crack. Dammit, no!

    Without waiting on Irding to take another blow, Einarr brought Sinmora back around with all of his strength and drove it deep into the wound. The cracking stopped, at least for the moment: it had felt that.

    He had no time to appreciate the effect of his blow, however: Irding’s blade was already sweeping down after Einarr’s. A quick twist of the wrist let him pull Sinmora directly back just a hair’s breadth before Irding would have dulled the both of them with his own blow. It was a contest, now, to see who could strike deepest and withdraw most quickly, and the risk of a chipped blade was worth freeing the Vidofnir of her bonds all the more swiftly.

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