Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Sivid

  • 2.21 – A Tune for All Seasons

    2.21 – A Tune for All Seasons

    Einarr furrowed his brow at Runa’s suggestion, confused. “A… tune? But Song Magic is fundamentally ephemeral.”

    “Indeed.” All hint of sensuality was gone from Reki’s voice, and Einarr heard what sounded like a warning threat in her tone.

    He bristled: this was his wife she used that tone with, after all.

    “Song magic is utterly unsuited for such a task. I don’t know what you’re even thinking about.”

    Runa looked back down at the table and took a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and looked Einarr directly in the eye. “Yes. Song magic is utterly unsuited to the task I have in mind… at least as it is typically thought of. There is another layer, however. A deeper layer.”

    “Such things are not worthy of you, Queen of Breidelsteinn.”

    “And yet it is an option I am willing to place on the table, Master Chanter.” She turned her attention back toward Einarr, as though afraid to look away now, and swallowed hard. “Should my lord desire it of me, I am willing to perform a Tuning on the men of the Allthing which will ensure they look favorably on you and your strategy.”

    “Such things are forbidden!”

    “I know that well, Reki, and yet every Singer learns the practice in her apprenticeship. Such is my devotion, that I will offer the option.”

    “Reki…” Einarr had to draw himself together to even ask the question. He had a feeling he was not going to like the answer. “Reki. What is a Tuning?”

    “Just as a fiddle or a lyre has strings which must be tuned, so too do the souls of sentient beings. The Tuning works a profound change in the subtlest way, and it is permanent.”

    Einarr rocked back on his heels. In that moment he felt as though he was drowning, and had to remind himself to breathe. He looked across the table at Runa: her lower lip trembled.

    “Such a thing is possible?” It came out as a whisper, clearly audible over the silence from the rest of the room. Bend the Allthing to my will… and turn thanes to thralls? Never.

    Stigander looked shaken to his core: four times married, and four times to Singers.

    Runa lowered her head. “It is not permanent. Not truly.”

    He almost didn’t hear her, not that her answer did anything to cool his mounting rage. “So when you said you could make me carry you away from your father… this is what you meant?” His voice crescendoed until the last word was nearly a shout. Her eyes went wide but she didn’t deny it. “Have you ever Tuned someone, Runa?”

    His wife kept her head lowered and did not answer.

    “Have you?”

    Still nothing.

    “Did you Tune me?” Can I believe her if she says no?

    Still no answer.

    Einarr growled. He wanted to throw something, but even had something come to hand it would have been a challenge not to throw it at her right then. Red haze danced at the edges of his vision. Soul Tuning. How could such a thing even be possible, if the gods are just?

    “There will be no Tuning at the Allthing. None. And if I ever hear talk of you performing this black art, I will put you aside and send you back to your Father’s hall in disgrace.”

    He felt sick, and moreso because, for just a moment before the full implications hit, he’d been tempted. The silver bells sounded anyway.

    ***

    Sivid blinked. When he closed his eyes, he was surrounded by the open sky and the side of a mountain above the tree line. Then the sound of bells came to his ears and he sighed. Slowly, the sound of bells faded into the pounding of drums and the jaunty drone of a fiddle and the rattling of dice. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the best sort of public house.

    He saw no-one drinking broodily alone or plotting with just their mates. The fiddle and drums were playing for a hallingdanse up near the front of the room, and elsewhere he saw tables full of men telling boastful stories or dicing, and from anywhere in the room he might hear a peal of laughter or a spate of cheering. Even as the grin spread across his face, though, he felt his fingers twitching.

    It was a familiar itch, but one he could never quite ignore. The itch to toss the dice and win again, prove to himself that his losses were still only by choice. Let’s find a place in the dance, instead. There would be no unfortunate consequences if he took the prize on the dance floor, after all.

    He sidled up to a woman on the outside with a large purse at her belt and a blackboard in hand. “Anything special has to happen for me to join?”

    The brown-haired woman spared him half a glance. If she only smiled, she’d be nearly as good-looking as he was. “Entry fee is ten silvers to the pot. Winner gets half, house gets the rest.”

    Sivid reached down and tested the weight of his purse. For a wonder, it seemed to be full. “Done.”

    He pressed the coins into the bookie’s hand and found himself a place in the circle. The dancers here were fierce for all that their contest was all in fun.

    Sivid grinned. The better the competition, the more fun he’d have.

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  • 2.20 – The Third Trial

    2.20 – The Third Trial

    They finished their lunch in silence. For his part, Einarr kept turning over in his head Jorir’s revelation – the one he plainly did not wish to speak more of. He wasn’t quite certain what to make of his father’s new scrutiny, either. That ‘cursebreaker’ had the ring of a title about it. I’m not entirely certain I like the sound of that.

    He found that he had little appetite left. None of the others seemed terribly interested in more food, either: another handful or two of nuts, or a dried fish, and all five of them were on their feet again.

    “Well,” Einarr said. His voice felt unnaturally loud after the long silence. “Lead the way.”

    Jorir nodded and quick-stepped back toward the path. I should have a word with him about that… but not in front of everyone. Maybe if he could learn what the Oracle had actually told his liege-man it would clear matters up.

    Einarr didn’t mind the idea of having a calling, per se. But for that calling to be cursebreaking… that was troubling. Urdr was supposed to be the exception among Weavers, after all, not the rule.

    The trail entered a series of steep switchbacks up a nearly sheer granite face.

    “Watch your step,” Jorir warned.

    Einarr shuddered at the idea of the last vision hitting when a single misstep could send any of them plummeting to their doom. With every step he half expected the sound of bells to ring on the wind, heralding the final test… but with each step all he saw was the trail and the granite face beside him.

    The air burned in Einarr’s lungs by the time the trail opened back out into a meadow once more. There were no trees now, and the grasses and shrubs grew low to the ground. He stepped to the side to stand in the grass and catch his breath while Stigander and Arring completed their climb and the sound of bells rang in his ears.

    He blinked, and the mountainside was replaced by a large, dimly recognized room. The tapestries hanging on the stone walls were warm and properly abstract, suggesting rather than showing animals and plants, and a large and detailed sea chart was spread out on the table dominating the center of the room.

    Standing with him around the table was a white-haired version of his father, Reki, Erik, Jorir… and Runa, also looking older but no less lovely for the matronly cast to her face. I can win her.

    “Every last Clan of the north has suffered at the hands of the Order of the Valkyrie. Why will none of the other thanes see that together we have a chance?” Einarr heard the words coming from his own mouth, saw his own fist bang against the table. Oh. So that’s what the situation is.

    “Oh, they see it,” Stigander rumbled. “But someone would have to be chosen to lead the navies. They worry more about what that someone might do with command of so many ships and warriors once the threat is eliminated than they do about the Order or the Empire.”

    “They’re worried I’ll decide to name myself Althane? Are they crazy?”

    “It’s been tried before,” said Jorir. “By rulers older and supposedly wiser than you.”

    “Bah. We’ve only just got Breidelsteinn back under control.”

    “And not quite that.” Erik crossed his arms. “A couple of the more westerly Jarls are just biding their time, methinks. A lot of trust was lost while we were all out at sea.”

    “That was none of our doing, but you all see my point.”

    “There’s not many outside our waters who know that, though, son, and if they did it wouldn’t necessarily help us. There’s not a lot within the Allthing with quite the experience we’ve had, and they all have their own priorities to consider as well.”

    “You’re right, of course, Father.” Einarr looked back down at the map and snorted. “So. I guess that means the first question is how I convince them, first, to trust me and, second, that doing away with the Valkyries is in their best interest.”

    “Start with a story, my lord.” Reki’s low voice had not lost its purr in the years since she joined the Vidofnir. Einarr turned his attention to the Singer’s red eyes and waited. “Tell them, over drinks at the hall perhaps, how the Hunters nearly wiped us out while we still wandered. Tell them of the battle that lead you to swear vengeance. That alone might win you a few.”

    “Many of them have already heard the story.”

    “Have they? The times I’ve overheard you speaking of it, you’ve said nothing of the actual battle.”

    “’At’s a good idea, Reki. Why don’t you let me handle that part: I’ve a fair bit of experience spinning yarns over drinks.”

    “Thanks, Erik. I never quite know where to begin.”

    The big man laughed. “That is because you didn’t do nearly enough stupid shit while we were roaming.”

    Einarr and Stigander both shook their heads, each laughing under their breath.

    “All right, so that’s a good place to start. What else might help?”

    Jorir glared up at him like he was being stupid. “You’ve got an actual plan in place for winning this, don’t ye? Give them some inkling what it is. Ye’ll be relying on independent action in a buncha different places anyway – why not let them know that. Put their minds at ease a bit.”

    “Those independent forces are still going to have to coordinate together, but if they’re not fully under the command of the central force… Father? Do you think that would actually make a difference?”

    “For some, maybe. Don’t expect it to allay everyone’s suspicions, though.”

    “Of course.” Einarr looked across the table: Runa was biting her lip, as though she were weighing something. “Well, my love? Do you have an idea.”

    “Um. Well, there is something I could do to help. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, though.” Runa glanced over at Reki, and suddenly her expression seemed less weighing and more nervous.

    Reki’s attention was turned toward the map, and she didn’t seem to catch the look.

    “There could be a Tune that might convince them.” Runa emphasized the word tune strangely. Reki’s head snapped up: daggers of ice seemed to shoot across the table at the other Singer.

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  • 2.19 – A Moment of Respite

    2.19 – A Moment of Respite

    The deck of the dromon and the rolling waves and the salt sea air faded gradually from Einarr’s consciousness to be replaced by the sound of wind through the trees and the rustling of grass in the mountain meadows surrounding them. He looked about to get his bearings: he was several paces farther forward than he had been before the vision, but still on the path. If he judged right, Jorir and Sivid’s hard looks meant they were fighting off the vestiges of anger, and he did not think he’d ever seen Arring look sad before.

    He nearly did a double-take when he saw his father, however, leaning against a nearby tree looking, of all things, wistful. Stigander had none of the post-vision fogginess about his gaze, though: perhaps he had woken first?

    Einarr opened his mouth to ask, but shut it again. Jorir had said the Oracle disliked it when petitioners spoke of their trials, and he was disinclined to get on the Oracle’s bad side before they even arrived.

    Sivid blinked awake, followed by the other two, and Einarr suddenly realized that beneath the unease lingering from the visions, hunger gnawed at his belly. He glanced up: the sun had passed its zenith some time ago, although it had still been morning when the second trial began.

    Sivid snorted. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ravenous. You’ve been here before, dwarf, do we have time to stop and eat?”

    Jorir’s eyes narrowed at the mousey man. “We can stop and sup and still make it by sundown, human, if the final trial is a short one. If the final trials run long, we might still be climbing under the moon.”

    Einarr shook his head, looking down to hide his amused half-smile from Jorir. “Careful about teasing my liege-man, Sivid. He hasn’t spent the last fifteen years watching your eternal jests.”

    Sivid laughed. “Sorry, sorry. No harm meant.”

    Jorir harrumphed, but before he could say more Stigander cleared his throat.

    “I think it’s worth the risk to break for lunch. I think I see a decent spot just over that way.” Their captain pointed off to the side of the trail, where several flat rocks were just visible above the grass.

    Einarr knit his brows. “It almost looks like someone arranged that.”

    “Someone may well have.” Jorir grumbled, but Einarr did not think he had taken too much offense at Sivid’s rudeness. The dwarf resettled his pack on his shoulders and took a step toward the spot Stigander had mentioned, followed shortly by the rest of the group.

    The rocks did not quite form a perfect ring, and there were more rocks than people by a few, but though the rocks were half-buried it still looked as though the stones had been placed deliberately. Well, the Oracle here is supposedly an elf. Aren’t they effectively immortal?

    Einarr slung his pack down next to one of the rocks and reached into one of the pockets for a handful of pine nuts and filberts. “So what can you tell us about the Weaver’s Palace?”

    “Unless it’s been rebuilt recently, it’s more like a small temple than any sort of a palace. The Oracle lived in a hermitage off a little ways from the rotunda where she met petitioners – I could just see it between the pillars. Her loom, though…” Jorir shook his head and did not continue.

    Arring sat forward. “Her loom?”

    “Like nothing I’ve seen before or since. You’ll have to see it to understand.”

    “So what did you ask, the last time you were here?” The question had been burning at the back of Einarr’s mind for a while now.

    “Ah.” Jorir glanced warily at Stigander, then sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell ye eventually. Yer da’s not the only one with a curse to break, y’see.”

    Now Einarr sat forward, his eyebrows raised. The hand that was seeking a dried fish stopped.

    “My smithing… technically, it’s some of the best… but it will never produce magic, so long as I am bound by that witch’s curse.”

    Einarr winced, even as Stigander nodded in understanding. A Singer’s magic was ephemeral. Should it fail, there would be no memorial of the failure. For a smith, though… And worse for a dvergr, whose metalworking was their pride.

    Jorir wasn’t quite done. He rolled the tafl king between his hands in silence for a pair of breaths. “And now you’ll be wanting to know the answer she gave me. She told me the Cursebreaker would be the one who gifted me the means of my own defeat.”

    Einarr stared as Jorir held the king between thumb and forefinger, lifted for all to see.

    “You defeated me at tafl, with a king gifted by the one who will be your queen. That you then gifted it to me in return for my oath binds me to both of you. I still do not understand the impulse that prompted me to swear to you. Perhaps the Oracle’s weaving binds fate just as much as any other Weaver’s does. But you are the Cursebreaker, and I would not be surprised if that is part of the answer your lord Father receives as well.”

    Father was staring, too, but not at the dwarf. His eyes were glued firmly on his son’s shocked face. Einarr felt the weight of the stare, but his mind was still processing the implications of what Jorir had said.

    “We stopped to eat, though. We should eat and go, or we’ll not make it before nightfall.”

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  • 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…

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  • 2.11 – The First Trial

    2.11 – The First Trial

    Morning in Attilsund was marked not by the sun climbing over the tops of the pines but by a gradual lightening from black to grey of the cloud cover that had not yet broken. Einarr awoke groggy after a night filled with restless dreams, that all seemed to end with the realization he was being watched. He stomped into his boots anyway, warming his toes a little in the process, and hoisted his baldric over his shoulder as he joined his father and Jorir near the edge of the green.

    His father’s eyes were just as dark as his own felt, although the dwarf appeared to be in high spirits. He nodded to both of them as he stepped up. “Morning.”

    “Good morning!” Amusement twinkled in Jorir’s eye – or at least, Einarr thought it looked like amusement. He didn’t see what was so funny, though.

    “Einarr,” Stigander drawled. “Once Sivid and Arring get here, we should go.”

    “Mm.” Einarr looked over his shoulder toward their camp. “I’m sure they won’t be long.”

    “They’re not here soon, I’m leaving without them.”

    Einarr hummed and changed the subject. “So did anyone else feel like they were being watched all last night?”

    Stigander nodded and crossed his arms. Jorir smirked.

    Sivid and Arring trudged up behind them, looking like they slept even less well than the other men had.

    “There you are.” Stigander lowered his arms. “Let’s get going. If we have a chance to make it to this Weaver’s Palace before dark, I’d rather.”

    “That,” Jorir said, “is entirely up to you lot. I’ll guide you as best I can, but there’s magic involved in finding her.”

    Einarr nodded. “Shall we be off, then?”

    A nod moved around their group like a wave, and the five men set off up the forest path, toward the towering mountain in the east.

    ***

    The trail, such as it was, meandered through the old-growth pines to the east. He saw no sign of the sea, but Einarr thought they must have walked far enough to approach the coast before their path began to wend upwards. He might not have realized the change at all save for the rock ridge bordering the trail on one side that faded away as they continued. Not long thereafter he began to feel the incline in his thighs and the forest grew thinner.

    Here and there rock would jut forth from the forest floor, and these grew more frequent as the landing party ascended into the alpine meadows. Some of them, Einarr noted, were carved to resemble the head of a wizened elder or a crone. Alone of all of them, Jorir paid the standing stones no mind.

    Midmorning drew near, and the steep trail had winded all of them. Where earlier there had been some scattered conversation, now Einarr at least was focused on taking one step after another up the side of the mountain and around each of the numerous switchbacks. The sound of flowing water reached his ears: he looked up, casting about for its source.

    A little ways off to the side of the trail stood a well carved of rough-hewn stone. The water flowed down from the mouth of a face someone had carved in the rock down into a basin below, and sunlight glinted off the water in the basin. The stone between the face and the basin seemed to glow in the reflected light. “Father, there is water. We should draw.”

    Einarr did not wait for an answer, nor did he notice when no answer came as he stepped off the path toward the well and its offered respite. As he came closer, he saw that there was someone already at the well, hidden by a tree from the path. Her hair, long enough that the ends brushed against the earth, was the color of spun gold, and her skin as pale and fair as the twinflower. She trailed slender fingers in the water, careful not to dip the sleeve of her silver-white gown. Einarr stood, stunned by the sight. A whisper of surprise flitted across his mind that there would be anyone else on the mountain here.

    He must have made a noise, because she looked up and smiled at him, not at all surprised for her part. Her high cheekbones and delicate ears lent an elfin grace to her face.

    “I beg your pardon, my lady. I did not mean to disturb you.”

    She laughed, a sound like the tinkling of silver bells. “I am not disturbed at all! Come, join me. The water is sweet, and the trail is yet long.”

    “…Yes. I cannot stay long, but a few moments’ respite will be welcome.”

    She smiled again and patted the stone in front of her knees. The smile was warm and welcoming, and yet Einarr thought she did not look happy. He joined her at the well and knelt to cup water with his hands and drink. Once his mouth was wet he looked over at his unexpected companion. “Is something the matter, my lady?”

    “Of course not! The day is fine, the water is cool, and the company is charming.”

    “As you say.” He turned now to sit on the lip of the well opposite her. It felt as though a shadow fell on the space he left between their knees, but it would be improper to sit nearer.

    “You have come to see the Oracle?” She ventured.

    “Isn’t that what brings most people up this way?”

    “Yes,” she sighed, and her shoulders slumped.

    “What troubles you, lady?”

    “Only that it is a long and lonely life here on the mountain. I should dearly love the company of a strong young man such as yourself.” She looked at him sidelong and bit at her lower lip. The gesture was shy, but he saw none of that in her bearing. Einarr shook his head.

    “Alas, dear lady, you will have to continue to hope. There is no denying your beauty, but my heart belongs to another.”

    “Ah, no!” The sound was small, but unmistakably a wail. “Cruel fate indeed. As soon as I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself ‘here is a good man’ and set my heart on you. Can you not allow me just this morning to enjoy, even if that is all it can ever be?”

    “I am sorry, lady. That would be unfair to my Runa, and cruel to yourself besides.” He stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. “I must be rejoining my friends. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

    As Einarr walked back toward the path he heard the tinkling of silver bells again.

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  • 2.10 – Attilsund

    2.10 – Attilsund

    A week and a half from Apalvik, the craggy green fjord of Attilsund rose into view beneath a steel-grey sky. Stigander ordered the sail furled and the oars deployed as they nosed the Vidofnir into the narrow channel. The ship passed into the shadow of the cliffs to either side.

    Einarr shivered and wished he had an excuse to join the rowers. Nearly summer, and still he saw ice on the rock near the water line. He didn’t bother looking up: the sky would be little more than a line between the tree-limned rock faces. He would be with the group going ashore, however, and Father had made sure the landing party would be fresh by keeping them off the oars. And if Father wanted them fresh, that meant he anticipated trouble ashore.

    The steady swish of the oars through water and the groaning of the Vidofnir were the only sounds they heard until the forbidding walls of the fjord relaxed into gentler slopes and the diffuse light of a cloudy day found its way to the water’s surface. Then the breeze could be heard rattling the branches of the pines, punctuated by larksong and the occasional cry of a gyrfalcon.

    Here and there Einarr spotted the tell-tale signs of a freehold – the bleating of sheep, a plume of smoke, even once a red-painted roof peeking through the trees as the fjord became a river winding through the countryside.

    Finally, after Einarr began to wonder if there was actually a village on this island rather than just a scattering of freeholds, the forest fell back to reveal a fistful of huts clustered behind a single wooden pier jutting out from the sandy shore. He cast a dubious glance to his left: his father’s brows were furrowed, perhaps in concern that the Vidofnir would have room to dock. Jorir, on his right, looked unconcerned.

    “More than a century, and the place hasn’t changed a whit,” the dwarf muttered. “Expect we’ll be camped on the village green tonight.”

    Now Sivid furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t we just go search out the oracle straightaway?”

    “Are you daft? There’s an order to these things. We bypass the village, we’ll never make it to her temple.”

    Stigander nodded. “No oracle, especially one of the elven mystics, is going to take all comers. I expect we will be tested on the way. Think of speaking with the village headman as the first test.”

    Sivid grunted. “Fine.” He opened his mouth to say something more, but stopped with the sound of sand grinding against the bottom of the hull. “I guess it’s time we introduced ourselves, then.”

    Villagers peered curiously down at the banks from where they were at their labors. Some took a few steps toward the river before stopping to watch their unexpected guests openly. Many of them had a grace unknown to men and the delicately pointed ears of an elf: many others appeared to be not quite elves. Some of these last looked almost human. Now that’s unusual. I didn’t think elves bred with humans.

    Bardr lowered the gangplank, and Stigander led their small boarding party down to the riverbank. Other than the sons of Raen and Jorir, they took only Sivid and Arring – a man whose chief distinction from the other warriors was the deep red scar running from brow to chin across his face. That scar had been acquired in the escape from Raenshold, however, and he was among the men who had family trapped there.

    Einarr scanned the people gathering in front of the pier, but his father spotted the likely face before he did. After only a moment the rest of the group followed Stigander as he approached a grizzled, withered old elven man.

    “Greetings, honored sir.” Stigander dipped in a half-bow as he greeted the elder. “We come in peace, and carry goods for trade. I am Stigander Raenson, Thane of Raenshold and Captain of the Vidofnir.”

    “Greetings, son of Raen. Our village is unaccustomed so such prestigious visitors.” The elf stressed prestigious oddly, as though he were unimpressed with the idea of clan rulers. As well he might be, I suppose.

    “Tell me. What brings the sons of Raen to these shores?” He also sounded like he knew exactly what the answer would be, for the simple reason that it was always the answer.

    Stigander spoke it anyway. “We seek the oracle who is said to reside nearby.”

    The elder sighed, confirming Einarr’s suspicions. “Very well. Come with me. This evening I will warn you of the path, and in the morning you will proceed in spite of my warnings.”

    The old elf led them up the riverbank to the largest of the huts in the village. It was not cramped, but only because it had the look of a meeting-hall for the residents. The floor was strewn with hides, and the wooden chairs padded with woolen cushions – stuffed with feathers, unless Einarr missed his guess. The headman’s wife had plainly devoted some time to ensuring the hall was comfortable.

    “Please, sit,” he invited as the last of their troupe stepped into the hall. “My name is Hlothrama, and I am headman of the village of Attilsund.”

    “My thanks for your welcome,” Stigander replied. “This is my son, Einarr, the dwarf is his man Jorir, and these are Sivid and Arring.”

    Jorir inclined his head particularly deeply to the elder. “Elder Hlothrama, it has been a long time.”

    The elven elder drew his eyebrows together in confusion.

    “One hundred and fifty years ago, give or take, I sought the Oracle’s guidance. Now I have returned with her payment.”

    “Returned… leading other querents?”

    “It was a fortunate coincidence of needs.”

    “Hm. Then perhaps that shall speed your way to the Weaver’s Palace.”

    Jorir cocked an eyebrow but said nothing.

    Hlothrama continued. “The Weaver’s Palace is carved from the living rock high on the mountainside to the west of us. Each of you will be given three tests on your way. They may not all be the same tests, and it is entirely possible for you to become separated should any of the tests be failed. Be very cautious: there are those who have failed one of the Oracle’s tests and wandered the mountain forever.”

    Sivid opened his mouth, but Hlothrama did not give him a chance to speak.

    “You are about to ask if I know what the tests are. I do not: I believe they are different each time, although I have gathered that the Oracle forbids querents to speak of them.”

    An unobservant man might have wondered if the elder had some form of clairvoyance. Einarr was reasonably certain he had merely performed this task often enough to see the melodies behind it.

    “You and your men may camp in the Green tonight, and I am certain there will be those who wish to trade with you on the morrow. It would be most unwise to commence the trek before dawn, and perhaps wisest not to leave much after it. I will pray you fare well in your quests.”

    Now Hlothrama stood and walked stiffly from the room through the back.

    “Friendly fellow,” Einarr drawled.

    “Quite. We should go see to our men and prepare for the morning.”

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  • 2.9 – Son of Erik

    2.9 – Son of Erik

    Einarr returned to the Vidofnir late that evening with Bardr and Jorir several silver poorer and an equal number of tankards less thirsty, with only two potential recruits found.

    Bardr clapped him on the shoulder as they approached the Vidofnir’s mooring. “Don’t worry about it. Two men in an afternoon, on your first day out? That’s hard to complain about.”

    Einarr shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was supposed to have done more.

    “Don’t look now,” Jorir interrupted. “But I think something happened while we were out.”

    Men swarmed about the docks in front of their boat. The three men exchanged a look before taking off at a jog for the ship they called home.

    The crew was clustered in a ring around the gangplank, with the men on the outside jockeying for position. Three men stood in the center of the ring: Erik, leaning on his crutch; the slight, cinnamon-haired Irding, looking like nothing so much as a reduced copy of the man; and Stigander, standing between them.

    Einarr glanced around: Sivid was currently on the outside of the ring, at least for the moment. “Oy!” He tapped the small man on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

    “That skinny guy – said you sent him? Hadn’t been here ten minutes before he walked up to Erik and popped him, right in the jaw. Right now the Captain’s the only thing keeping those two from fighting.”

    Einarr sighed. Of course. “Coming through!”

    The Vidofnings didn’t exactly part to let him pass, but they didn’t try to stop him, either. Stigander acknowledged his arrival in the center of the circle with a silent nod.

    “Father. What goes on here?”

    “Just a little tension with one of your new arrivals.”

    “Talk to the cripple over there!” Irding jumped in. “I wanted to leave it be where it was.”

    Predictably, Erik’s face reddened with anger. Not that Einarr could fault him.

    He took a deep breath, trying not to let the newcomer’s bluster get to him, too. “So tell me. Why did you feel the need to punch one of our best men immediately after you were let on board?”

    “Ask him if the name ‘Kenna’ means anything to him.”

    Erik’s anger slowly changed from anger to confusion, and then to remembrance. “Kenna? Lovely girl, she was. How is she these days?”

    “Dead.”

    Erik blinked.

    “Kenna. The woman you seduced and abandoned here in Apalvik twenty years ago. My mother, who always believed you’d come back for her, died of the pox last winter.”

    “Kenna was… She… I have a son?”

    Irding glared at the man who was, in fact, his father. Stigander pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, while Einarr shook his head.

    “There was some justice in your assault, then,” Stigander finally said. “This does not change that now I have to decide if I actually want to let you on my ship.”

    “If you will have me, I would stay. For my part, the punch was sufficient… because I should like to know the man who fathered me.”

    Einarr looked at his father. “If he is Erik’s son, doesn’t that make him just as much a man of Briedelsteinn as me?”

    Erik still looked poleaxed by the revelation that he had a son, although the vestiges of excitement looked to be building. If he’d fathered other children, plainly their mothers had not seen fit to inform him of it.

    “So it does. Erik? Will having this man on board be a problem?”

    “I have a son…” He shook his head, the question finally registering. “No. Not a problem. Evidently I deserved that one.”

    Stigander jerked his chin down in a decisive nod. “Very well. Irding Eriksson, welcome aboard the Vidofnir, last refuge of the Sons of Raen. You’ve already met my son, I believe. The men who were with him are Bardr, the Mate, and our smith Jorir.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Do not expect special treatment because your father is one of our top warriors. I assure you that Einarr gets none.”

    “Understood, sir.”

    “Good! Now, I believe you were on your way to help unload when you decided to assault my sailor. Get to it!”

    * * *

    Among the crowd that had gathered with the crew to watch the budding fight were several local merchants. Some of them muttered about reducing their bids on account of the disruption. Thankfully, a quiet word with Bardr and an inspection of the goods in question forestalled that outcome.

    Erik disappeared not long after their cargo was offloaded, and reappeared with a cask under each arm more than an hour later. The man’s face was red, and already he smelled of mead, but unless Einarr was very much mistaken Erik was actually happy to learn he had a bastard. Einarr shook his head: he would wait until his friend was somewhat less ebullient before he asked “what about the others?”

    Irding kept to the shadows near the side of the boat, for the most part – until Erik caught sight of him.

    “Come, have a drink with us! Let yer old man get to know you.” Erik already had a small crowd around him, in truth. Einarr beckoned from the edge of it. Erik would find himself wedged in an awkward place soon enough, but for tonight it was true that they had found another man of the clan – even if he didn’t quite recognize it yet.

    Einarr’s other foundling, a broad-shouldered young man calling himself Svarek, arrived with the first light of dawn, a pack slung over his shoulder and a double-bitted axe at his belt. He was the third son of a local freeholder, he said, and his options were join a crew or join a priesthood. It was a common tale, but neither Einarr, Bardr, nor Stigander could find a reason why he shouldn’t come aboard.

    The Vidofnir remained under-strength, but still they sailed with the morning tide, beseeching Eira for fair winds and no more hunters.

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  • 2.8 – Butcher’s Bill

    2.8 – Butcher’s Bill

    The days following the battle with the Valkyries were somber, as well they should be: five Vidofnings fell to the Order’s hunters. Three of them had remembered Raenshold better than Einarr himself did. Those five had ridden the enemy ship to the afterlife in a blaze of glory, and left five more empty berths on the Vidofnir.

    If there was one bright spot, it was the treasure they had found in the Geirskögul’s hold, packed into every spare inch beneath the deck boards of the Vidofnir. The morning after the funeral, Stigander had directed them north to a friendly port, only a little out of their way. No-one could quite get out of their head, though, what those five newly empty berths meant.

    As the Vidofnir prepared to dock at the Apalvik pier – larger than Kjellvic, but still no match for the bustle of Kem – Stigander called Einarr aside.

    “We’ll be in port a few days while we find a buyer for our takings, so I want you to do something for me. Take Bardr and Jorir and head into town, see if you can’t find us a few more hands.”

    “Yes, Father… but, you’re leaving this to me?”

    “’Course I am. How else are you supposed to build a crew for the new ship? Bardr’s got a good eye for people, he’ll point you in the right direction – and with your liege-man along you’ll weed out anyone who has a problem with svartdvergr. Hopefully anyone who’ll be bothered by Reki, too.”

    Einarr nodded. “I understand, Father. I will find us worthy successors to Arngeirr and the others.”

    Stigander clapped him on the shoulder, a broad smile spreading under his pale yellow moustache. “Happy hunting, then.”

    ***

    Bardr passed by no fewer than three public houses before finding one that suited his criteria. “Too nice, and the patrons will turn up their noses at a ship like ours, even assuming they aren’t already signed on with someone. Too rough and, well, I think you can guess.”

    Einarr nodded as they settled into a corner table, scanning the faces in the room for potential prospects. Too rough a place would attract men who were little more than scoundrels, and Stigander was not interested in a sailor he couldn’t trust. He nudged Jorir with the back of his hand and dropped a small stack of silver in front of the dwarf. “Mind picking up the first round?”

    He snorted. “Assuming there’s anything worth drinking in this place. Back in a few.”

    Bardr nodded as Jorir sauntered off towards the center of the room. “Good call. Who watches him, and why?”

    Most of the patrons noted the presence of a swarthy dwarf in the hall with an indifferent shrug or a glance out the corner of their eye before turning back to their own business. Fewer watched warily in case of trouble, plainly expecting that Jorir would be the cause of it in one way or another. Of the remaining patrons, about half were curious to see a dwarf in their tavern, while the other half sneered.

    “This at least tells us who not to approach,” Einarr murmured. “The curious ones, what do you make of them?”

    Bardr pursed his lips and hummed. “One or two of them might be worth talking to. Got a hunch most of them aren’t looking for a new ship right now, though. Look at how they’re drinking, how they’re dressed.”

    “Mm. Not a desperate lot, this bunch.”

    “Not as such, but ‘desperate’ isn’t really the qualification we’re looking for.” Bardr pressed his lips together, scanning the room, as Jorir returned to his seat.

    Einarr slid one of the mugs over in front of himself. “Thanks.”

    Jorir grunted. “Fine. Mind tellin’ me why we’re here when the rest of the crew is back at the boat?”

    “Recruiting. Thought you’d have guessed that.”

    “Ah.” He shook his head. “Somehow didn’t think yer Pa would be big on bringing in new blood.”

    “Gotta keep our strength up if we want to take our holdings back. Not like my uncle will just roll over for us when we sail back into port.”

    “Einarr, you see the man over in the corner, trying not to look at us now? Looks like Erik’s Ma and Sivid had a love child?”

    Einarr tried not to laugh at the description as he nodded that he saw the man.

    “Try talking to him.”

    He chuckled as he stood. “Sure he’s not one of Erik’s get? I’d be surprised if the man didn’t have near as many sons as mistresses.”

    “Does it matter if he is?”

    “Depends. Here goes nothing.” Einarr took a long swig from the mug Jorir had brought to their table before sauntering off across the room. He felt eyes following him, and thought them largely a different set than the ones that had followed Jorir. Many of the men who had been indifferent to the dwarf alone were interested in the man the dwarf was with.

    “Mind if I join you?” He asked the man, who did indeed look like he could be Erik’s much smaller brother – or son.

    “Seat’s empty,” the stranger grunted.

    “My thanks.” Einarr swung a leg over the chair and leaned his elbows on the table, hoping the casual display also came off as unthreatening. “You from around here?”

    “Hereabouts.” The stranger watched him warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

    “Looking for a berth?”

    “Friend might be.”

    “Your ‘friend’ a warrior?”

    “He’s a fair hand, yeah, with axe or sword and shield.”

    Einarr studied the man openly for a long moment. “Well, I might have a berth to offer, if this ‘friend’ of yours is loyal and true, and meets a few other qualifications. The dwarf you were staring at is on the crew, and our Singer is an albino. Your ‘friend’ is still interested, tell him to come find the Vidofnir at the docks and to say Einarr sent him. We’re only in port until we find a buyer for our recent acquisitions, so tell him not to wait too long.”

    “I’ll be sure to let him know, yeah.” The man’s face brightened now, and suddenly Einarr had a better feeling about him.

    “You have any other friends in this town who might be looking for such a berth? We had a few open up just recently.”

    The man shook his head. “’Fraid not. I stick out like a sore thumb around these parts.”

    Einarr shrugged. “Fair enough. If Father likes you, I imagine you’ll fit right in with us. Although…” He remembered the pretense, now. “If your ‘friend’ shows up, what name should I expect?”

    “Irding. Irding Eriksson.”

    Inwardly, Einarr groaned. Outwardly, he shook the man’s hand. “Pleasure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe our Mate is trying to catch my attention.” This oughta be interesting. One down, four to go.

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  • 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.

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  • 2.5 – News of an Oracle

    2.5 – News of an Oracle

    The beach they cast off from was little more than a glimmer in the moonlight when Stigander passed command to Bardr for the night. Sivid had drawn the short straw for watch this night, although even among those not on duty few slept. Most drank.

    Stigander sprawled in the stern, staring up at the unblinking stars from under where his awning would ordinarily cover. Einarr approached, his boots deliberately loud on the deck, and took a swig from the skin he had just filled. It sloshed as he flopped down to sit by his father. He held it out by way of offer: his father’s paw nearly enclosed his hand when the offer was accepted. Neither man felt the urge to talk. There was little to talk about, until Stigander was deep enough in his cups that he started telling stories of home, and Einarr didn’t think there was enough in that skin to get that far.

    Soon enough the skin was flaccid and empty. Before either of them could decide to roll over and sleep, another set of footsteps approached, the strides quicker than most of the crew’s. Einarr looked up from under heavy brows: it was Jorir, a fresh skin in each hand.

    He held one up. “For the intrusion.”

    Einarr motioned for the dark dwarf to join them. “Not regretting your oath, are you?”

    “Feh.” It came out as half a laugh. “No chance.”

    Einarr was gratified that his expectation was correct. “Then what can I do for you?”

    “It’s more what I can do for you.” Jorir took a long draught from the first skin and passed it to Einarr. “That story tonight… that hasn’t been embellished too much, has it?”

    Einarr shook his head.

    “No.” Stigander’s voice was startling and husky. “No, that was faithfully writ by my Lahja.”

    Jorir gave Einarr a quizzical look.

    “Father’s second wife. My mo- the stepmother who raised me.” He had always thought of her as Mamma, but the dwarf was after clarity not sentiment.

    The dwarf’s eyes grew round as the moon above. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

    Stigander chuckled, a low, rumbling rasp under the circumstances, and sat up. “None taken, I’m sure.” He reached a hand for the skin that Einarr had just finished drinking from.

    He passed the skin, as requested. “Not a lot of thanes marry Singers, after all, although I fail to understand why.”

    Stigander harrumphed. “Not a lot of Singers with the other qualifications of your dear little Runa, my boy, and not a lot of thanes with the luxury of marrying without them.”

    Jorir cleared his throat. “Well. You see, the story put me in mind of someone who helped me once. She might be able to help you. But she does nothing free… and she’s not an easy person to reach.”

    The dwarf let the pause after his statement stretch out: Einarr gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, out with it. Who?”

    “Out in Attilsund… there’s an old elvish oracle – or at least there was, back before I fell under Fraener’s power. She should still be there, her or one of her apprentices.”

    Einarr scoffed. “You want us to talk to a Weaver about undoing a weaving?”

    “We’ve spoken with fate-spinners before, but…” Stigander looked thoughtful. “An elvish oracle, of the old, mystic school?” When Jorir nodded, he continued. “Might be worthwhile. They were said to have some very… different notions about their Art. …Yes, I’ll check the charts in the morning. Perhaps worth the detour.”

    * * *

    “New plan, lads!” Stigander announced entirely too cheerfully early the next day, while about half the crew were still nursing hangovers. One could almost believe he hadn’t been drinking right along with the rest of them, although Einarr knew better.

    “Based on information from the two newest members of our crew, we’ll be headed for Attilsund to go consult with a very old, very wise elf who I wager knows a thing or three about Weaves and curses. It’s a bit out of the way, but maybe some gold will fall into our laps on the way, eh?”

    “Long as we’re wishing, might as well wish for some wenches ta fall from the sky!” Sivid’s retort earned a round of laughter from around the deck: even Stigander joined in.

    “I know. This was going to be a long season anyway, and this little detour is likely to make it longer. But tell me, lads: won’t it be worth it, if it helps us go home?”

    Now came the round of cheers from the Vidofnings. Einarr joined in, and if he was less enthusiastic than some of the older men it was only because getting home to a place he barely remembered was no longer his only concern. Not long after the three of them had finished Jorir’s skins and rolled over for sleep, he realized he, too, wished to consult the oracle. Now he wondered who else among the crew might have a question to ask, and what Jorir had meant when he mentioned it would not be free. Surely he could not refer to coin, for that was as ordinary as a school of pike.

    Speaking of whom… “Good morning.”

    The dwarf grumbled his reply, evidently still a little foggy.

    “Not sure if I should thank you or not for that bit of information last night.”

    “I’m not, either.”

    Einarr snorted. “So then what’s the catch? How does one pay for the services of this wise old elf?”

    “Impossible to say, until she declares what she wants of you.”

    “Oh? And what did she demand of you, when you sought her aid?”

    “A… favor, that I’ve yet to be able to repay.”

    “So that’s why you brought it up. Now that you’re free of Svartlauf, you want the debt off your shoulders too.”

    There was a long moment where he thought Jorir was about to say something, but finally the dwarf merely nodded.

    Einarr hummed. “Well. You’ll tell me what the favor was when you’re ready, I suppose. Someone showed you where I set up your grindstone?”

    “You set up?” Jorir sighed and shook his head. “Yes, I’ve seen it. As good a location as I could ask for on a longship.”

    Einarr nodded. “Yes, I set up. I was on the quest that took me to Svartlauf in the first place because I’d dishonored Father’s name: he couldn’t just let me off.”

    Jorir still looked annoyed.

    “Mind regrinding Sinmora’s edge for me? Our little fight down in the tunnels nicked it pretty bad.” It was an obvious change of subject, but no less true for that.

    “This afternoon. Don’t think I’ll have room to do much before then.”

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