Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Arkja

  • 6.35 – The Key

    6.35 – The Key

    “I can go no further,” Guthbrandr announced. “Ahead you will find… me, for lack of a better term. Take care that you, yourselves, do not become infected by its poison: I think even your Valkyrie’s feather would fail to keep you sane then. And know that I lay no more claim to anything in there which has survived these centuries.”

    “You have our thanks.” Einarr inclined his head to the gruff old man.

    He chuckled darkly. “I should be thanking you, I think. If you think I’ve made your journey easier…”

    “I think you’ve made our continued journey possible, at this point. Which is a fair sight better than driving ourselves mad with endless sailing.”

    The old man shook his head, still chuckling. “Well – never mind. If you win, you’ll not see me again, so this is farewell.”

    With that, the shade that was all that remained of Guthbrandr Eyvindersen strolled nonchalantly back toward the mouth of the cave and faded from view. As he went, Arkja’s eyes suddenly went wide. “Well I’ll be.”

    Einarr peered ahead, searching for some sign of what they were after. “You still didn’t think he existed? Your story is what put us on the right track in the first place.”

    “It was a campfire story…”

    Einarr started forward, Jorir and Erik close behind.

    “You’d be surprised,” Runa said, falling in behind them. “How many of those have their roots in history. Especially the ones that stick around.”

    “Keep your wits about you,” Einarr ordered. “We don’t actually know what we’re facing here, other than some sort of corruption.” And gods only knew what more contamination might do to him, Erik, or Irding.

    ***

    The river cave twisted on for some distance further, until the daylight from outside was well and truly gone. Strangely, they did not need to strike a torch: some sort of dull, greyish ambient light suffused the cave.

    Einarr stopped short when he saw ahead of him what appeared to be a keyhole set in an otherwise blank section of the cave wall. Ahead, the ceiling sloped sharply downwards, until it nearly touched the water’s surface. His brow knit for a moment in consternation and he opened his mouth to ask why, but then cut himself off with a sigh.

    “I want to say that this is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, but after this last season it’s nowhere close.”

    Erik barked a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth. Nothin’ for it but to see what’s on the other side, though.”

    He could hear Arkja muttering about what he’d signed himself up for even as Irding urged him on. With a sympathetic half-smile, Einarr lifted the key on its chain from around his neck. Based on all the information he had, there really was nothing else to be done.

    Einarr slipped the golden key into its lock. It turned smoothly, and with a click a seam opened in the rock wall.

    As they watched, the vertical line of the seam spread outwards in both directions until it formed the outline of a door. With another click, followed by the grinding of stone against stone, the door opened inward.

    The space beyond the door was blacker than night at first, but in the span of time it took Einarr to blink an eldritch purple light popped into existence. Surprised, Einarr glanced back at his companions. A shout of alarm escaped his lips.

    He could see skin – faintly, and tinted blue-purple like the light led him to expect, but the whites of their eyes and where they showed teeth glowed like stars.

    The others (they were actually still his companions, right?) likewise recoiled in surprise and horror. Arkja hopped all the way across the width of the cave, his scramasax leaping into his hands. “Back, demons!”

    “Look who’s talking,” Irding shouted, moving between the frightened local and Einarr, his own axe free of its belt loop. Even Einarr had drawn steel in that first moment of shock.

    “Everybody, calm down!” It was Jorir who took charge in that moment. “Nothing we were told suggests we’re up against a puppetting beast, so let’s not let it in our heads at the drop of a hat.”

    Einarr cleared his throat, suddenly very glad his man at arms was a sensible sort. “Jorir’s right. If we turn on each other right away, we’ll never be free – none of us.”

    Now that the initial shock was past, it was true he could feel a pulsing ill will, a concentrated source of evil – but it was through the door which had just opened. “The thing we need to defeat is in there.”

    Irding stared into the darkened, oddly glowing chamber for a long moment. “But, there’s nothing there. Nothing to fight, anyway.”

    “No,” Einarr mused. “No, there wouldn’t be. The old man said this is where he was, and that really all that remained of who he was – was a shade of his will, and the accumulated, corrupted magical power he had taken into himself.”

    Runa’s face, ghoulish in the light, nodded encouragingly.

    “That means, if my guess is right, we have to some how disperse that,” he pointed with Sinmora’s bare blade. “Without getting any on us. The Matrons may have quelled the black blood’s influence, but we know we’re not fully purified. And I would never forgive myself if we made it this far only to fall to a ball of light.”

    The thing he had pointed at, the aforementioned ball of light, looked like nothing so much as a cloud swirling in the middle of the chamber, roughly round but churning as though it were a storm in and of itself, black and glowing violet and reaching.

    Arkja, who had edged closer to get a better look at the thing which set all their hearts to pounding, asked the relevant question. “How?”

    Einarr set his mouth in a grim line. “If I knew the answer to that, we’d already be doing it.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading!

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

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

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

  • 6.34 – Journal

    6.34 – Journal

    On the fragile page beneath Einarr’s fingertips, writing in a surprisingly delicate hand filled the first page of the book. At first glance it appeared to be in no writing Einarr had ever seen – not runes, and certainly not Imperial script. Then it was as though the words on the page began to swim around, rearranging themselves into something recognizable.

    “Runa? Jorir? I think you’ll want to see this.”

    Chronicle of the Cursebreaker’s Exile

    I, Guthbrandr son of Eyvindr, the first of that name, record these events not for posterity but for my own sanity – however much of it yet remains.

    Let me state first that, of everything which has befallen me, I was warned. The very method that ensured my survival these many years has led directly to my downfall. If there can be a ‘dark art’ of curse breaking, I have fallen to it.

    A ‘dark art’ of breaking curses? Einarr blinked: he didn’t think he’d been doing anything more than muddling along. Could you really call that an Art? Or, perhaps, Einarr was still skating through on luck alone? The old man continued:

    I, in my third year after being Called, discovered a method that allowed me to take the magic powering a curse and repurpose it once the curse was broken. I thought myself so clever: here, finally, was a way to grow strong enough to meet every challenge thrown at me, without losing any more.

    Fool that I was! I thought the raw power purified once the thrall was broken, and I made it my own. But I could not fully turn it, and so it coalesced within and turned me, corrupting me.

    And I was warned.

    Now I sit here and rot on the island where at last my foolish pride came due. The Isle I had thought to free, but instead threw under the shadow of an even more powerful curse: my own, corrupted soul. This island, which used to be so vibrant, is now wiped from the minds of those outside, doomed to be forgot – it, and everything on it.

    The door of the shack closed with a bang. Startled, guilty, Einarr looked at the door like a deer suddenly confronted with wolves. The old man stood in the doorway, unsurprised and unconcerned, looking for all the world as though he had not only expected but intended for Einarr to find the journal.

    It took Einarr only a moment to understand. “Guthbrandr Eyvindersen?”

    “The very same.”

    “I’m told that no-one else on the island can see you.”

    “Oh, my body long since rotted into dust. Even my bones, I wager, somewhere here on this beach.”

    “Am I to take it you wish us to break the curse of the Island?”

    The old man nodded. “It’s not the island that’s cursed, my boy. It’s me. You’d do well to remember that. But I reckon it’s the only way you and your friends get out of here.”

    Einarr stood to face the shade of his predecessor. “So? What do we need to do?”

    Guthbrandr held up one hand. “All in good time. First, why don’t you tell me why you lot washed up here?”

    With a sigh, and looking vaguely embarrassed, Einarr reached into the pouch that hung from his belt and produced two lustrous, unruffled black feathers.

    The old man’s face twisted in confusion.

    “I was tasked with retrieving something from the Tower of Ravens – something my father and his crew need very desperately right now. On the way up the tower, I got a Valkyrie’s feather.” He gestured to the buckle of his baldric.

    The old man nodded in understanding. “So when you’d won your prize and those were just lying there, how could you resist?”

    “I have to admit, after what I just read I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.”

    The old man threw his head back and laughed. “You’ll do all right, boy. But if you want my help, there’s a price.”

    “Go on.” That was only to be expected. Breaking this one would probably destroy the shade, after all.

    “You take that little book of mine with you, and you let people know I existed.”

    Einarr didn’t even have to think about that one. “I would even if you hadn’t asked.”

    Guthbrandr lowered his head in thanks. When he raised it again, he said, “In that case, put that gold chain around your neck and follow me.”

    ***

    The three of them picked up a small trail of followers as they walked down the beach after the erstwhile Cursebreaker. First were Erik and Irding, come to see this through to the end, and then Arkja – to sate his curiosity, as far as Einarr could tell. He could not begin to think how this must look to the man. The other newcomers were quite sure they wanted to be nowhere near a Cursebreaker in action. On the one hand, Einarr couldn’t fault them for that. On the other, it did make him wonder how they would fare on the Vidofnir.

    Einarr followed his predecessor down the beach to the south. The same direction he had come from just the other day. Whatever it was that bound him, then, must be hidden somewhere in that direction.

    The coast curved back to the right, so that the Gestrisni was hidden from view by a dune. Not long after, a tiny inlet led into what appeared to be an equally tiny cave. Guthbrandr did not hesitate, but led them into the brackish water and up into the cave. The passage was narrow, but even in the very center the water only came up to Einarr’s knees.

    The light of the entrance had shrunk to a pinprick by the time Guthbrandr came to an abrupt stop in a wider area. There seemed to be dry ground to either side, here, and while it was hard to be sure, Einarr thought he saw bits of tarnished silver in among the river rocks.

    “I can go no further,” the shade announced.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading!

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

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

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

     

  • 6.33 – Ghost Stories

    6.33 – Ghost Stories

    “There never was any old man.”

    Arkja’s pronouncement fell on the deck of the Gestrisni like a brick of lead.

    A million questions flooded Einarr’s brain at once, such that he could not ask any of them – merely sat, staring, at the pronouncer.

    Irding recovered first. “So this is twice this season we’ve run up against ghosts. At least this one wasn’t trying to entrap us into his crew.”

    Now it was Arkja’s turn to gape. “Twice this season? What sort of vessel are you taking us to?”

    Einarr held up an open hand, palm towards the deck. “This has been a bad year…”

    Arkja hummed, not apparently reassured, but Runa broke in before the talk could spiral out of hand. “It is Einarr’s nature as a Cursebreaker, newly awakened and coming to the fore. Once we are away from the island, I will be helping him learn how to deal with it – but now I must Sing, so that we have a chance of breaking free.”

    ***

    Einarr relieved Irding from his night watch as the first hints of grey dawn touched the horizon.

    Irding thanked him with a yawn and pressed an arm against his still-healing rib. As the other man trudged back towards his bedroll, Einarr turned towards the sea ahead of them. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky, and a pleasant breeze tugged at his hair.

    And then, as the light increased, an all-too-familiar shore appeared ahead of them. At first it seemed almost ghostly, and he entertained the idea that it might be a mirage, but as the light rose it grew more and more substantial.

    Runa’s night-long vigil had done nothing, save exhaust her voice. There was the shack, and standing tiny on the shore the ghost of an old man. With a sinking feeling in his breast, Einarr made the announcement:

    “Land, ho.”

    Jorir looked up from the mortar where he was preparing a restorative for their exhausted Singer. “So the Lady’s song…”

    Einarr shook his head. “Didn’t help at all. Poor Runa.”

    “Well, milord, we expected to be turned back at least once.”

    “But we expected to learn something in the attempt!”

    A peal of laughter rang out from Irding’s bedroll. “All of that – for nothing?”

    The rest of their cobbled-together crew was beginning to rise. Einarr ordered, “Prepare for landing.”

    Jorir came up to stand beside his liege lord. “We have learned something, I think. We’ve learned that it’s not an illusion or a trick of the mind turning people back.”

    Einarr cast a sidelong look at his man-at-arms. “Which leaves us with – what, exactly?”

    “Something intrinsic to the island, I expect, or at least trapped here with us.”

    Einarr harrumphed. That was cold comfort at best right now. He could only hope the Matrons were still keeping the corruption of the black blood at bay for those left behind.

    The sun was full in the sky by the time the Gestrisni sat once more on the sand of the Isle. Well before that the figure of the old man vanished, although Einarr did not see if he’d done so in the ordinary way or not.

    Once they were all on land again a fire was built on the beach, and some few of their more perishable provisions set to roasting. The melancholy mood of the night before still – or perhaps only again – held sway. As they ate, Arkja stared into the fire, a faraway look on his face.

    “It occurs to me,” he mused, biting off a hunk of fish. “There’s a story I heard, a local legend, from one of my patrons not long after I landed. Well before Päron, or whoever he was, started terrorizing the town.” He fell quiet for a long moment.

    It was Irding who finally broke the silence, once it became plain Arkja was content to let it stretch. “Well? Go on.”

    “No one alive has ever known anyone to live in that shack, it’s true… but there are those as talk of a terror that walks these shores, an evil spirit in the guise of an old man. They say calamity follows him like an old friend, and fell magic clings to him. He was the first, you see, first in a long line of devils doomed to be forgotten.”

    Einarr, too, sat staring into the fire as he contemplated this. Confusion fairly radiated off of Erik, though – and once again it was Irding who broke the silence.

    “How is this supposed to help us?”

    “It means the creepy old man who took us in that night may be just as much a revenant as the Päron we fought in the town,” Runa explained, certain that some of the others were just as lost. “And maybe, if we can break the chain binding him to the moral realm we can free ourselves, as well. Not that we have a lot to go on.”

    Einarr stood abruptly. “We need to search that shack.”

    Runa followed him, up the beach to the tiny shack, as did Jorir. The old man was not at home when Einarr opened the door, although it looked almost as though he had merely stepped out for a minute. A stew, very similar to the one Einarr remembered, already bubbled in the pot for the night’s dinner, and the wooden bowls and spoons did not appear to have moved. All of this, they could safely ignore.

    Runa moved to examine the lone shelf not filled with cooking implements, while Jorir and Einarr stepped over to what served as the old man’s bed.

    No-one spoke as they searched. It would have felt crass: this already felt like a breach of hospitality. And yet…

    Jorir rolled under the crude bed frame even as Einarr lifted the pillow. Beneath it, old and yellowed but otherwise well-preserved, was a bound book. There was a golden key on a fine chain wrapped about the cover, but no lock. Gently, Einarr unwound the chain and opened the book.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading!

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

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

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

     

  • 6.32 – Departure

    6.32 – Departure

    While fixing the Gestrisni went about as well as Einarr could have hoped, that still left them groping for an answer, or even just a clue, of how to get past the magic trapping them here.

    “We may have to just go, with the expectation of being turned back once,” Runa finally said. Arkja’s men had already told them what little they knew – some of it from personal experience.

    Einarr frowned and crossed his arms. The old fisherman who “welcomed” them to the island was still, days later, nowhere to be found on shore. If it weren’t for the furnished cabin near their boat, he might have wondered if the man really existed.

    “You’re not wrong,” Einarr said finally. I don’t like the idea of wasting time that way, but it does begin to seem as though nobody knows.”

    “Seems to me,” Jorir mused, “that the waste of time would be sticking around after she’s fixed, looking for information that may not even exist.”

    Erik harrumphed. Einarr nodded.

    “That is, more or less, the conclusion I was reaching. I kind of wish we had Sivid along right now, though.”

    Irding raised an eyebrow. Arkja, as the only member of the newcomers working on the escape plan instead of loading, looked confused.

    Einarr smiled at the confusion. “Irding, you’ve only been aboard a few months, so maybe you haven’t noticed yet. Sivid may be Unlucky, but everything seems to work out when he’s around.”

    “Then why’s he unlucky?” Arkja asked.

    Einarr smiled again. He couldn’t give the whole answer – that wasn’t his to tell – but he didn’t have to. “Bad at dice.”

    “And that earned him a moniker?”

    “You’ll understand when you meet him.”

    The leader of the newcomers shrugged. “Do you still need me, then? The boys could use a hand with the loading.”

    “Go ahead. I expect the rest of us will be along shortly… Actually, I think we’re basically done here. Irding, why don’t you go with him?”

    Erik’s son tipped his head in assent and followed the one-time tavern keeper off to the ship, where he would supervise as much as help. Erik and Jorir had agreed to give the manifest a final check, and so soon it was once again just Einarr and Runa.

    Finally. In all the activity, Einarr still hadn’t managed to make his request of her.

    Runa had started to turn away, likely headed for their camp and the cook fire.

    “Wait a moment.”

    She turned back, her brows raised questioningly.

    “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask of you for a while now, actually…”

    She did not fill the silence, merely waited expectantly for him to continue. For Einarr’s part, he kept telling himself it was a stupid thing to be embarrassed about – not that that made him less so, of course.

    “Runa, will you teach me how to read the runes? With everything that’s gone on, if we hadn’t had a Singer along we never would have made it out. But I’m not always going to be able to rely on having someone else available to interpret…”

    Runa held up a hand to stop his babbling. “Of course I will teach you, Runes and something of Story both. I would like for us to actually be wed one day, rather than being a widowed maid.”

    Einarr inclined his head, and was surprised at the hoarseness of his voice when he said “Thank you.”

    ***

    The morning after all was deemed to be in readiness, the strange old fisherman returned to shore. Einarr first caught sight of him ambling down the shore from the south, which struck him as odd: even now, none of them had seen the man’s boat.

    “Good morrow!” He raised a hand in greeting as the old man continued up the beach towards them.

    “Is it?” he growled, a familiar echo of their first day on the island. “I wonder.”

    “Of course it is. We’re finally ready to try our luck.”

    The old man stopped a moment to stare at the repaired Gestrisni, apparently unimpressed. He harrumphed and resumed his walk up the beach, ignoring the fools on their quest.

    A wild impulse seized Einarr. “We’ve still got room aboard, if you want to test your fate with ours.”

    The old man stopped again, threw back his head, and laughed. “Why would I steal you kids’ chance of getting off?”

    Einarr’s mind went momentarily blank, but when he opened his mouth the only possible answer spilled forth, almost of its own volition. “Because the captain of this vessel has been named a Cursebreaker.”

    The old man shook his head now. “That’s the only reason I think you have a chance at all, kid. Leave this old fool to his justly earned exile.”

    Einarr shared a look with Runa, then shook his head. He was curious, but they had wasted too much time on this accursed island already. The men from the Vidofnir and the Skudbrun were waiting. Einarr and Runa walked toward their ship.

    “Milord?” Arkja popped his head up over the railing. “There’s some sort of large jar on the deck. Where do you want it?”

    Einarr blinked. How had that gotten here? He sighed, shaking his head. “Just stow it in the hold, I guess. Make use of it if you can.”

    “A… jar?” Runa looked at him sidelong.

    “It’s a long story. We’ll have time on our way.”

    Runa hummed, looking amused, and let it rest.

    ***

    That evening, Runa performed the Lay of Raen at Einarr’s request, and for the benefit of the newcomers. In the melancholy mood that always followed, Jorir and the other Vidofnings gathered together near the prow of the boat to talk. It wasn’t private, but it was as near as they could manage.

    Staring out over the railing at the stars on the sea, Jorir scratched his beard thoughtfully. “It’s a shame we couldn’t do anything for the old man.”

    Even as Einarr was nodding in agreement, Arkja’s brows knit in confusion from just outside their circle. “Old man? What old man?”

    “The old fisherman on the beach? I told him we still had room, but he refused?”

    The erstwhile tavern keeper slowly shook his head. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but there was no old man on the beach. That shack you kept checking has stood empty for as long as anyone I’ve ever talked to can remember.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading!

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

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

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

  • 6.31 – Gathering Together

    6.31 – Gathering Together

    “I did, milord.” The earnest-faced fisherman stepped forward, looking vaguely embarrassed.

    Einarr nodded, curious as to why the man would be embarrassed – but now was not the time. “Good job. Keep it up. Do we have the tools you’ll need?”

    The yellow-haired man straightened. “I believe so, milord. Got the basics, anyway. Anything else we should be able to improvise, although it’d be nice to have the shed for working in.”

    Einarr frowned, considering anew, then shook his head. “I think we’d lose more time bringing it here than we’d save. Unless that storm did more damage than I think it did… Has anyone found a cart yet?”

    Erik shrugged. “Not that I know of. You might check with Arkja.”

    Einarr grunted acknowledgment. “All right. Good plan. I’ll go do that. Runa?”

    She hummed at him, as though her mind had been elsewhere.

    “Want to come help me look for a cart? Even if Arkja has one, odds are good we’ll need a second one for the gold.” He started off back towards the center of town, trusting her to follow.

    She did not disappoint, settling into an easy walk by his side. “You’re just going to take it, without so much as a by-your-leave?”

    “Well, yes. How do you think it was gathered in the first place?” He risked a glance at her face: yes, she apparently was that sheltered. “We’re raiders, Runa. We take what we want through guile, treachery, and main force, no matter what pretty rules we dress it up with among the Clans. What did you think went on with the Skudbrun while they were out all season?”

    She opened her mouth, but could only stammer a little in response.

    Einarr shook his head a little. “I know, it probably never occurred to you to wonder, and raiding doesn’t just fill the coffers – but fill them it does. That secret room in the back of the boat shed is filled with the ill-gotten gains of some unfortunate raider, turned fisher or boatwright once he realized he couldn’t break free. And the odds are very good he’s either long dead or he has dirty yellow hair and a scarred face.”

    He could hear Arkja and Jorir shouting instructions now: they must have commandeered part of the group Erik was looking after. Einarr turned to smile at his beloved, only to have to stifle a laugh. She was pouting, of all things!

    Einarr turned quickly back around. “Don’t be like that,” he said soothingly. “I’m sorry. If it weren’t for me, you probably never would have had cause to know that at all.”

    As though in answer, she twined her fingers in his and shook her head. “No, it’s fine. Father’s told me before I need to be clear-eyed about things. Sooner or later it would have come up.”

    She raised her head and looked at him sidelong. “Do you really think that ugly man used to be a raider?”

    “Up until just a bit ago I’d have said the only experienced man among them was Arkja. Now I’m not so sure.”

    In the intersection just ahead, Arkja and the dwarf who mistrusted him were in the midst of a discussion, probably regarding numbers.

    “How goes,” Einarr called, alerting them to his approach.

    “Well as can be expected,” Jorir answered. “We’ve got salt pork and jerky and dried plants of some sort, but maybe four barrels that don’t leak.”

    Einarr almost laughed. “You’re working with the tavern-keeper! Can’t we make it up with ale?”

    “I don’t know. How drunk do you want to be when we land?”

    Now Einarr did laugh. “Remember the barrels already on board. The old man should know where we can fill them.”

    Jorir harrumphed in a way that told Einarr the dwarf had, in fact, not accounted for those.

    “Anyway. Arkja, I’m heading off to look for another cart. We’re going to need it.”

    “Only one?” The tavern-keeper was scowling at the provisions surrounding them in the street.

    “At least one. The blond fisherman with all the scars-”

    “Saergar?”

    “Maybe?” Einarr had not yet gotten most of their names. “Anyway, he found someone’s old stash of treasure. Like to take back what we can.”

    Arkja grunted. “I certainly wouldn’t complain about not coming back empty-handed.”

    They wouldn’t be, technically, but Einarr saw now reason to mention the distaff to him just yet.

    “If we must go overland to your derelict, see if you can find two? The one from the Maid is already full.”

    “Will do.”

    ***

    In the morning all was in readiness, and the (now somewhat larger) group set off down the track leading through the troll’s hunting ground. As… congenial as the troll had been before, when it needed something, Einarr was just as glad not to run into the creature again.

    On the third night after leaving the abandoned town they arrived at the hulder village and retrieved Irding. The hulder did not trust the men of the town, and so they were not invited to camp among them that night. Erik wondered aloud why that might be, but Arkja’s evasive answer told Einarr as much as he needed to know. It was going to be his task and Erik’s to cut the new mast anyway.

    Irding, for his part, looked to be as hale and healthy as one could expect a bare week after cracking a rib. He saw the new crew members, took a long minute to openly size them up, and shrugged. “Just one more thing to tell me around the fire tonight,” he said. The tales ran long, that night, but no-one seemed to mind.

    The next day they arrived at the beach where the Gestrisni still lay beached. The old fisherman was nowhere to be seen: probably, Einarr thought, that meant he was out on the water. The grim old man was working, and so should they be: they had a ship to fix and an escape to plan, after all.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading!

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

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

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

  • 6.30 – Discoveries

    6.30 – Discoveries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Surprised… and glad?”

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

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

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

    “Hey now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    ***

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

    “So what was it I just had to see?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • 6.29 – Dispositions

    6.29 – Dispositions

    Though the spirit had evidently dissipated the wind still howled about the little town. Somehow, now that all sense of threat was gone, the empty streets felt even more deserted than before.

    Einarr took a deep breath and promised himself he would press Runa further – later. “At least the townspeople can come back now.”

    “Assuming they want to.” Erik looked around and scratched his beard. “Based on what Arkja told us, I’m not sure that’s a good bet.”

    “If the town is actually abandoned, that’s even more reason to start our resupply. Arkja’s men should be here soon: let’s have a look around while we wait.”

    ***

    By the time Arkja and his would-be bandits showed up, the four of them had gathered three barrels of clean water, four casks of ale, and sufficient salted fish to last five men as many days. It was a start, but that was all.

    “Good news!” Arkja announced as they swaggered in to the square.

    Einarr raised a hand in greeting. “Good. We could use some of that right about now.”

    The farmer who’d gone to fetch them wool stepped forward. “After I left with the roving, Brynja – my neighbor, with the sheep – called together the village women, y’see.”

    Einarr nodded, reasonably sure he liked where this was headed.

    “An’ seein’ as you was doin’ us a good turn, they all decided to do one in return, y’see.”

    “What Hàkon is getting at,” Arkja said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Is that we’ve most of a winter’s worth of preserves we can take with us, an’ access to the well besides.”

    Einarr grinned: they would eat well on their way out, it seemed. Then another thought crossed his mind. “Arkja… how many of your men have families on the island?”

    Arkja shook his head. “How many men d’ye think would be willing to turn bandit in a place like this if they had a wife? Only people to rob are the locals and your occasional newcomer, like yourselves. And those are few and far between.”

    Einarr pressed his lips together and nodded. The question of who, exactly, these men robbed was one he had not let himself think on too hard, and also why he had not guaranteed a berth on the Vidofnir. “And yet your neighbor was willing to help you?”

    Hàkon looked sheepish, and scratched at the back of his head.

    Arkja shook his head again. “Hàkon didn’t join my little merry band until everyone was fleeing the town. Anyone who knows, probably doesn’t care anymore.”

    Jorir harrumphed. “Lucky for us. So, how did you end up stuck out here, cursed to be forgotten?”

    “What makes you think I wasn’t born here? Some are.” Arkja’s face was pure innocence, like a child caught stealing pies.

    Jorir harrumphed again. “Your armor, for one, and your sword for two. But your answer just confirmed it.”

    Now the man laughed, and Einarr was put in mind of Sivid’s mirth whenever he was caught out in a prank. The laughter only lasted a moment, however, and when he spoke he was deadly serious.

    “Aye, you’re right. I washed ashore a decade ago, after my own rank cowardice left me lordless, shipless, and adrift. I can assure you, I’ll not make that mistake again.”

    Erik and Jorir both hummed in thought, but Einarr waved it off. “Our offer was made, and help has already been received. I’ll not rescind it now. Father has the last word as to a permanent berth anyway.”

    “Einarr is right,” Runa said. “We would make villains of ourselves if we backed out now, and likely never escape because of it.”

    Einarr inclined his head to her in thanks. The other two hummed again, but let it rest.

    “We should gather together everything we have and make a tally. Arkja, am I right in thinking you were the owner of the public hall?”

    “The Maid? Right as rain. Never thought I’d actually need that escape tunnel…”

    Runa raised an eyebrow. “And yet you were the leader of your little band of misfits? How did you stay in business?”

    He winked. “Trade secret, milady. Trade secret.”

    “By which he means that so long as the ale was good and they didn’t push their luck, most of the men were willing to look the other way.” Erik crossed his arms, but Einarr suspected had frequented such places more than a few times.

    “Putting that aside for now,” Einarr said, cutting off the topic before it could devolve into an argument. “Arkja, run a tally. We need provisions enough for twelve people, preferably to last three weeks of rowing. All we have is a fishing boat, though, so mind the cargo space.”

    “Aye, sir.” The man did not salute, but it was a near thing.

    “Good. The rest of you, we need tools. Got a boat to fix, and I want to leave her better than I found her.”

    “Low bar,” Erik chuckled.

    “You’re not wrong. But we’ve been out a lot longer than expected. Like to make it worth the owner’s while.”

    The rest of Arkja’s ‘merry band’ headed down toward the docks, fishers and farmers alike.

    “Hold a moment,” Einarr called after them. “We haven’t cut our new mast yet. Remember that in your search, please.”

    One of the fishermen did throw a sloppy salute. Perhaps his Captain liked them?

    “Yer pardon, Lord,” Hàkon began, looking embarrassed. “Is the sail still in good condition?”

    Einarr froze a moment, thinking. Had they checked? “Just Einarr, please. But assume it requires patching.”

    “Yes, milord.” Hàkon stiffened, but when Einarr offered no further rebuke relaxed and headed back off toward the harbor.

    When it was once more just the four of them within earshot, Jorir turned a stern gaze on Einarr. “Let it be said that I do not trust these new sailors you’ve found, milord.”

    “Duly noted. For what it’s worth, Jorir, I don’t trust them either. At least not yet.”

    The dwarf grunted. “So long as that’s understood, then. I am going to go ‘lend a hand’ to Arkja.”

    “Thank you, Jorir. That sounds like an excellent idea.”

    A funny expression flickered over Erik’s face and he cleared his throat as Jorir stalked off after the former sailor. “In that case, I shall go and ‘assist’ the poor souls who’ve never really sailed before.”

    Einarr raised an eyebrow – they were just searching for tools, after all – but shrugged, if somewhat bemusedly. “Very well.”

    As Erik strode off after the group of six, Einarr was suddenly hyper-aware of Runa’s arm snaking into his. He felt himself blush even as a smile spread across his face. “As for you, my Lady Singer, I have questions.”

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

  • 6.26 – Spirit Bait

    6.26 – Spirit Bait

    Before Einarr put his new recruits to work, curiosity burned a question through his lips. “What was it drove everyone out of the town, anyway?”

    Arkja shrugged, shaking his head helplessly. “Some sort of ghost, we all figured. Right up until people started keeling over, bleeding out their ears.”

    Einarr looked at Runa, who shook her head. “It might still be some sort of ghost, or it might not. I’d never heard of a leshy before, either.”

    He nodded. “So when everyone fled the town…?”

    “Broad daylight. A group of folks in the town square all died at once when the wailing picked up, and that were the last straw.” This from one of the men Einarr had pegged as a farmer.

    Einarr frowned. They would have to deal with that spirit, one way or another. He stared at the mouth of the tunnel that had led them here and set his jaw. The four of them, against some sort of malign spirit. Einarr wasn’t even sure how it would manage to kill someone by bursting their ears.

    Yes, technically it wasn’t just the four of them now. Arkja might even be able to hold his own in a fight, with some capable backup. But those seven were to see about supplies, and Einarr wasn’t about to send them off without the closest thing to a warrior they had.

    Which left the four of them to take on a spirit of unknown abilities, when they were really in no condition for dealing with one at all. He shook his head. “No time like the present. Runa, do you think ear plugs might work against this thing?”

    “Can’t hurt to try.”

    Well, it could, depending on how the creature was bursting ears, but it was the best idea he had. And it would certainly make the wailing more bearable. Thus.

    Einarr was in no hurry to pour hot wax in his ears again, though. He turned his attention to one of the three farmers in Arkja’s group. He was going to have to get names soon. “Do you know where we might come by some loose cotton or wool?”

    “Believe so, Lord. Me neighbor raises sheep, she does. Imagine I kin get some clean wool from there.”

    “Good! See to it. Enough for all of us to plug our ears. …Don’t bother trying to hide what we’re up to.” A riot at this point seemed unlikely at best, and the attempt might earn them some goodwill. The man was already on his way off to his neighbor’s.

    “There’s that accounted for. Runa, Jorir, if either of you has an idea for beating back a ghost that won’t turn into another debacle like the Allthane did, I’m all ears.”

    ***

    The escape tunnel, dug during spare moments by Arkja beginning long before the advent of the ghost, seemed no less threatening now that they were marching towards danger, their pockets full of wool roving. Einarr was coming to the conclusion he just didn’t belong underground.

    They didn’t have a plan. Einarr would have been much happier if they had. One of the hazards, though, of being on the Isle of the Forgotten was that its inhabitants had been, largely. So whatever this was they faced, neither Singer nor dwarf had ever encountered as much as a scrap of a legend.

    There were two different creatures it sounded similar to, at least: a nokken, since its victims seemed to drown, or a draugr. Einarr did not like the idea that the two types of spirit shared a common source, but under the circumstances it was an idea worth entertaining. Not that he had any idea how to send an ordinary draugr back to its grave: the Allthane had been able to communicate, however removed from reality it was. He was reasonably certain most draugr couldn’t speak, though.

    No, they did not have a plan. But if (and it was a mighty if) the spirit was drowning people on dry land in the middle of the day, they thought they had a prayer.

    Einarr blinked and realized they were approaching the tunnel exit. He shook his head, trying to clear it, as they began the ascent up into the Salty Maid. Now was not the time to be worrying.

    The streets of the town looked, if anything, even emptier in the bright light of midday. Wind whistled between the buildings and created an eddy out of sparse dried leaves.

    How much time was left in the season? Was that even the same here? Einarr froze momentarily, but shook it off. Time enough to worry about that later. Focus. They had a ghost to kill – or at least drive off. And it was going to take each and every one of them to pull it off. The town square was just past the sign of the Salty Maid, and that was where the spirit had been most active.

    There was one thing the victims all had in common, Arkja had been able to tell them: they had all been telling stories when they died. It didn’t seem to matter what kind of story: the wise old man sharing legends with a younger man and the fisherman boasting about his catch met the same fate.

    Which explained why the wailing began when it did, at least – and why it didn’t follow them into the tunnel. And it gave them a way to draw out the spirit, although not one Einarr was happy about. Once they knew that much, though, Runa insisted.

    The woman herself stood in the center of the square, looking supremely confident. “Once upon a time,” Runa intoned, her ears already stopped with wool. Einarr, Erik, and Jorir now put in their own plugs, and the world took on a muffled feel. He was glad one of them was confident, at any rate.

    Even through the roving Einarr could hear the wailing begin.

    “A great hero fell into ignominy and was cursed, banished to the shores of the Isle of the Forgotten.” Runa’s intonation moved slowly into the syncopated rhythm of the Song of Sight, a song to pierce the veil and strip away illusions. That Runa knew it was the only reason they thought they had a prayer.

    Einarr, Jorir, and Erik moved into a circle around their Singer, their weapons in hand, as they searched for the strange spirit that had an issue with stories.

    “This hero wandered the Isle alone for many years, until his shame and his solitude drove him mad. Eventually the hero died, but his shade could not rest easy.”

    The wind that whistled through the streets tugged at Einarr’s beard and stood his hackles on end. That was a wind belonging to the depths of winter. Still, though, he saw nothing.

    “The shade continued to wander, alone, for another long time. And then, finally, someone else found their way to the Isle’s shores.”

    Something down the street, down past the Maid, stirred up a dust cloud as it raced towards the four in the square.

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  • 6.25 – Banditry

    6.25 – Banditry

    Einarr bared his teeth at their assailants in a feral grin. So they thought they were raiders, did they? Farmers turned to banditry, fishermen who might make decent warriors if given a few years practice. They had spirit, at least. Sinmora practically leapt into his hand. He would teach them who they were up against and gladly – and then he would offer these desperate men a chance to get off this rock.

    It felt like it had been ages since he’d fought against men who were actually men – since their unfortunate run-in with the Valkyrian Hunters early in the spring, Einarr thought. Unfortunately, he had not underestimated the skill of their opponents here. They did not so much put up a fight as receive a sound drubbing from the experienced raiders of the Vidofnir.

    Perhaps a minute later, even their leader sat huddled in the center of a ring formed by Einarr and his companions. Had one of them decided to run they probably could have escaped, but not one tried. Einarr folded his arms across his chest and stepped forward.

    “Full points for bravery, gents, but you chose your target wrong this time. Or perhaps right, depending on how you look at it.”

    Scramasax visibly gathered himself up and leaned forward. “‘Twere my idea, Lord. I’m the one as convinced ‘em all, once we ‘ad to leave the town. Let them go.”

    Einarr smirked, and the leader of the would-be bandits quailed. “Don’t go leaping off of any cliffs just yet. My friends and I, we’re part of an actual longship crew, and that longship happens to have some open oars for brave men.”

    The townsmen exchanged confused looks, as well they might. Einarr expected there were few if any raiding ships that landed on these shores.

    “We’ve a fishing boat down the coast aways in need of repair. Anyone willing to help us fix it up and get off this rock, I’ll put in a word for with our Captain when we make it back.”

    Scramasax’s men did not look as thrilled at the prospect as he’d hoped – although their relief at apparently being spared was evident.

    “Beggin’ yer pardon, Lord,” one of the fishermen said, scratching sheepishly at the back of his head. “But there ain’t no way off this island. Cursed, it is, and all of us on it.”

    “There’s always some way past a curse, even if nobody’s found it before. That’s what Cursebreakers are Called for, after all.” Einarr hoped they were less familiar with the lore than he had been. “Even if you’re right, though, my Father – our ship – is counting on our return. I can’t give up, not while there’s even a prayer of getting back to them.”

    Scramasax cleared his throat to speak, but Einarr held up a hand to forestall him. “What’s your name?”

    “Ah, Arkja, Lord.”

    Einarr nodded. “Sorry. Go on.”

    “Your wench there – ah, my apologies, no offense intended, but – is she a Singer?”

    “I am,” Runa answered for herself, her annoyance audibly constrained.

    “The ‘wench,’ as you so delicately termed her, is my bride, and I will thank you to remember that.”

    “Yes, of course, Lord. I meant no aspersions. Only, if we’ve a Singer, maybe there’s a chance.”

    “Explain.”

    “Well you see, Lord, it’s like this. Those as try an’ sail away from here always end up back where they started, wi’ no memory of having turned about.”

    “That certainly sounds like something the song seithir could get us past.” Runa still sounded dubious.

    “Well, not by itself, I don’t think, Lady.”

    The man’s obsequiousness was beginning to grate on Einarr’s nerves.

    “Haven’t been many, but some Singers has washed up here before, an’ the magic alone wasn’t enough to get them past it.”

    Jorir grunted. “Wouldn’t be much of a curse if it was, I think.”

    Some of the captives looked uncomfortable now that Jorir had drawn attention to himself. But so long as no-one tried to start trouble over it, Einarr would let it rest. “So. It’s the four of us, plus one injured man back with the hulder. If you’re willing to help us supply our boat and make her seaworthy again, we’re willing to take you aboard, with the possibility of a permanent berth on the Vidofnir. Who’s in?”

    One or two of the would-be bandits glanced nervously at Jorir – Arkja not among them – but not one of them hesitated more than a moment. Einarr could work with that.

    “Good. Welcome aboard the Gestrisni, such as she is. She needs a mast and provisions, and could do with some other repairs as well. She got us here, though, so I expect she’ll get us back to Breidhaugr all right.”

    “A – mast, you say, Lord?”

    “Indeed. It was struck by lightning when the storm washed us ashore.”

    Arkja looked uncomfortable, as though there was news he did not wish to bring up. “Um, beggin’ yer pardon, Lord -”

    Einarr rolled his eyes and held up a hand. “Please. Such… servility is neither necessary nor proper. I am Einarr. Jorir – the dwarf – is my man at arms.” He pointed at each of the men in turn. “Erik has been on my father’s ship longer than I have, and has had my back since I joined. And if you’re going to tell me the forest is too dangerous to cut a new mast, we’ve already dealt with it.”

    “I see, um, L- Einarr.” Where had he learned to cringe like that? No matter: the man had a spine, he just needed to lose some old habits.

    Erik was staring at the conscripted men, his arms folded across his chest and his gaze weighing them like cuts of meat. Einarr would ask the man’s opinion later, once Arkja’s men had been put to work.

    In the meantime, they had a ship to resupply. “All right. Enough standing around. Let’s get to it.”

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