Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Sinmora

  • 3.12 – Vanishing

    3.12 – Vanishing

    The first thing that caught Einarr’s attention about the cave was the scattering of skulls not five paces in. Someone had thought to take shelter here, long ago, and been eaten by kalalintu. At least, he assumed as much: it was possible they had died of starvation before the kalalintu nested above, but the other possibility seemed the more likely.

    The walls were solid stone as far as he could see, although the torchlight fell short of the back. His light held aloft like a brand, his other hand rested on Sinmora’s hilt for reassurance.

    Slowly he walked deeper into the cave. Nothing. No cracks in the walls where they might have pressed forward, no gaping pits in the floor they might have fallen through, no tracks, no new blazes. Einarr spun on his heel as his mind raced, searching for anything he might have missed.

    He glanced down at Jorir as his eyes roved about the room, but the dwarf’s brows were furrowed in consternation.

    From nearer the entrance, Tyr cursed to the sound of rolling stones. Einarr shouldered his way back, swallowing hard to ignore the pounding of his pulse.

    “What happened?” Tyr stood bent over, his leg held out at an odd angle with his boot under a lip of rock virtually indistinguishable from the floor.

    “Went to take a look at a weird shadow and a rock turned under my foot. Give me a hand, will you? I think I’m stuck.”

    Einarr and Jorir nodded as Jorir took hold of the man’s foot while Einarr bent to try and turn the rock trapping him to open the gap a little. After much careful prying and pressing, he gave a shove. The rock shifted.

    Tyr, braced to pull himself out of the gap as soon as the pressure lifted, staggered back a step or two. Einarr, from his position near the ground, stared into the hole he had made.

    “…I think I might know what happened to our two missing scouts.”

    ***

    The slab of stone seemed as though it must have been deliberately placed, although Einarr could not have guessed how or by whom. It was almost as though it hung on a hinge. On the other side, the rock sloped steeply downward, curving towards the center of the plateau.

    Einarr had straightened quickly after the passage was revealed to him. Probably the passage would submerge not long after it rounded the corner, at which point his men were probably dead… but he had to check.

    “Charcoal. Does anyone have a stick of charcoal or some chalk?”

    Odvir brandished a sharp triangle of shale. “Where are we going?”

    “Through there.” Einarr pointed at the passage he’d just seen and Odvir nodded. Moments later a sign was scratched on the stone of the wall and they were through, clambering carefully down the incline.

    Einarr shivered as they rounded the corner of the passage. No sign of water, yet, but the temperature was falling with every step they took. It would be hard to forgive himself if he killed two men in such a stupid way.

    Jorir grumbled about the pace Einarr set, but it sounded half-hearted to his ear.

    About fifty feet further on the passage opened out into a broad cavern – far broader than Einarr would have expected the tiny island could have supported. Torchlight glinted off the water forming much of the cavern floor.

    Einarr jumped as a voice echoed through the room. He called out. “Hello?”

    “Boti! Wake up, man, they found us.” Einarr still couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, but the excitement it carried was palpable.

    “Troa?”

    “We’re over here. Follow the wall to your right – and watch your step. There’s more than just wet rock down here.”

    Einarr clambered over the rocks, the rest of the team hot on his heels. “We’re coming. Can you move?”

    “I’m fine. Boti got a nasty knockabout finding this place… and, well, there’s something you need to see.”

    Einarr nearly tripped picking up his pace to get to where they were. When he looked down to see what it was, dread sank in his stomach.

    The torch in his hand illuminated the still-clothed skeletal remains of a chief or a captain. The skeleton’s fingers clutched at its throat. He stopped, furrowing his brow, and bent closer. The captain’s sword still hung from his bones, and the hilt showed no sign of rust.

    Einarr shook his head and continued on. Tempting as it was to look and see, to rob a captain of his sword – even in death – seemed wrong. And that was before taking into account the spirits haunting this place.

    He could see Troa’s shock of straw-colored hair in the flickering light now. Einarr stepped over the remains of the strangled Captain and hurried the last several paces past tide pools and jagged rocks to where the other man was rousting Boti back to consciousness. The man had the beginnings of a bruise covering the side of his face, and if he’d passed out down here that was hardly the end of it. Fortunately, he did seem to be blinking back to consciousness.

    Einarr gave a low whistle to see his crewmate’s injury. “What did I need to see, though?”

    Troa pointed ahead into another side chamber. From what the torchlight revealed, the entirety of the floor in there appeared to be covered with water. It couldn’t possibly be deep, however.

    Catching the firelight of the torches, magnifying it against the water, were piles of gold and jewels; valuables of all sorts the like Einarr had never seen. Even on Svartlauf.

    “What… how did this get here?”

    Boti groaned as Troa sat him up. “Who knows? I can’t tell if we’re looking at the Allthane’s barrow or the horde of some survivor who couldn’t take the seclusion. Either way…”

    Einarr nodded in agreement. “Either way, it’s what we came here looking for. Let’s get out of here, bring another team or two in the morning. In the mean time, we haven’t quite finished with that hulk up above.”

    “Aye, sir.” Troa pulled Boti to his feet, the semi-conscious man’s arm slung over his shoulder.

    Einarr took two steps back the way they had come. Then, in the same instant, each and every one of their torches snuffed out.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 3.7 – Battles’ End

    3.7 – Battles’ End

    The quick man had at the end not been quick enough, and the enemy leader wasted a precious moment in shock. The first man still stared in horror at the blade protruding from his chest when Arring lunged past him and the blade of his axe took off the enemy leader’s arm at the elbow.

    “It’s not too late to retreat,” he growled. The other man’s answer was to let his ally slide from the blade, but his face had gone pale.

    “Have it your way.” Arring brought his back foot forward and kicked, hard. The enemy leader went flying again, even as the crack of bone said his chest was caved in. Tveir.

    Now he turned. Snorli faced three men, but after Arring he was the man on watch best equipped to deal with that. Haki, though, looked like he might be in some trouble. The man stood watching his opponents, panting, as they circled him the way wolves might circle a deer.

    Arring let loose another battle roar and bulled forward at the nearest of the two. It was enough to distract the man from Haki, and then axe met long sword in the bind.

    His new opponent snarled, and Arring met it with a feral grin before sliding inside the man’s guard to cut at his knee.

    His opponent’s leg buckled with the force of the blow and he howled. Another of the assault squad dashed by him to catch his wounded comrade under the shoulder.

    They’re retreating? At least they know when they’re beaten. Arring was inclined to let them go. Some of the others started to pursue.

    “Stand down. Our job is here. If they come back we can beat them like the curs they are.”

    ***

    Einarr lunged toward a kalalintu that had come just within reach and nearly tripped over the carcass of one of its fellows. Reki’s battle chant had become a song of Endurance he knew not how long ago, and he was fairly certain it was the only reason any of them could still fight. Sinmora slashed across its back and the creature crumpled. How many is that now?

    When the fury had faded he had been relieved to see that they had broken away from the cliff face the creatures were trying to drive them off of – but somehow it felt like there were always more kalalintu.

    Except… did he hear them any more? The sea-bird shrieks had blurred and been forgotten ages ago, but now they actually seemed to be gone. Einarr looked up: they stood in the center of a field littered with bodies, not all of them monsters. Sinmora nearly dropped from his hand. He cleaned it on a feathered wing and sheathed his blade before he could lose hold of it.

    The kalalintu that wing had belonged to had fallen across the body of Henir. Of the thirty men who had gone to seek their fortune, six had fallen to the bloody birds, and the rational voice in his head whispered that they had been fortunate to lose so few. Still he could not look away. When Henir fell, the arrow he had not had a chance to fire remained stuck to the string.

    He swallowed the gorge that threatened to rise and strode over to where Jorir stood tying a bandage for Irding. This made eleven men they had lost so far this summer, between the Valkyries and the kalalintu. Most summers they lost none. “How is he?”

    “Well enough, I wager, but we’ll need to watch him for fever. More importantly -”

    “What about you?”

    Jorir snorted. “I was bloody worthless in that fight, right up until Fari over there hadn’t any more use for that brace of knives he carried. But I’m not wounded. You, though, you look like you’ve been through hell.”

    Henir and Fari. They’d been like brothers. At least they would sup with the gods together. “I’ve had better days. …Father. Erik.”

    The others were joining them in ones and twos, picking their way across the battlefield.

    “Einarr. These things seem awfully tough compared to the flocks this spring to you?”

    He nodded. “Smarter, too. Makes me wonder what else we’re up against.”

    “Wonder later.” Stigander looked around and sighed. “For right now, we need to get our men down from here and build a proper pyre for those as need it.”

    “Yes, sir,” came the unanimous reply.

    “I don’t think they’ll try for us again after that thrashing we gave them, but let’s all be a little quicker when someone tells you to cover your ears, got it?”

    A chorus of aye’s answered Stigander, and they went to work carting the bodies of the fallen down the narrow trail that had led them to their end in the first place. It was awkward work, but with three men to a body they still had enough people for an honor guard both before and behind their procession.

    Down on the beach, Irding and Svarek were dispatched to alert the watch and the repair crews, respectively, of what had occurred. The rest of them, meanwhile, were to gather wood and what funeral goods they could find from about the beach. It was far from ideal, but better a poor funeral than none at all.

    His arms half-full of wood, Einarr’s gathering took him over near his liege-man. “What think you, Jorir? Are we going to find anything here that’s worth all this?”

    “Find something? Sure. Whether or not its worth what we pay for it, well, only time will tell.”

    “Ah, here’s something.” Einarr brushed the sand away from the lid of a half-buried trunk with his free hand, then thought better of it and set down the wood he’d gathered. “Help me dig this out, will you?”

    The trunk the two uncovered appeared to have once belonged to a Singer, or perhaps an entire troupe of Singers, and was filled with all manner of instruments and jewelry. Einarr shared a look with Jorir: this should make a fine funerary offering.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 3.6 – By Man & Monster Beset

    3.6 – By Man & Monster Beset

    The chatter of kalalintu from above rattled Einarr’s nerves. They were starting to feint at diving, trying to keep their prey from escaping, nudging them ever closer to the ledge. Not good. “Henir!”

    The blond man snapped his head around and Einarr tossed his bow back to him. The archer wasted no time nocking another arrow. He studied the sky, looking for a promising target.

    The others had woken up by now. Some of them stuffed their ears, just in case one of the creatures began to sing again. Everyone drew arms.

    Another kalalintu dived for the Vidofnings, and Henir took the shot. His arrow caught its shoulder and the wing collapsed, sending the creature tumbling to the ground where the rest of the crew could make short work of it.

    Arrows soared. More found their marks than not, based on the furor above, but it hardly seemed enough. Einarr stood poised, his shield hand empty, Sinmora ready. Step by step, circle by circle, he saw the plateau ledge growing nearer.

    A kalalintu dived over his head. Einarr leapt, reaching with his free hand to catch its silver-scaled tail. It flapped harder, its powerful wings nearly strong enough to pull Einarr off his feet. He dug his heels in and threw his weight backward.

    The kalalintu rotated around its tail to pummel Einarr with its gigantic wings and he was forced to lower his head. Still he swung Sinmora around in a blind arc. His blade bit flesh, but not deeply.

    A moment later, the creature shrieked in his face and the wings let up for a moment. Einarr risked a glance up and saw Jorir pulling his axe from the creature’s side.

    Now the kalalintu’s attention was divided between the human grasping its tail and the dwarf, and now both men struck out at the same moment. Sinmora slashed across its breast in a wicked backhand at the same moment that Jorir embedded his axe in its belly. The creature fell to the ground.

    “Thanks. Was that your count or mine?”

    Jorir laughed. “You kidding? That shallow cut o’ yours wouldn’t kill a dog.”

    “And you’d never have got a chance at it if I wasn’t keeping it busy.” He was already watching the sky again, looking for another opportunity.

    “You mean if you hadn’t pulled it down on your head? You’re lucky you don’t have a beak in your skull. Call it a tie?”

    Einarr grunted in response. All around them now the kalalintu were swooping down to beat at the Vidofnings, as though Einarr’s catch had triggered a rage in them.

    Reki’s voice rose above the din. Finally! Einarr felt the red haze of the battle fury stirring and he roared a challenge at the circling monsters above.

    ***

    Arring had volunteered for the first watch not because he was uneager to see the island, but because the freeboaters had left an uneasiness in his breast. He thought most of the others were the same: they were unusually vigilant today, even for men of the Vidofnir.

    Hours passed in this way, as near as Arring could tell in the overcast. Once someone from the repair crew returned, to measure again the chink in the hull Einarr had found, but otherwise all was quiet.

    This circuit began as uneventfully as all the rest. Only, when he approached the prow to look out at the highest point, men were moving further up the beach. None of them Vidofnings. He gave a low whistle to alert the rest of his men.

    Arring swung down out of the Vidofnir to land lightly in the sand below. “What ho, gents,” he called to the men who now swaggered down the beach towards him.

    “Our Cap’n has reconsidered yer most generous offer of assistance.” The man spoke from the head of the oncoming party. His voice was oily. “We’ve been sent to see to it.”

    “Have you now. Well I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Our Captain gave strict orders to see to the repair of our ship first, and since they’ve not yet returned with materials your boat will simply have to wait.”

    “Ah, good sir, I think you mistake my meaning.” Their spokesman dry-washed his hands.

    Arring sighed and muttered, “I think I am not the one who has made a mistake.” Raising his voice again, he continued. “And how might that be?”

    The freeboaters did not deign to answer except by the scrape of steel and the roar of a battle-cry.

    “Hop to, men!” There were only ten of them on watch, and perhaps twenty of the freeboaters come to capture the Vidofnir. With a feral snarl, he hefted his axe.

    His companions boiled out of the Vidofnir to join him on the sand, join him in the charge up the beach toward those who would rob them of all they had.

    Arring’s first blow caught the enemy leader in the stomach and sent him flying back. Two of the enemies were bowled over by his passing. Impressively, he stood again, blood dripping from beneath his chain shirt. Ein?

    …No. Credit for guts, though. Rather than limping back away from the fight to observe, the spokesman rushed back into the fray. Then another man had engaged with Arring and he found he had little attention to spare. The man was quick enough he might have given Sivid a run for his money.

    Arring’s strength counted for little against a man who could dodge like an adder. Still, he managed to block most of the man’s blows, although those which got through stung ferociously.

    In a moment when their axes were in the bind Arring caught movement from the corner of his eye: something rushing towards them. He side-stepped, bringing his opponent’s back in between himself and the onrushing figure of the enemy leader. With the quick man still off-balance, Arring knocked him backwards with a shoulder, right onto his allies’ sword.

    Ein.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 3.5 – Between Wind & Water

    3.5 – Between Wind & Water

    “What’s this?” Erik paused to look back at Einarr.

    “Stop and listen a minute. Hear that?”

    After a moment, a growl came from low in Erik’s throat. “Better us than the repair crew.”

    Einarr nodded and pushed forward. Father and Bardr, at least, needed to know, and the rest probably should as well. Jorir, at minimum. Everyone whose attention he caught he gestured at his ear. Listen.

    Stigander was near the front of the group, paused near a somewhat less rotted-looking ship than most of the others on this section of beach.

    “Father,” Einarr said from behind the man’s shoulder. When Stigander’s only response was a turned head and a raised eyebrow, he continued. “We’re approaching the kalalintu flock.”

    “You’re sure?”

    “Erik heard them, too.”

    Stigander nodded. “Spread the word that every man is to have his cotton balls to hand.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Once you’re done, get back up here to the front. We need your eyes.”

    Half of a grin turned up one side of his mouth. “Understood.”

    ***

    Einarr combed through the dross within another of the rotted hulks they had passed, cotton balls tucked into the cuffs of his gloves. Thus far, it had yielded a barrel of ancient vinegar that may once have been mead and a handful of silver combs and ladies’ jewelry. Valuable, certainly, but nothing like what they were hoping to stumble into. He dusted off his palms against his trousers and was just about to leave the wreck when he stopped.

    Something didn’t sound right. Einarr hurriedly pulled the wads of cotton from their place at his wrists and jammed them in his ears.

    Outside, nothing appeared to have changed. His fellow Vidofnings combed other wrecks in much the same state as the one he had just left, with evidently similar results. He reached to pull out one of his ear plugs but stopped. The boat he had just left had not had a masthead when he went in. Now it’s shadow seemed to display a great winged serpent. His hand crept toward Sinmora’s hilt.

    From behind him and above, the low gobbling chatter than one expects of seabirds became a haunting, ethereal trill as the shadow’s source opened its beak.

    “Cover your ears!”

    Some of the Vidofnings, accustomed to Stigander’s tone of command, acted before they realized the source of the order was Einarr. Others, startled, looked up to see what was going on. Their eyes widened and they scrambled for the cotton wads they had tucked about themselves, but too late. Even those who had obeyed reflexively were not all safe: some of them fumbled their cotton balls, others were simply too slow.

    In every case, the result was the same: the relaxation of the face into a dull, vacant expression. Horror clutched at Einarr’s throat when he realized that Reki was among them. How are we supposed to dispel this if our Singer is out?

    He turned around and drew Sinmora with a hiss of steel, but the kalalintu that had been in hiding now flapped ten feet above the ground.

    Jorir, Bardr, Erik, and Stigander were looking about as frantically as he, hoping someone had shown the sense to bring a bow. The few who had, though, were already wandering dumbly after the monstrosity that would feast on their bones if they were incautious.

    Jorir seemed to have an idea. He put a finger to his lips for silence and then tapped at his temple, hoping they would take the hint. The dwarf’s face went slack and his shoulders relaxed and he began to trudge up the beach, in pursuit of the song.

    Clever! Einarr followed suit, his sword held loosely, as he followed after the kalalintu flapping slowly away from the beach. As the shore became rocky soil he risked a glance over his shoulder. He then had to suppress a smile when he saw that all of them had caught on to Jorir’s pantomime.

    The band of entranced sailors trudged on towards a large plateau of rock that dominated its surroundings. As they drew closer, the sound of the flock grew clearer. The people of Attilsund claimed they had little trouble with kalalintu in this area, but the flock sounded no smaller than any of the ones they had fought on their way to Svartlauf. His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, only for a moment. Well, not for long.

    Finally their aerial guide stopped moving forward, flapping in lazy circles over the top of the plateau. It’s song still filtered through the cotton balls, tempting Einarr to sleep. At least with his ears stopped it was bearable. There was only one way up for the sailors, and that was a narrow trail switch-backing up the shallowest path.

    Einarr swallowed. They would be vulnerable on that path, and there were only five of them who might be able to stop one of the birds who decided they didn’t want to wait for dinner. His eyes darted between the backs of the men just ahead of him. With as high up as the thing was, he might be able to go unnoticed while borrowing a bow.

    Ah, he has one. With a little careful maneuvering, Einarr managed to position himself behind Henir as their mob started up the narrow path. Getting it from him without being seen would be a little trickier, but so long as there was a moment when the circling kalalintu couldn’t see him… Now.

    Einarr slipped the bow off Henir’s shoulder and onto his own in a moment when the plateau’s ledge blocked the view of the still-singing creature. He reached out for the man’s quiver just as Henir stepped back out of the shade of the plateau. Hastily, Einarr dropped his hand and took on the vacant expression again.

    Slowly they filed up to the top of the plateau, where most of the Vidofnings stood milling about like sheep under the influence of the kalalintu’s song. All around them were haystack nests filled with silvery eggs, being watched over jealously by some of the flock.

    About half of the kalalintu took to the air. The singing one continued to fly in small circles above the heads of its captives. The rest formed a larger ring in eerie silence and flew in counterpoint to their singer.

    Einarr snatched an arrow from Henir’s quiver and fired it at the singer above. The arrow flew true, and the song broke off with a startled squawk.

    Tcheh. He’d hoped to drop one, but ending the song was the critical thing. Even now his fellows were blinking back to full consciousness as the circling kalalintu launched into raucous chatter.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.16 – Desperate Battle

    2.16 – Desperate Battle

    One down, five to go… Four. Einarr stared through the gap in the circle where his fallen opponent had been and set his jaw. A cry of shock from the other side of Arring said his partner had felled another, but already more Valkyries rushed towards their circle. In only a moment, the two fallen would be replaced by four more. A hollow space opened up in his belly: if there were this many men to deal with the two of them, the fight was going badly all over.

    Four men became eight. Einarr could spare no thought for the shallow cuts that got through his guard or for the fate of his fellows. Three times his boot nearly crushed Bardr’s nose as he dodged a blow. Three times he moved in time, but on the third he stumbled.

    “Einarr!” Arring lunged, ignoring for a moment the flock of vultures trying to peck out their eyes. Einarr’s shoulder slammed into his crewmate’s back, but the man didn’t budge.

    “Thanks,” he grunted. Einarr took the opportunity to lash out with a boot toward one of the Valkyries within range. He heard the satisfying snap when foot hit nose, and the sailor cursed even as blood began to flow down his face.

    Such a minor thing was not enough to knock the fight out of a Valkyrie, of course. Einarr launched himself off Arring’s back with a roar. Sinmora whistled as the blade drove for the man’s skull.

    He, too, had allies, though. A saber flashed, and instead of the sound of steel biting flesh it was steel striking steel that rang out.

    Einarr snarled, ripping his blade back to cut thrice at the three men ahead of him. Blood bloomed on their tunics. Two of them turned a sickly green and dropped to their knees, clutching their stomachs as though to hold in their innards. The third snarled back.

    Moist heat gushed from Einarr’s calf. Pain would come later. That was a deep one, but not as deep as the one the Valkyrie got in return. If he lived, he would never father another child.

    Einarr’s lungs burned. Even under the full strength of Reki’s song fatigue slowed his arms and fear clutched at his throat. This was like no other battle he had seen. It seemed as though there were no end to the Valkyries, even though their hunting parties were never more than two ships together. Their assailants had ebbed, if only for a moment. He inhaled deeply, smelling sour bile and the iron tang of blood.

    Arring’s voice rang out. “Behind you!”

    Einarr turned. A javelin – not a crossbow bolt, a javelin – hurtled for his breast. Ah, so that’s why I didn’t feel anything. There was no time to dodge. There was no time to bring his shield or sword to bear. The fates had decreed that this moment was his time.

    Einarr lowered his eyelids, accepting his fate. In the moment before they closed, Arring’s sturdy figure seemed to fly into the path of the javelin.

    Einarr’s eyes flew open again when he saw what was happening. He screamed in denial.

    The javelin found the weak point in Arring’s mail. Blood spurted from his back even as Einarr dashed forward to catch his crewmate… his friend. The world went red.

    The next thing Einarr was aware of, he stood alone in a pile of corpses. At his feet lay Bardr and Arring, both gone. A few other lone figures remained of the Vidofnir’s crew, each surrounded by a ring mound of bodies. Jorir. Reki. Erik. One or two others… Father.

    He strode to where the others gathered around Stigander, the wound in his leg somehow vanished. “Father.”

    “Einarr.” The words were calm and level, but both knew the other’s heart at this moment.

    “How many are left?”

    “Just those you see here.”

    Einarr nodded, looking down at his blood-stained boots. “Where will you take us now?”

    Stigander’s voice was tired when he finally answered. “I don’t know.”

    “You’re not giving up?” He lifted his head to meet his father’s gaze with a challenge.

    Stigander shook his head.

    “Good.”

    “I’ll be damned if I know how we’re supposed to win back Raenshold with just the few of us, though. And this just cost us everything we’ve earned towards winning the hand of your bride.”

    “It was always going to be a matter of wits, Father. Our birthright was stolen from us by guile, and by guile it shall be won.”

    “We will still require force of arms to back up our wits, son. After this, we’ll be lucky to find enough men to crew our ship, let alone turn our cause from doom.”

    “We’ll find a way. If for no other reason, Father, than the battle here today.”

    Now his father looked alarmed, but Einarr did not give him the chance to interrupt.

    “The Order of the Valkyrie has wronged the sons of Raen and the men of Breidelsteinn this day – grievously. And they will pay, Father.”

    “They already have, Einarr. Look around you. We were outnumbered, and yet it is we who yet live.”

    “Are you really all right with that, Father?”

    “Even our entire clan does not have the resources to go after the Order of the Valkyrie. Others have tried, and wiped themselves from the map in the process.”

    “Then we shall gather other clans to our cause.”

    “You realize they’ve an agreement with the Empire, right?”

    “So be it. The Vidofnir is my home, and her crew my family. I will not allow this to stand.” He heard the coldness in his own voice as the words left his mouth. He had never experienced rage as a cold thing before, but in this moment it was right. The Order of the Valkyries, and by extension the Empire, would not rest until every Clan was wiped out – their hunters today showed that well enough. If defending his kin meant taking the battle to them, then so be it.

    “I swear before all of you, by steel and by stone, by the one bound beneath a tree and she who stirs the winds, that our kin shall be avenged, even if it takes my whole life to do it.”

    He stood there, staring, for a long moment before he realized that his father was frozen rather than speechless. The sound of silver bells drifted to his ears on the wind from out of nowhere.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.15 – The Second Trial

    2.15 – The Second Trial

    Einarr rounded a corner in the track he had blindly followed toward the well and breathed a sigh of relief to see his companions there. In terrain such as this, you might not have to fail a test to become hopelessly lost. Stigander and Arring were blinking back out of the dream, confusion turning to understanding and determination.

    Jorir stepped back onto the path from the other direction. Whatever his trial had been, he still wore the pain of it on his face.

    Einarr caught his liege man’s eye and quirked an eyebrow, but the dwarf only shook his head, slowly, in response.

    Now Sivid was blinking back to consciousness. The skinny man swallowed hard, his mouth twisted into a rictus, but in no more than the time it had taken the rest of them to realize their circumstances he had schooled his face again.

    “The Oracle doesn’t take kindly to people sharing their trials together,” Jorir stated before anyone could broach the subject. His voice was husky. “Your vision will have been drawn from your own experiences, but it may contain glimpses of things to come… or that have already come to pass.”

    “We should continue.” Stigander’s voice rumbled. He, too, looked unhappy at what he had seen, but had more of determination about it than the dwarf.

    “Yes, Father.” What did they see? For his part, Einarr had known what sort of man Jarl Hroaldr was, and so his vision had not troubled him unduly. Seeing the reactions of his companions, however, he worried a little about how the other two trials would be.

    The path to the Weaver’s Palace continued to wind its way upward, through the ever-sparser forest and into alpine meadows, surpassing even Svartlauf in wildness. They were wild, but Einarr felt no menace in these fields. He would have been hard pressed to say how much of that related to the knowledge that no jotün prowled this island.

    As the morning wore on towards noon the clouds dispersed and the wildflowers growing to either side of the path almost seemed to glow in the newfound sunlight. Jorir growled at them not to relax too much here, as the second trial could begin at any time now, but otherwise they walked in silence. The further they climbed, the harsher the path became.

    A haze seemed to settle around Einarr’s thoughts. Two steps later, he found himself on the deck of a ship – not the Vidofnir. His first impression was of a dromon: looking about himself, he saw the all-too-familiar wing and spear.

    That was the moment when he realized he already wielded Sinmora, and the weight of his hauberk dragged on his shoulders. His shield appeared to be lost, but now Reki’s voice lured him into battle although the Singer was nowhere to be seen.

    To his left, Jorir and Erik fought back-to-back and Einarr chuckled to see the smallest member of the crew defending for the one of the largest. To his right was another matter.

    A circle of Valkyries had formed around sturdy, staid Arring and looked set to overwhelm him. Having seen that, there was only one thing for Einarr to do: he dashed the half-dozen steps that would bring him to the outside of their circle.

    Einarr swung. The light glinted off Sinmora’s blade, and he cut a wide gash across the Valkyrie’s back. To his credit, the man did not cry out, but he did give way as Einarr drove himself like a wedge through their encirclement to join his crewmate at the center.

    It was only after he’d broken through that he saw Arring stood guard over the fallen body of Bardr. His crewman must have seen shock in his eyes, because the man’s nod seemed to carry ‘he’s alive’ along with his thanks for the assist. He scooped up their Mate’s shield and stood back-to-back with the other man. Two against six was somewhat better odds than he’d had before, even if his help was the one man onboard who could not be allowed to die. Maybe I am too reckless?

    He had no more time for thought. A pair of sabers cut towards Einarr in the same breath. He slammed his shield out to catch the one on his left with a satisfying thud, but then he had only one hand to put behind his longsword parry.

    Einarr had no focus for anything but the onslaught of blades. Reki’s song drew him ever deeper into the battle-fury – it was strange, though, and oddly wonderful, to realize that he had all the strength of her song and yet retained all of his faculties. The Valkyries pressed the two of them hard, and with Bardr down between them Einarr had little room to maneuver.

    He lashed out with Sinmora at one of the three harrying him. The man looked stunned for an instant as he withdrew the blade and blood welled from beneath his chin. A strangling noise escaped his mouth and the Valkyrie fell. One down, five to go…

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.7 – Song of War, Song of Peace

    2.7 – Song of War, Song of Peace

    The Valkyrian hunter’s aim was steady. Any moment could give him the clear shot he needed to take out Reki.

    Einarr ran, every footfall pounding a resounding ‘no’ against the deck of the Geirskögul. A fighter dodged someone else’s blow into Einarr’s path: Einarr shoved past him roughly, not even noticing if it was hunter or Vidofning. Three steps further on his leg lit up with the heat of being cut. It would hurt, later. Now, all that mattered was the crossbowman whose sights were set on Mother/Reki. The reasoning part of his brain flagged that juxtaposition for later thought.

    The hunter had his crossbow snug against his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger. Not close enough…

    Einarr willed his legs faster. The hot one felt sluggish: it must have been a bad hit. He raised Sinmora for an overhand strike. Almost there…

    Two paces from his target, Einarr roared. That caught his attention: the hunter nearly dropped his crossbow when he looked toward the threat and saw near two hundred pounds of red-headed warrior barreling at him.

    The hunter swung his bow around to Einarr, but too late. Einarr’s swing had already begun, and the mighty blow to defend their battle chanter cleaved the man’s skull in two. Tre.

    He turned, seeking his next enemy. The cut in his leg was filed away with other irrelevancies, such as why the Geirskögul apparently didn’t have a Painter, the throbbing in his leg, or how Jorir was managing.

    A Valkyrie came for him, then, his face contorted by vengeful rage which he did not know how to properly harness. The man’s vengeance for his crewmate broke against the battle fury of Reki’s song. Fjorir.

    Einarr’s count hit twenty-five before Reki’s hymn began to slow and the fury ebbed from his mind and his muscles at once. His arms and legs were on fire, and not just from swinging Sinmora about or hefting his shield: that cut to his leg had nearly hamstrung him, it seemed, and his arms were a mess of shallower wounds.

    Some few of the Valkyrian crew surrendered – deck hands, mostly, still green enough to be willing to take their chances as thralls in the north. The Valkyries had no cowards in their ranks.

    Einarr glanced around: Stigander stood, his arms crossed, watching as his fellows hauled valuables from the hold of the Geirskögul across the planks. He took one step forward, intending to assist, and felt the blood running down his leg. He would be no help like this. Best go see Reki. I guess I’ll see firsthand if her healing song is as good as her battle chant.

    No few of his crewmates were clustered around Reki when Einarr hobbled up. A bubble of calm surrounded them, supported by the gentle mood of a Singer’s healing song. That song magic could heal at all was a mystery to those outside the Singer’s ranks: it was a magic that played on the mind, typically. Einarr had asked Grimhildr, once, but the answer had made no sense at the time and been quickly forgotten.

    Reki’s sultry voice was one of uncommon power: as Einarr relaxed in the field of her song, he watched as wounds knit themselves before his very eyes. Such a wisp of a woman tied to that voice. Will Sivid get to her first, or Erik, I wonder? They were idle thoughts, no more, as he allowed himself to be swept along.

    Some few were not so lucky. The crewmen who knew their way around a medicine bag applied compresses or stitches to wounds too deep to heal with the magic alone – Einarr spotted both Tyr and Jorir among the wound-dressers – and the sound of axe hafts drumming on shields said that at least one of their number would henceforth sup with the gods. Idly, Einarr wondered who: when his mind came free of the song he knew the loss would hit him.

    Something jostled Einarr’s healing leg. He rolled his eyes downward to see what: Jorir. He offered the dwarf a drunken smile. “Be good as new soon enough. Scratch like this shouldn’t merit more’n the song.”

    Jorir snorted. “Sure, you say that now, after I’ve done poulticed it up. That blade near took your leg off. Give me a look at the rest ‘o you now.”

    “Fine, fine, worry wort. …Looks like you fared well enough in the battle.”

    Jorir chuckled as he looked Einarr over for more serious wounds. Most of them showed new pink flesh where they had already knit together. “I get the impression these so-called Valkyries aren’t used to fighting dvergr.”

    “Not too surprising. Most of the clans are human, after all. They’ve been known to defend földvergr villages, though.”

    Jorir snorted. “Földvergr. Pretentious.” He paused, still staring at his lord’s arm. “You’re a reckless fighter, if you’ll pardon me saying so. I might be more mindful of my father’s predicament, in your shoes. Else a lot of people are like to be sore disappointed some day.”

    Einarr raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to answer, but the dwarf wasn’t done.

    “What were ye thinkin’, dashing half way across the ship like that? Nearly got yerself killed that way, an’ for what?”

    Now Einarr pursed his lips. If the dwarf had seen that, he had to answer. “He had his sights on Reki… and this is the first time in a long time that our battle chanter has not also held the title of Mother for me.” He didn’t really understand the juxtaposition himself, yet, only that there was a habit of thought involved.

    Jorir nodded, his brows drawn down in thought for a long moment.

    Einarr hummed. “Well? Is your poultice safely tied? The death-drumming’s been going for a while now. It’s probably time I investigated.”

    “Go on, then. They may not have known what to do with me, but they certainly took their pound o’ flesh.”

    Einarr sighed, calling together the energy to stand up and leave the comfortable envelope of song magic. “I was afraid of that.” He wiped the palms of his hands on his pant legs, despite the fact that they were dry. Sooner or later, someone was going to have to deal with the Order of the Valkyrie.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 1.24 – Giant’s Palace

    1.24 – Giant’s Palace

    In the next heartbeat Sinmora was in Einarr’s hand. He pressed himself against the central pillar as he raised the sword to parry the dwarf’s blade. That was a long drop off the other side – one he definitely did not intend to take himself.

    Axe struck long sword and the dwarf jumped backward, eyeing the drop himself.

    “You could have just opened the door and been on about your business, you know.”

    “Just like you could have turned back after your friend got chomped. My master is most displeased about his dog.”

    “The wolf should be fine. My friend, on the other hand…”

    “Got what he deserves.” The dwarf lunged again, striking out at Einarr’s chest from his position on the high ground.

    Clang! This blow, too, was parried. Einarr edged up a step and struck at the dwarf’s inside arm.

    The dwarf dodged back. He, too, was wary of the long drop. Caution wasn’t going to win this fight, then.

    “If you put your axe down and open the door, neither of us has to die.”

    “I let you through, my master kills me. I kill you, he rewards me. Now, which would you choose?”

    Einarr shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He lunged upward, his body low to the stairs, and slashed at the dwarf’s knees.

    His opponent jumped, and Einarr was forced backwards to avoid the plunging axe aimed for his head.

    The dwarf drove the axe with such force that the head bit into a join in the stone stairs. He tugged on the handle, but it was wedged fast.

    Einarr saw his opportunity and seized it. He surged forward, shoulder first, knocking the dwarf up the stairs and away from his weapon. Before the dwarf had time to blink Einarr followed through with a backhand strike to his mouth. The crunching sound suggested he’d broken teeth. A flat-footed kick landed on the dwarf’s face and he stumbled backward another step.

    That gave the dwarf just enough time to regain his balance and counter-surge. He bent at the waist and charged forward in a tackle. Einarr backpedaled a step or two, but tightened his stomach in time to avoid being winded.

    For his trouble, the dwarf got a knee to the jaw. He spat blood but did not let go. Einarr’s lips curled into the rictus of a snarl as he brought his elbow down on the base of the dwarf’s skull.

    Now the dwarf slumped, releasing his grip about Einarr’s waist as he slipped to the rough stone stair beneath their feet.

    Einarr puffed air through his moustache. Finally. He started to pick his way around the dwarf’s unconscious form, and then an idea hit him. He turned, only for a moment, and pocketed the key that the dwarf kept on a thong about his neck. “I’ll be taking that.”

    Now Einarr took the rest of the stairs back to the landing, stepping as softly as he could. He opened the door and bent over to peek through.

    What he saw made little sense: flagstones the size of carts, and wooden pillars that rose beyond what he could see from his hiding place. He neither heard nor felt the thunderous steps of the Jotün, and so he slipped outside the dwarf-sized door embedded in the giant-sized wall and locked it behind him.

    He turned. Staring upward, the tree-like pillars were the legs of an oversized table and chairs. Crates and barrels and sacks were piled haphazardly against the walls. I wonder if this is how rats see the world? It was a struggle not to gawk. The room reeked of stale sweat and rotted meat. Einarr wrinkled his nose as he surveyed the room, looking for a better vantage point.

    The table legs were too smooth to climb, and the bench likely wouldn’t get him any better of a view. Besides, if he climbed the table he might have to see where that smell was coming from. Instead, he moved in front of the stacks along the wall. A stack of potato sacks looked like it would do, but more promising was the pyramid of crates in the corner ahead.

    The nearer he drew, the better the crates looked. The slats were rough-hewn, with enough space between that he could use them as hand- or foot-holds. Up he went, pulling himself up the outside of the boards like an oversised inchworm. At the top of each crate he took the time to look around the room, not wanting to go any higher than he had to in order to locate his goal.

    He scaled three chests in this manner before he could see across the top of the jotün’s table and get an idea of what sort of a hall this solitary giant kept.

    The top of the table was littered with the remains of past meals, dirty dishes and bones alike. Einarr forced himself to look away from the carnage of the table to study the walls.

    There were doors about the hall into other rooms. This in itself was unusual, although he wondered why the Jotün bothered: the only one closed was the one he had locked behind himself. The third thing he noticed was that the owner did not, in fact appear to be home. No figure slept in the bed behind the large double-doors in the back, just as he had not felt the giant’s footsteps earlier. If Fraener was out about the island hunting, that was so much the better for Einarr – provided, of course, he was not hunting the Gufuskalam.

    One door stood closer to closed than the others, and it was through there Einarr spotted the glint of gold. There we go.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 1.11 – Capture

    1.11 – Capture

    For three days the sky was clear and the wind was fair, and Einarr kept one hand on the tiller while he and his stolen bride spoke of many things, laying plans for how they would live once they were officially wed – and occasionally trading kisses. For all her various skills Runa knew nothing of navigation, and so when night fell they would drop anchor in spite of the pursuers they expected but could not see and sleep. Einarr was glad that Runa did not push herself at him, for after so many hours in such close proximity he would have been hard pressed to refuse. For all that they remained chaste, however, it was no small feat of endurance.

    He caught her watching him several times, and she caught him at least once. She had been singing for the joy of it, and the music bolstered his tired mind. His eye fell upon the flaxen braid hanging below her hips on the seat and took in the perfection of her form. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, and a tightness spread across his stomach. He felt his face heat in a blush as he looked away, but not quickly enough to miss the hunger in her own eyes. No. Bad enough to steal her away; you will not have her until you are properly wed.

    On the fourth day a storm blew up. The sky turned dark, and Einarr furled the sail and took up oars. He wasn’t sure how much he could do, but he had to at least try to keep them on course. Runa sang of warmth and light and the strength of a man’s arms, and the song magic fortified him. Einarr battled the waves to keep them on course, and while she sang he did not feel the chill of the rain or the strain of his arms. But not even song magic could make his vision pierce the veil of rain.

    He did not know how long he had fought the storm when the sound of metal striking wood raised his hackles. He turned to look over his shoulder without letting go of the oars. Behind them, their approach masked by the sheeting rain and the rumbling thunder, the Skudbrun of Kjell Hall loomed. The sound that had alerted him were the two hooks now embedded in the side of their skiff that secured a pair of boarding lines. Einarr thrust the oars forward and Runa took charge of them.

    Einarr drew Sinmora and stood between her father’s ship and Runa, expecting even in that moment it would be hopeless. He would fight, of course, but with these odds…

    The first man down the rope was one Einarr recognized from long ago. Seven years ago, he had been the one to defeat the team of Einarr and Runa in their goat-game, and all winter long they’d had a friendly rivalry going on. “Barri.”

    “Einarr.”

    Einarr glanced back at Runa: the princess’ eyes kept darting between the two men, nearly as worried for Barri’s fate as for Einarr’s. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you’d let us settle this with arm-wrestling – for the Princess’ sake?”

    “You know I can’t do that.”

    “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

    “Should’ve thought of that before you took off with her.” Barri took a testing swing toward Einarr with his own blade, which was easily parried.

    “I did. But that includes her.” Now Einarr slashed at Barri with the blunt edge of his blade. This, too, was parried.

    Barri shrugged, and then the fight began in earnest.

    Under ordinary circumstances, Einarr thought he’d be more than a match for Barri at swordplay. These were not ordinary circumstances, however, and between his inability to give ground without putting Runa in harm’s way and the awkward swing he used to strike with Sinmora’s blunt edge Barri actually had the edge. Time and again metal struck metal, Einarr’s saving grace the fact that he could prevent his opponent’s maneuvering just as much as his own movements were limited.

    Finally, Barri tried to skewer Einarr on the tip of his sword and forgot his guard. It was only a moment, but that was enough. Einarr raised Sinmora to his opposite shoulder and swung.

    The flat of the blade struck the other man across the face and he stumbled to the deck, stunned. A small scream escaped Runa’s lips.

    “He’ll be fine,” Einarr said. “Whether or not we will is another question.”

    “Be careful,” was all she said. Another Brunning was right on Barri’s heels, pressing forward to get ahead of where his crewmate was beginning to stir, and then he was fighting again. Blades clashed, and a second Brunning fell to the deck, stunned. A third advanced, axe raised, even as Barri took his feet once more.

    Over the clang of sword against axe, the solid thunk of a hook embedding itself in the wood caught Einarr’s attention. He glanced up, hardly daring to take his attention away from one of Runa’s countrymen, to see another boarding line attached to the side of their little skiff.

    “Einarr, enough.” Tears filled her voice and nearly distracted him from a blow that would have taken his sword arm off at the elbow. “I can’t bear to see anyone get hurt here.”

    “Tell that to the Brunnings,” he grunted, bringing Sinmora’s haft down on the back of his opponent’s neck.

    A swarthy bear of a man was sliding down the third boarding line, an axe at his belt and an unfamiliar grim expression riding on his otherwise familiar features. Einarr stood ready to duel the newcomer, too, even after the cinnamon-colored braids and beard resolved themselves into the uncharacteristically grim face of Erik, one of his Father’s best men.

    1.10 – Runaway Bride 1.12 – Negotiations
    Table of Contents
  • 1.10 – Runaway Bride

    1.10 – Runaway Bride

    Spring thaw was not far off, and Stigander was impatient to be off hunting the Grendel. If they were going to act, it would need to be quickly, before the Vidofnir sailed and the two young lovers lost their chance forever. At court the night after they had agreed, Runa passed Einarr a message: her lady in waiting had gone to purchase them a fishing boat from the village across the island.

    They hid the skiff in a cove up the coast from the Vidofnir’s mooring, and for the remainder of the Ice found ways – separately, of course – to squirrel supplies away on their skiff. Food, water, sea charts, a sextant… Einarr hoped it would be enough, because there would be no going back.

    The night of the Equinox was to be a full moon, and it was bad fortune to sail before then. The timing troubled Einarr, but the superstition said nothing of the night itself. Surely that would be near enough? That was the night Einarr judged they would have the best chance of escaping, and so they decided to risk it. Forgive me, Father. I could not refuse her.

    As the last light of sunset faded on the last night of winter, Einarr wandered past the table and hid some scraps of meat inside a small sack he carried beneath his cloak. He took no torch, and if anyone noticed when he slipped out they probably assumed he was headed for the outhouse. He gently lifted Sinmora from its hiding place beneath the eaves, pressing the sheath against his breast as he crossed the meadow. The light of the moon silvered the new spring grass around him, but he spared little attention for the beauties of the night.

    Finally the shadow of the spruce wood rose up before him, and as he stepped into the deeper shade of a tree he buckled the sword about his waist. Its weight was a comfort, but its absence in the hall would give them away. He only hoped it was noted late, once they were already on the water.

    Now he saw Runa nearly running across the open field, her face cast into shadow, her hair shining silver in the light. His breath caught in his throat, and all doubts as to their course fled his mind. Her cloak billowed behind her, and he saw a bag slung over one shoulder.

    She, too, stepped into the shadow of the forest, and Einarr released a breath he had not known he held as she threw her arms about his neck. “Ready?” She whispered.

    He nodded.

    “Follow me.”

    Out of sight of the Hall, in the shadow of the wood, they fairly flew down the well-remembered path to the cove Runa’s maid had favored. Only the need to step quietly, even here, slowed them, for the moon was bright and full. Einarr kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, his ears alert for trouble, even as he gripped Runa’s hand in his other. Two main concerns troubled his mind as they fled down the path: wolves, and the hounds of the Hall.

    The path they followed to their hidden cove was long and meandering, and they had gone perhaps half the distance when one of those concerns came to the forefront.

    A dog bayed.

    “Hurry!” Runa’s voice was edged with worry but not at all winded.

    “You go on ahead. I’ll slow them down and meet you there.”

    “Be careful.”

    Einarr grunted acknowledgment and stepped off the path to crouch in a bush. The darkness was still his best ally, but with dogs the men from the hall were sure to catch up. He scanned his surroundings. In the mottled light under the trees his eyes tried to play tricks, but he still spotted a deadfall just up the path.

    He hurried forward, his boots light on the loamy ground, and put a shoulder to the log. Einarr was pleasantly surprised to find it light, hollowed out and dried by time. He moved it down a side path and set one end on a stone, leaving a gap between wood and ground. Into this gap he shoved pieces of the meat he stole earlier, as well as one of his leather gloves. To screen the bait, he covered it with fallen branches. That should keep them busy for a little while, anyway.

    His trap set, Einarr hurried back to the cove trail as best he could, sacrificing a little speed in the name of moving quietly. It would be for nothing if he could not make it back to Runa, after all.

    Some ways further down the familiar path, he smirked when he heard the sound of someone shouting at the dogs and picked up the pace. It probably wouldn’t take them long to get the dogs back on the real trail.

    Indeed, not many minutes later the shouting stopped, followed after far too short a time by the sound of baying hounds.

    Light reflected off of water up ahead and he poured on the speed, sprinting for the sea like he would charge for a boarding line. Einarr scrambled down the scree-covered path to the water. His distraction had slowed the hunters just barely long enough; he could hear his father’s voice bellowing behind, loudly enough that he did not worry about clattering rocks giving away his position. Runa stood in the bow of the boat with an oar resting on the wet sand below. Her hair glowed in the moonlight, a halo suggesting her true origins.

    Three bounds took him across the tiny beach, and Einarr vaulted into the boat next to his stolen bride. Her smile was sweet as he took the oar from her hands and pushed off the shore, even as the dogs began racing down the rocky path with Stigander close on their heels.

    The dogs stopped at the water’s edge, barking furiously. Runa’s boat had caught the tide, and they were deeper than the hounds wished to swim. Stigander stopped, also, and held his torch aloft.

    “I’m sorry, father,” Einarr called across the gulf. Runa’s arms curled around him from behind, offering what support she could.

    “Do you think that you will be safe because you are my only son?” Stigander’s voice cracked with anger and betrayal and hurt – and sorrow. A pang of guilt stabbed through Einarr’s resolve, but it was only a pang.

    “No, Father. And yet, she has persuaded me. Happy hunting when you seek the Grendel.” Einarr took his seat and began rowing, turning his back on his father and the Vidofnir.

    1.9 – Spring Thaw 1.11 – Capture
    Table of Contents