Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Gorgny Agnarsson

  • 14.38 – Denouement

    14.38 – Denouement

    Author’s Note: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. This should have been posted months ago. Between March and June of this year, we moved twice – once halfway around the world – and when I wasn’t actively involved in packing/unpacking, I suddenly had the Young Master at home all the time, rather than at Montessori school. None of this was conducive to writing. So, today you will get this last chapter. Then, sometime next week or perhaps in the first part of the new year, there will be a definitive announcement as to my next project. And, at some point in there, this website will be getting rebuilt, as recent changes appear to have broken my old design.

    Some months later, the remainder of the Fleet sailed into Breidelstein harbor, Bea’s Valkyrie ships integrated into their number and most of their dead laid to rest off the coast of the cursed isle. The charred bones of Arring and Thjofgrir rode in state, along with one or two others, to allow the people of Breidelstein the chance to pay their respects, as well.

    Someone must have ordered a lookout for the fleet, because as they sailed into port, the streets were lined with somber crowds. It looked as though the entire city had come out to welcome them back. They had sent no word ahead, so perhaps this – as well as the anxious mood of the crowd – was understandable.

    As they neared the piers, three ships moved out ahead of the rest: The Heidrun, the Lúmskulf, and, between them, the Vidofnir.

    When Stigander stepped to the gangplank and raised a fist high overhead, the crowd erupted into cheers. Soon, he was joined on the pier by Einarr, then by Kaldr, and then, after another moment, by Bea, who grinned at the crowd before her. Her appearance occasioned some little surprise, but not enough to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm.

    These four strode at the head of a long procession of warriors, Captains and crews together, up the cliff road to Raenshold. There, they were met at the gate by Uncle Gorgny, steward during Stigander’s absence, and Runa with Alfvin, flanked by what looked like everyone who lived in the Hold. Einarr blinked in surprise to see how much little Alfvin was grown in less than a year. He still managed to smile at everyone as Stigander accepted back the crown and sword of his office.

    Runa, their son on her hip, fell in beside him as the procession continued on toward the main hall, now larger by the residents of Raenshold. “Welcome home.”

    “I’m glad to be home. What did I miss?”

    “Other than me, I presume?”

    He glanced down, wary, but her expression was impish. He wrapped an arm around her waist, between her and Alfvin. “Of course.”

    “He’s not talking yet, but he can walk. Or, more accurately, he runs. Everywhere.”

    It was all Einarr could do not to laugh. He was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be funny for long. “That’s my boy, I guess.”

    Alfvin giggled and grabbed at Runa’s ear. When she had distracted him again – Einarr had no idea with what – she continued. “Still no sign of any trouble from our little adventure in Svartalfheimr, but we’re watching.”

    “Good.”

    The procession neared the doors of the Thane’s Hall now, and all fell silent. Stigander made a gesture, and the guards flanking the doors threw them open.

    It had not, in fact, been the entire population of the hold who had come to greet them at the gates, for the Hall, too, was packed with people. Certain familiar faces stood out to Einarr: there was his father-in-law, Jarl Hroaldr. His presence, at least, was no surprise: he had probably stayed to play with his grandson. There, the old men from the Althing before they left – Kjartan, and Geirleif, Tore and Olaf and Thorgnyr. Surely they had not stayed here the entire time? Or was the idea that they had returned ahead of the fleet more troubling?

    The Hall was eerily silent as the procession marched up the center of the Hall. When Stigander and Einarr took the first step up towards the dias, however, a low rumble began in the back of the room, and as the returning column filled the hall to bursting it grew into a full-throated cheer.

    Stigander raised his arms and, as though on command, the crowd fell silent once more. “And now,” he intoned, “for the second time in less than a year, the Althing is convened, so that all may know the results of our quest.”

    * * *

    Unlike in the spring, the Althing stretched on, long past what was customary and to the point where some wondered if Breidelstein would be required to host the entire fleet of ships over the winter. This would be no small feat for a country as prosperous as Breidelstein had been under Raen. As things were now, having only just escaped from Ulfr and the Weavess? It would be ruinous. Oh, there was glory to be shared, and honor to be gained, and there could be no doubt that the men who had joined the fleet would gain much face on their return home, but already it began to strain the thin coffers that they had hardly begun to rebuild. Einarr found his time more and more taken up with the daily running of Breidelstein and he stopped following the Althing.

    Runa caught Einarr worrying over it one night and suddenly discovered that she had business to attend to with the other Singers. Some hours later, when she returned, he was too tired from running after Alfvin to worry about much of anything.

    Rumors began to circulate, though, starting among the warriors of the fleet. Whispers that, with as well as the Fleet performed together, unified, perhaps there would be value to the Clans more generally from a similar joining. At first, he thought nothing of it. Truly, it would be a good idea, but he had missed most of a year of his son’s life, and there were precious few of those before Alfvin would have to leave to study under the Oracle. Then he saw an expression on Runa’s face, when two men were discussing it in his hearing, that suggested she was the cat who got the cream. His hackles immediately rose.

    Three days later, a servant came to inform him he was wanted for the discussions in the Hall.

    The doors of the Hall stood open when he arrived, and as he turned to face the Thanes and Jarls in the room before him he smoothed sweaty palms on his tunic. Inside, Runa offered him an encouraging smile.

    Ahead, Stigander stood on the step of the dais, beckoning him forward. Suddenly the expectant looks of the powerful men in the room seemed as heavy as all the stone over Nilthiad. He squared his shoulders and entered anyway. When he reached the dais, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his father and opened his mouth. Before he could ask what this was all about, however, Thane Thorgnyr rose from where he had been seated in deliberations.

    “Einarr son of Stigander son of Raen, you have brought great honor upon your head. Not only did you return at the head of the fleet after a successful quest, every man in this Hall recalls how you fought to bring that fleet together in the first place. In the months since you have left, word has reached our domains of other cities razed by these madmen… some in the time since you must have left their island stronghold.”

    Einarr bowed his head slightly – he was a prince and a war-leader, but Thorgnyr was Thane to his father-in-law. “Thank you, milord.”

    Thorgnyr smirked, and Einarr’s belly went cold. “It has been agreed among the Althing that one is needed whom we can all answer to. We would not have been caught so unawares by the mad cult had we been more trusting of one another. Therefore, for the first time in centuries, the Clans have agreed amongst themselves to acclaim an Althane.”

    The cold in Einarr’s belly turned to an iceberg. Surely they couldn’t mean him? He cleared his throat. “My lords. I have spent the first decade of my career at sea as a humble freeboater. I have claimed my birthright, but it still sits strangely on my shoulders. I do not think…”

    “You are too modest.” A woman’s voice rang out over the Hall, but not from the Singers conclave. Bea stood up and stepped forward. “Your native wit and wisdom – which, I might add, extends to your choosing of advisors – serve you well, such that even I find myself indebted to you. It is no small thing to earn the gratitude of a Gundahar.”

    Thorgnyr inclined his head to Beatrix as to an equal. Any other Imperial likely would have been mortally offended: thankfully, Beatrix was not so minded.

    “The Princess speaks what we all believe. Furthermore, she has suggested that such a joining could bring financial benefits to the Clans, as well as security. Furthermore, while you are currently heir to Breidelstein, you are also Lord over no lands. This is a rare combination. However, acclaiming an Althane against his will would, perhaps, be worse than acclaiming no Althane at all. Will you stand before the Althing and permit the vote?”

    Einarr gaped, aware that he probably looked rather like a fish. Finally, he managed to speak. “Might I have a word with my wife, first?”

    No-one raised any objection. Indeed, Stigander pulled aside a curtain behind the dais and motioned them both back.

    Out from under the watchful eyes of all the Clan leaders, Einarr breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Runa. “Just to be clear, you didn’t… do anything to anyone, did you?”

    She blushed, but shook her head. “I didn’t even start the rumors. Those came from out among the men of the Fleet.” She couldn’t quite suppress a girlish laugh.

    “Aye,” said a voice from behind him. Einarr jumped: he hadn’t realized anyone else was back here.

    “Jorir? What are you doing here?”

    “Keeping my ears open for trouble, mostly. But ‘twas me who started putting bees in people’s ears about the matter. I… hope ye’ll forgive the indiscretion.”

    Einarr sighed and buried his face in his hand, trying desperately not to laugh in his friend’s face. “Of course. Well. I suppose, then, that I needn’t have worried how you would take it, Runa.”

    She nodded, biting her lower lip, and pushed him back towards the curtain. “We’ll work out the succession later.”

    Einarr pushed the curtain aside and stepped back out on the dais to stand beside his father. “Very well. I will stand for the vote.”

    One by one, the leaders of the Clans stood, and one by one they pledged to follow the lead of the Althane, Einarr the Cursebreaker.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    This is what I expect to be the final book of The Adventures of Einarr Stigandersen. After four, almost five, years and fourteen books, I’m ready to move on to other projects – and I’m sure Einarr is ready for me to do so, as well – if only so I stop tormenting him! Fear not, however: my intention is to start a new serial, although not a purely free one. Look for a poll or an announcement from me in the next few weeks as I firm up my ideas.

    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 e-book through Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 14.5 – Conference

    14.5 – Conference

    The Heidrun ran up the white flag as they approached the freehold Gabriel led them to. Even so, as he waited at the top of the gangplank, while Gabriel approached up the beach, they were greeted by a sturdy older woman wielding a massive axe in one hand and a proper shield in the other. She scowled fiercely at the approaching boat, and Einarr thought she would likely give a good accounting of herself, just on sheer determination.

    Then she saw Gabriel and let the axe head drop. “You’re alive? Then, is…?”
    Gabriel nodded. “He’s in Breidelstein: they say we can start over there. Kem is gone.”

    Relief and fury warred on the woman’s face – relief, he was sure, for the safety of her husband. Fury, he didn’t have to guess at.

    “Leave Flatey? Start over? Are you mad?”

    “What else are we supposed to do? With Kem gone, we’ve no-one to trade with between here and Breidelstein. No apothecary, no herb witch. One bad winter would kill us all.”

    “The lad is right,” Einarr chimed in, still standing on the deck. “It might not even take a bad winter: there are monsters at sea now. Raenshold has men who have fought them before, and a good harbor, and lots of unworked land to boot. I’m afraid the Heidrun isn’t equipped to carry much livestock, but we’ve enough cargo space for anything else you care to bring.”

    The woman stood there, staring at both of them, her mouth working soundlessly, for a long time. As the quiet dragged on, the fury faded from her face and her shoulders began to sag.

    “You may as well come ashore. We’ll need some time to pack.”

    Einarr’s Heidrunings were still gripped with a solemn urgency when they docked once more in Breidelstein. Gabriel’s master waited at the docks for his family – which plainly included Gabriel, no matter what his technical status was. Einarr was pleased that had worked out as well as it had, even with everything else weighing on his mind.

    Gorgny also greeted their return at the docks: Einarr was always a little surprised the man was willing to walk down to the port for this sort of thing: he was at least as old as Tyr, and hadn’t spent most of the last twenty years at sea – and that wasn’t accounting for his duties towards Grandfather Raen. Still, if it was Gorgny here and not Father or Kaldr, that meant they were absorbed in other important matters.

    Einarr and his commanders disembarked to join him, escorting the former Captain of the League, Thrand, and the seven of them set off at a quick pace for the cliff road. “What’s happened while we’ve been out?” Einarr asked Gorgny.

    “I see you’ve returned with another new face, milord?” The old advisor raised an eyebrow.

    The meaning was plain. “He’s our captive, but also a refugee. Lone survivor of the massacre of Kem.”

    Gorgny nodded. “Representatives have been arriving since not long after you left, milord. I’m sure they are all waiting to learn what you have found out.”

    Fair enough. Einarr wasn’t entirely certain how trustworthy Thrand was at this point, either, and that was after traveling with the man. “So long as they allow us enough time to wash the salt off – and maybe for the rest of my crew to finish unloading and do the same. Any other reports of razed settlements?”

    “I’m afraid so, milord. The Kjellings ran into one on their way, as did one or two other representatives. The Captain of the Skudbrun seemed particularly disturbed by what he saw.”

    “Understandably so. He’s seen it before, too. … Let those who found the massacres know that, should they wish to compare notes, I intend to sweat out the ashes of Kem in the sauna tonight. I would like a chance to speak with them privately. Probably for the best if Father does not attend: I will let him know what I intend.”

    “Yes, milord.”

    “By that same token, before dinner I will be in my chambers with Runa and Alfvin. We are not to be disturbed unless it’s an emergency.”

    “Of course, milord.”

    Einarr sat in the sauna, a towel wrapped about his waist, his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed. He was glad Bollinn was here: that would make matters easier, even accounting for the close ties between their clans. He still didn’t know who the other two were: he hoped he could count on them to see what was necessary.

    Einarr heard a rap on the door. “Enter.”

    A blast of cool air reminded Einarr of just how hot it was in here: he stood and dipped some water over the coals. When he returned to the bench, Bollinn sat across from him.

    “Einarr.”

    “Good to see you. How’re the Brunnings holding up?”

    Bollinn shrugged. “Langavik wasn’t necessarily worse, but everything that followed was. We’ll hold up just fine.”

    Einarr nodded. “Where was it?”

    “Kliftorp.”

    Einarr blinked. He had to think a long time to remember anything about them. “Hard to make an example out of a tiny place like that, I’d think.”

    “Lots of cloth coming out of Kliftorp in the last five or ten years, and a lot of skillful Weavers.”

    “Ah.” Now it made sense.

    Another rap came on the door, followed by an unfamiliar, although not unpleasant, voice. “We were told we should visit the sauna tonight?”

    “Yes. Please, enter, join us.”

    The two who entered were built like Einarr’s father, but much closer to his own age, and bore the scars of many battles. One of them had hair almost as red as Einarr’s – and a nose that had been broken more than once. The other was as blond as Stigander and as paunchy as Erik.

    “Tore, Captain of the Sterkerbjorn out of Hrafnhaugr,” the redhead introduced himself.

    “A pleasure. Not sure I ever had the pleasure of seeing Hrafnhaugr.”

    Tore smirked. “Not much reason for a ship of freeboaters to head that way.”

    Einarr nodded his acknowledgment, then turned to the man who looked shockingly like a younger version of his father.

    “Serk, of the Björtstag. From Sweindalr.”

    Bollinn waved silently: evidently, they’d all been here long enough to become acquainted already.

    “Good to meet you both, and I’m glad you came. I’m certain you can guess why I called you all here tonight.”

    “Oh, aye, that’s not hard to figure.” Tore settled himself on a bench and fixed a level eye at Einarr. “What I want to know is why?”

    Serk, too, took a seat on a bench and settled himself leaning against a wall. “I’d like to know that, myself. I’m not sure there’s really much to talk about, is there?”

    “A couple years ago, I might have thought the same. Then the worshipers of a dark demigod named Malùnion kidnapped my wife…”

     

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    So begins what I expect to be the final book of The Adventures of Einarr Stigandersen. After four, almost five, years and fourteen books, I’m ready to move on to other projects – and I’m sure Einarr is ready for me to do so, as well – if only so I stop tormenting him! Fear not, however: my intention is to start a new serial, although not a purely free one. Look for a poll or an announcement from me in the next few weeks as I firm up my ideas.

    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 Draft2Digital, 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.

     

  • 11.27 – The Day Before

    11.27 – The Day Before

    The wedding was set for three days after Einarr and the Heidrun limped back into port, which meant that they were not, precisely, late. They had, however, called it entirely too close for comfort. The first day, the day they arrived, they were welcomed home with feasting and music, and everyone aboard the Heidrun ended up telling tales of their adventure – everyone, that is, except for Finn, who slipped out of the hall with his bruised face and broken ribs before he could be pestered about what had happened on Blávík. Einarr made a mental note to speak with Stigander about that: it was the sort of thing that might ruin a man, and Finn was a promising scout.

    The second day Einarr spent closeted away with his father, Bardr, Kaldr, Uncle Gorgny, and – surprisingly – Jorir. Beyond the repair of the Heidrun there were matters of political import which had made themselves evident over the last two months while he had been at sea, and none of them were good. That the cult was still active, and still possessed storm-riding ships, was troubling on several levels. While the League was a promising development in some ways, in others they seemed more troublesome.

    “Truth be told they left a bad taste in my mouth even before they tried to impress us,” Einarr admitted in conference that afternoon.

    “What did Eydri think?” Jorir asked.

    “Things happened a little quickly for me to get an immediate impression from her, I’m afraid. We should talk with Naudrek about it in more detail: he was out with the group that encountered them first. He didn’t seem terribly impressed, though, even before we realized Finn was missing.”

    Stigander grunted his agreement. “That the cult is large enough, and active enough, to inspire such a thing is troubling by itself. That this counter-League is evidently press-ganging whoever it happens across… Well. Something will have to be done.”

    “That was my thought, as well.” He put a hand to his chin, considering. “Do you think the Matrons would want to look into it?”

    Kaldr looked skeptical. “You want to turn this over to the Singers?”

    Jorir, though, shook his head. “No, it’s a good idea. The cultists target them, after all, and there are members of the Circle everywhere.”

    “Almost everywhere,” Einarr clarified. “Father, will you take it up with the Singers?”

    “I will.”

    The day before the wedding was the sauna day. In the morning, Einarr and Jorir took Ragnar’s sword to the dwarf’s forge, where he hemmed and hawed over the blade.

    “And you’ve not polished it or sharpened it since you won it?”

    “No.”

    “And not a speck of rust on it. Remarkable.”

    “Could that have something to do with the draugr? It was cursed, I think, and corrupted, but slaying Ragnar did for the first, and some rune fire for the second.”

    “It’s possible, I suppose,” Jorir said, still peering closely at the blade. “Well. I’ll sharpen her, and polish her up, and you’ll have a right fine sword to give Runa tomorrow.”

    “Good. Good. And… the ring?”

    “Hrmph.” The dark-headed dwarf chuckled. “Had that finished weeks ago.” He lapsed into silence, but Einarr did not stand to go. He thought there was more Jorir wanted to say. After taking out a clean cloth and running it along the edge, the dwarf spoke again. “I may not like that lass of yours – she’s spoiled, and too clever for her own good – but I think the two of you will do all right.”

    Einarr nodded. “Thanks.”

    Jorir glanced up from his inspection of the century-old longsword. “You’re welcome. Don’t you have someplace to be?”

    Einarr nodded again and let himself out. He was meant to meet Father, Uncle Gorgny, and Tyr at the sauna with a priest shortly after noon, and they would stay until past supper. He’d had to force himself to eat a big breakfast that morning, knowing no-one would let him eat until the wedding feast the next night: nerves robbed him of his appetite. Runa would be doing the same, he knew, with Reki and Eydri and gods-only-knew who. Maybe Aema and Tyr’s wife? There weren’t many married women in the hold, after all.

    Einarr was bathed and switched and baked, and during all that time the older men talked. And talked. And talked. He was sure it was very important advice about keeping a happy household and such, but he just couldn’t focus. He listened, and nodded dutifully, and promptly forgot everything that was said. For three years, now, he’d worked towards this next day. Maybe that was why he was suddenly such a bundle of nerves?

    He wasn’t certain if he actually slept that night. Before he knew it, though, the sky was lightening into the pale blue of morning and it was time to rise. He sat up and raked his fingers back through his hair, catching and breaking up a few snags. He could still smell the herbs from yesterday’s rinse.

    There, hanging ready on the post of his bed, was his wedding outfit. He couldn’t begin to guess who had decided he required a silk tunic, but they had found a marvelous shade of blue for it – only the waters of Blávík were bluer, he thought. The trim was tasteful, as well, braids of silver and gold and black – although even after a year he found it odd to dress like a prince rather than a freeboater.

    “Right,” he said to himself. “I may as well get started. Where did they leave that ewer this time?”

    He needed to dress, and then he would be expected to stand with his father while Stigander and Hroaldr dealt with the purely contractual portion of the affair. They said it would be noon before the ceremony itself began, and already he felt as irritably impatient as a boy. Finally, on this day, there would be none to gainsay what had been true since that winter before they tried to elope: I am hers, and she is mine.

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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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 10.48 – The Thing

    10.48 – The Thing

    Over the course of the next three weeks, something more than half of all the jarls who once swore allegiance to Raen arrived in port at Breidelstein or sent pigeons explaining why they couldn’t. Stigander made a point of greeting each and every Jarl personally, after which they would spend some time in hushed conversation while their crews unloaded barrels of ale and mead and other contributions to the coming festival.

    Tyr, Kaldr, and Jorir had disagreed with Einarr’s thoughts on taking oaths, and in the end their thinking won. The renewal of vows would take place after the trial of Urdr.

    Thus, at the end of three weeks, when careful note had been made of those Jarls who had not arrived for the Thing – excuse or no – a true Thing was held in Breidelstein for the first time in more than a decade. When the Jarls assembled in a circle around the courtyard, they stared at the figures in the center with grim solemnity.

    A wooden seat had been brought out for Raen. The old man sat, stooped and feeble but alert, and he stared about himself with childlike wonder. Many was the man who winced to see their former Thane in such a reduced state – and winced again when Urdr was brought forth in chains, led once more by Arring and Erik and Thjofgrir. Raen physically shrank away from the crone. Gorgny, who attended him on the stage, comforted him like he would a child.

    Einarr, from his place at Stigander’s side, fought to keep a straight face at the sight of his grandfather. He could see from the corner of his eye the knotting of muscles in his father’s jaw. But the two of them had to remain neutral, despite being among the aggrieved.

    “This Thing is assembled,” Stigander intoned. “Before you are Raen, your former Thane, and the Weavess Urdr, who is accused. Gorgny, you may state your case.”

    Raen’s oldest and most loyal liege-man straightened, leaving a comforting hand on Raen’s shoulder. “Men of the Thing, this woman and her son are solely responsible for the current state of these islands. She used her Weaving to bind the fates of all Breidelstein and unseat Lord Raen. In his place, she installed her son Ulfr, and the two of them have taxed the citizens beyond all measure. She has imprisoned and tortured Lord Raen, whom she claimed was her husband, as well as countless others who have passed through the dungeon here. She has practiced Black Arts in order to hold power for herself and her son. Free men of the Thing, I lay all these things at the feet of this woman.”

    A low rumble passed around the assembled Jarls. Then Stigander stepped forward. “Weavess Urdr. You stand accused before the Thing of high treason, treason against your Thane, practicing the black arts, murder by means of magic, and of practicing the torturer’s arts. Among your accusers, your victims, are members of this Thing. Have you any defense?”

    The crone straightened, haughty and defiant even now. “You dare to try me here, with my accusers among the judges?”

    “I see none in this circle who have added to the weight of charges laid out by Gorgny.”

    “And yet you yourself are a son of Raen. Does that not make your judgment invalid?”

    “It is not my judgement you have to fear. You will offer no defense, then?”

    A cold stare was his only answer. Stigander shrugged. “Are there any present who would stand in her defense?”

    No-one stepped forward. On its face, Einarr thought Urdr’s claim had merit. Unfortunately for her, that was the nature of crimes against a Thane, and there was no way to call an Althing. Her tricks would find no purchase here.

    “Very well,” Stigander boomed. “The penalty for any one of these crimes is death, and so I put the question before this Thing. Did this woman conspire to overthrow the rightful Thane of Breidelstein?”

    A chorus of “Ayes” rang around the circle.

    “In the overthrow of the Thane Raen, by whom she bore a son, did she practice the black art of curse-weaving?”

    Once again each man in the circle answered aye.

    “Was the rightful Thane, a man she has called her husband, tortured by her hand?”

    There were fewer ‘ayes’ this time, likely because the Jarls hesitated to confirm a charge that was not so self-evident.

    “Very well. Based on the determination of this Thing, who have witnessed the actions of the accused, the weavess Urdr is guilty. You shall be stripped of all you posess and chained to a rock in the harbor, where you may look upon the lands you so desired until your bones fall into the sea.”

    “Arring. Erik. Thjofgrir. See to it.”

    The three men named snapped off an “Aye,sir,” as though they were still aboard ships before leading the crone out of the circle of the Thing. If there was one thing that could be said to her credit, it was that her pride did not desert her as she was led to her death. She held her head high and stared defiantly forward.

    “Now that the unpleasantness is concluded, there is one more bit of formality to handle before the festivities begin. Kaldr Kerasson, step forward.”

    Kaldr moved with the calm grace that everyone who knew him was accustomed to and knelt before Stigander.

    “Earlier, during the fighting, you laid your life before me. Now I will have your oath.” Stigander drew Grjóthrun from the scabbard on his baldric and held the hilt out toward the man called the Ice Wolf.

    The reswearing of those whose bonds had been severed, first by the witch and then by Einarr, took until it was full dark. A bonfire – a real one, this time – was lit in the field, and the feast table laid near it. Musicians from the town had offered their services for a place at the table and been welcomed.

    It was a night of celebration and the reforging of bonds long tested. Finally, Breidelstein could begin the long road toward rebuilding its former glory.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

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  • 10.47 – Unbinding

    10.47 – Unbinding

    A light like golden dawn shone from the grass behind Einarr, illuminating the faces before him. Those who were bound most loosely by the curse – Stigander, Kormund, most of their crews, Kaldr – watched in respectful silence, as they would a grave ship. Among the townsfolk, some looked pained. Others, nauseous. That was a result of the dissonance, and would pass in time.

    Those who had fought under Ulfr had, in general, stronger reactions. Some vomited. Others dropped to their knees, clutching their heads. A bare handful had been bound so tightly their minds could not accept the dissonance and they fled into the forest. Einarr watched calmly, hiding his surprise that there were any of those here to witness the ritual.

    Urdr had aged a century in a little over ten minutes. Einarr had called her a crone before, but the destruction of her work sapped her of vitality. Once again he stifled a pang of pity: for what she and her son had worked on Breidelstein, this was only a partial measure of justice. Arring stood behind her, holding her on her feet to witness the undoing of her schemes.

    Eventually, those with homes in the city below began to drift towards the gate house and rest. Of the warriors who remained, those who were less affected aided those in greater distress towards rooms where they might rest. Arring, Erik, and Thjofgrir led Urdr to the dungeon, where she would await the convenience of the Thing.

    The bonfire of tapestries continued in the center of the circle. Stigander’s eyes did not rest, searching over the faces that remained, plainly looking for someone, although Einarr could not guess who.

    He was not needed here. Einarr drove the end of the distaff into the rune circle. For just a moment, the ivory inlay flashed with the same light as the working below. He was not entirely certain what that meant, but now that it was there he did not think he should move it – at least not until the working was finished.

    The Örlögnir stood on its own. With a sigh and a mental shrug, Einarr left the bonfire of light to join the rest of his crewmates.

    When dawn broke, Einarr rose from his sleeping couch not quite able to accept that it was his. The odd sense of displacement, though, he knew was temporary. More urgently, there was work to be done.

    Einarr followed the smell of wood smoke to a cookfire outside the hall, where he found his father and an older man crouched near the fire, speaking in hushed tones. Einarr thought he recognized the man, but with the haze of long years he couldn’t be certain.

    “His Lordship is resting in town, under the care of an herb-witch,” the old man was saying.

    Stigander nodded in understanding. “I only saw him for a moment. He looked weak. How is he, really?”

    The old man looked up and straight at Einarr, his eyes suddenly hooded. Stigander turned around and waved for him to join them.

    “Uncle Gorgny, you remember Einarr, don’t you?”

    Uncle Gorgny! So that’s why he looked familiar. Einarr smiled.

    Gorgny looked poleaxed. He finally stammered out “The Cursebreaker is your very own son?”

    “My very own.”

    “It’s not that surprising that he wouldn’t recognize me, Father. Last time I saw Uncle Gorgny, I was just a small boy.”

    Stigander turned his attention back to Raen’s closest advisor. “Well? How is my father?”

    “…Weak, as you say, Lord. I have reason to believe much of the blood in those tapestries was his. But that was not the only way in which she tortured him. Now that she is gone, and he is free, I hope he will recover.”

    Stigander set his mouth grimly. “I understand.”

    “You are not surprised.” Gorgny watched Stigander for confirmation.

    “I suspected. Last spring we paid a visit to an Oracle: she left me virtually certain.” He sighed, then shook his head. “We will need to visit him, sooner rather than later, and not just because he’s family.”

    “Then…” Einarr couldn’t finish the thought.

    “Trying to give your grandfather back his seat is likely to be impossible, based on everything I’ve heard.”

    “Unfortunately true,” Gorgny agreed. “Even if Raen were as hale as you, the years under the usurper cost him a great deal of support, and even more honor.”

    “That should be mitigated once the Jarls realize Ulfr didn’t actually have Grandfather’s support.” That his grandfather was still alive was nothing short of miraculous. Unfortunately, it also made what came next complicated.

    “Not enough, I’m afraid,” Stigander rumbled. “But it’s moot anyway. Be thankfull, Einarr, that your sorcery in the harbor brought Kaldr to his senses. You are no more prepared to be a Thane than your uncle was. How long before the Thing can be assembled?”

    Gorgny sighed. “At least a week. More likely two.”

    “Good. I want careful count kept of who comes and who doesn’t. Clans have fractured over less than this.”

    “Of course, my Prince.” Gorgny pressed his hands against his knees and rose, allowing himself the luxury of a groan. He, too, was getting on in years, but he had not been subjected to the witch’s tender ministrations. “There is much yet to do before the Jarls begin to arrive. If you will excuse me.”

    “Of course. And, Uncle Gorgny, it’s good to see you again.”

    The old retainer offered Stigander a tight smile. “It’s good you came back.”

    Einarr furrowed his brow. Once Gorgny had crossed half the courtyard, he turned his attention back to his father. “What’s wrong with him?”

    Stigander sighed. “You heard it too, then. I have never questioned his loyalty to your grandfather, not once. I suspect he just has some soul-searching to do. He may blame himself. He may be worried about Father. Maybe it’s all of the above.”

    “You should start taking men’s oaths, Father. The sooner the better.”

    “You’re not wrong. But that won’t help him.”

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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 Draft2Digital, 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.

  • 2.18 – A Father’s Honor

    2.18 – A Father’s Honor

    “If your heart does not remain with the Weaver and the Wolf, swear again before me as you once did before my father Raen.”

    A number of grim faces around the hall met Stigander’s request, but no-one protested. Stigander would have been well within his rights to have them put to death, or trial by sword. Within his rights, but foolish: such a blood-letting would have taken generations to return from.

    Stigander stood on the dias, flanked by Einarr and Bardr, with Gorgny standing watch just below. Man after man stepped forward and knelt before him, forswearing any allegiance to Ulfr and pledging allegiance to Stigander or his line. No few Singers also presented themselves. Before accepting and offering his counter-pledge, Stigander would look to Gorgny for his affirmation of their sincerity.

    Meanwhile, the Vidofnings stood guard around the edges of the hall, looking as uncomfortable and impatient as Stigander felt. That this was necessary at all was a travesty, caused by a single ill-advised dalliance in his father’s youth: never in his life had Stigander been more glad of his policy to never bed a woman not his wife.

    At least I won’t have to worry about Einarr. He found his mind wandering as the line moved on – never far, of course, in the seemingly endless stream of pledges and counter-pledges.

    After what felt like an eternity of this those gathered in the hall once again stood assembled to either side. Stigander’s gaze slid across the entirety off the hall, and as his eyes lit on each familiar face he smiled a little more openly. “It’s good to be home,” he said, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

    “Tomorrow, there will be work to be done. Tonight, though, let us feast!”

    A cheer rose up across the hall, and Stigander stepped down to stand in front of his father’s right-hand man. “Where is Father?”

    The scene shifted. Last night’s feast had been one of the wildest Stigander could remember, before or after the Vidofnir had become a vagabond. He thought he had drank too much, although what he felt was more akin to the idea of a hangover than the actual thing. And the next task of the day was to be an unpleasant one, one he’d hoped to avoid.

    “When the Weaving unravelled, it came undone all at once,” Gorgny explained. “The Weaver realized what had happened at the same time as all the rest of us, and we caught them before they could escape. They await your judgement.”

    Stigander gave a heavy sigh. “Best be on with it.”

    Gorgny bowed, and then an unfamiliar-looking woman and appeared before him with a startlingly familiar-looking man, shackled and weighed down with chains, the sole purpose of which seemed to be the weight. The woman, a withered old crone whose long white hair had gone thin and who had lost more than a few of her teeth, stood defiant, but her son was on his knees and would not look up at him. We could almost be twins… The newly resworn jarls formed a circle around them in the center of the room: the Thing would judge.

    I suppose she must have been pretty enough in her youth, or she’d never have caught Father’s eye. Stigander met her eyes with a cold stare. To punish her was easy: it would take years for father’s mind to recover, even if his body seemed hale. Gorgny, at least, thought Raen’s mind was still whole enough to mend. Ulfr, though…

    Stigander rose, and went to join the circle of leaders surrounding the usurpers. “Weavess Urdr. You stand accused before the Thing of high treason, treason against your husband, practicing the black arts, murder by means of magic and poison, and of practicing the torturer’s arts. Among your accusers, your victims, are members of this Thing. Have you any defense?”

    “You dare to try me here, with my accusers among the judges?” The woman may have been a crone, but her voice was as strong as a woman thirty years her junior, and she stood straight and proud.

    “You would rather rot in the dungeon until I can call on the thanes and jarls of other lands? Winter approaches: I should think in your shoes I should prefer swift judgement to spending the winter in the dungeon, wondering every day if you might simply have been forgotten. Cold, damp, dark, drafty, and worse than it was before the Weaving forced me into exile.”

    Her only response was to meet his hard stare with one of her own.

    Stigander gave her a moment. He did not think her neck would bend, and it soon became plain it would not. “Are there any present who will stand in her defense?”

    Ulfr moved as though to stand. He planted one foot on the floor, but then placed it back again.

    “Even your own son will not stand to defend your actions. Can there be any more damning statement?”

    Still Urdr stared at him, but Stigander would not be cowed. “If you will not defend yourself, so be it. The penalty for any one of these crimes is death, and so I put the question before this Thing. Did this woman conspire to overthrow the rightful Thane of Breidelsteinn?”

    Not a single Jarl said nay.

    “In the overthrow of the thane Raen, by whom she bore a son, did she practice the black art of curse-weaving?”

    Once again each man in the circle answered aye.

    “Was the rightful Thane, a man she has called her husband, tortured by her hand?”

    Some few did not verbally agree to this one, but still there were no nays.

    “So be it. Based on the determination of this Thing, who have witnessed the actions of the accused, the weavess Urdr is guilty. You shall be stripped of all you possess and hung in a cage over the sea. You shall be afforded neither food nor fresh water, and even the salt spray shall not reach you. If in four days you yet live, your cage shall be recovered and you shall be burned at the stake.”

    He worried for a moment that the punishment would be too harsh, but then the child-like babbling of his father returned to him. This was just.

    “Ulfr, son of Urdr. It can be denied by no-one here that you were a willing co-conspirator in your mother’s plan. By strict justice, you should meet her same fate.”

    “I cannot deny this.” Even the man’s voice sounded like Stigander’s.

    “…Why?”

    Ulfr gave no answer, merely continued to stare at the rug beneath his knees.

    “If you had come on your own, we could have been brothers.”

    “But I could not have come on my own. From the time I was a babe, Mother has spoken of our father as her husband, and alternately doted on his memory and railed against his cruel absence. She promised me the thanedom was rightfully mine… and with the credulity of a child I believed her. The wrong we have done here only became clear to me after we had seized this land and it began to fall apart, and I believed there was naught I could do but try to hold everything together. I will submit to exposure in the cage.”

    Justice must be served, but to execute Ulfr would make him a kinslayer. There had to be a better way. “But will you submit to exile, if the Thing agrees?”

    Only now did Ulfr look up at Stigander. It was like looking into a mirror. The sound of silver bells drowned out the mirror’s response.

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  • 2.17 – Vision of Home

    2.17 – Vision of Home

    Stigander caught the sound of silver bells in the wind and steeled himself. The last trial had tried to make him choose between his birthright and his son’s future, as though the two could be separated. That had been bad enough, but surely the trials ahead would be just as wrenching. He took a step forward on the path…

    …And found he now stood on a different mountain path, on an island he had not seen in more than a decade. I’m… home?

    He blinked, hardly believing what his eyes were showing him. The road beneath his feet, laboriously cut into the granite face, switchbacked above and below. Behind him marched the Vidofnings, savage jubilation painting each and every face. Even Einarr’s, which left a twinge of heartsickness behind. Far below, the Vidofnir bobbed in the water alongside a ship with an unfamiliar ramshead on the prow – Einarr’s ship, it had to be.

    The men behind him furrowed their brows. They’re waiting on me. He stepped forward again even as he turned his head to look up the rock face. There, rising above, were the unmistakable grey stone walls of Breidelsteinn. I’m home.

    His pace quickened. The Usurper must have already lost, or there would be warriors on the road, and arrows would rain on their heads. Instead, all was peaceful. It was time to reclaim the honor stolen from his father.

    As they marched, he heard the strains of the Lay of Raen carry up the road and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. That was some impressive breath control Reki had, if she was willing to sing while they marched. At least, he thought it was Reki.

    At the top of the switchbacks Stigander stopped again. The gates stood open wide. In the center of the passage, his father’s first liege-man knelt before him. Clustered in the shadows behind, the Jarls and Captains of Breidelsteinn prostrated themselves. No. Not like this. These men were my friends.

    But now they were his subjects. Even if his father were still fit to rule, which Stigander thought unlikely, the Clan would never accept him at its head again. They might not accept him, for that matter. Stigander closed his eyes and swallowed hard on the melancholy that threatened to overtake him. Done is done. You knew this would be part of the price.

    When he opened his eyes again they were hard. He had hesitated too long already, when now was the time for decisiveness. Three firm steps forward brought him to just ahead of where the man knelt. “Gorgny Agnarsson, do you swear on the names of your father and your grandfather that the Weaver’s sorcery no longer holds you?”

    “In the names of Agnar and Hagrlaug, I swear my mind is no longer clouded by sorcery, and may my heart burst if I lie.” Shame practically dripped from the man’s voice.

    Stigander nodded, accepting the attestation. Uncle Gorgny had always been an honest man. “Then swear to me as you once swore to my father.”

    “My lord prince, Lord Raen yet lives, and though all the clan may forsake him, I will not.”

    Stigander snorted, but his face softened a little. “You realize under the circumstances that could mean your death?”

    “I do, and I will make any oath you ask of me – except that one, so long as my lord Raen still lives and breathes.”

    “Rise, then.” Stigander suppressed a sigh. If he had wanted to prove the man wasn’t a traitor, this managed it nearly as well. “How is Father?”

    “Battered but not broken. Never broken.”

    “Good.” He smiled at the man he had always thought of as an uncle and clapped him on the shoulder. Stigander had not dared hope that his father would survive this. It would be good for Einarr to meet his grandfather again.

    Stigander turned his father’s liege-man and stepped over the threshold. “What of the rest of them?”

    “The ones you see? Penitents all. It’s as though we all woke from a bad dream not long ago. The rest are shackled and awaiting justice.”

    He nodded now. “I will take the oaths of the penitents in the main hall.”

    “Yes, my lord prince.”

    His father’s hall had changed under the influence of the Usurper and the Weaver. Raen had made it larger than it had to be so everyone would be welcome, and they were. The lively good cheer he remembered had fled over the intervening years, tossed out with the rugs and candelabrum that were nowhere to be seen on his return. His brother had left it empty, cold, and dark.

    Stigander set his mouth in a hard line. Restoring the hall would be easy, compared to the rest of what he had to do. He slowed for the last few steps up on to the dias, feeling their weight.

    The seat of the Thane stood before him, polished and painted wood that had never before this moment intimidated him. Stigander blew a breath through his moustache. Rather than sit, he turned to face the men now filling the hall behind him and motioned at a few of them to join him: Gorgny, Bardr, Einarr. As Gorgny stepped into place beside him, he caught the man’s eye. “Uncle, where is Father?”

    “Resting, under the care of an herb-witch.”

    Stigander winced a little. “Urdr was quite cruel, then.” When Gorgny nodded, he shifted his attention to the hall.

    “People of Breidelsteinn,” he began, his voice filling the hall. “It has taken long years, but at last Urdr’s Weaving has been unraveled – by none other than my own son Einarr.”

    He allowed a minute for the cheering to die down before he continued. “I do not believe that any of you who stand before me were in their right mind during the Usurper’s reign… but much can change as the years fall away. My friends, I believe that you are all still my friends, and I would ask you to swear to this. If your heart does not remain with the Weaver and the Wolf, swear again before me as you once did before my father Raen.”

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