Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Jarl Hroaldr

  • 1.8 – Dance Fight!

    1.8 – Dance Fight!

    Einarr knew those boots very well, in fact. Had watched, in any spare moment she could find, as Astrid stitched them herself from the skins of rabbits she had asked him to catch. Stitched them herself, when it would have been the easiest thing in the world to pass it off to one of the thralls. And now Stigander swaggered onto the dance floor wearing them, courting a wife for his son.

    He kicked himself through a backflip to stand upright. Stigander smirked and began to spin around on his heels, his hands held out as if to ask ‘what can I say?’

    Einarr matched and opposed the spin, such that they crossed paths twice each rotation. Every few twirls he dropped to a crouch, and now it was Father’s turn to match him.

    There was a limit to the acrobatics they could pull off with both of them in the circle, however. The music continued, shifting into the Warrior’s Dance. Stigander motioned to someone in the hall, who tossed him a staff. Einarr looked over at Erik and gestured for the same. He caught it with a flourish before knocking its end against the floor. The knock from his father’s staff rang out a bare breath later. Einarr met his father’s eyes with a boyish grin, and the older man’s confident smirk never faltered.

    Muttered voices from outside the circle, those few who were not participating, were punctuated by the clink of coins changing hands. Both of them spun once on their heels, mugging for the crowd. Clack! Einarr’s feint was blocked by Stigander’s.

    They exchanged a few more showy feints, their staves cracking against each other with every blow, before the flow of the music suggested a separation. Einarr planted his staff on the floor and pushed off into another cartwheel. Stigander held his at both ends and jumped over the middle of it. The crowd loved it, but Einarr saw the Jarl clench his jaw.

    They spun together now, their staves striking with enough force to sting the palms this time. Stigander pressed close and growled at his partner. “So you do have some spirit in you. Give them a good show, now.”

    “We’ve got her attention.”

    In the moment before they sprang apart, Stigander’s smirk relaxed into a smile. The music led them on from occasional feints and into the “fight” at the center of the dance, and their staves kept time for the piper as much as the drummer did. Before long, the music allowed them to press forward again.

    “It’s not her attention I’m worried about.”

    Einarr glanced at the Jarl for just a moment and got shoved back three steps. From that third step, though, he leaped forward, staff raised overhead to strike. Stigander raised his overhead, braced in two hands.

    “I can’t tell if he’s furious or bored.” Hroaldr was still in the circle, but deliberately not looking at the spectacle in the center.

    “Furious.” Stigander looked deliberately over toward the Jarl. “But we might be in danger of boring the rest.” Stigander ducked and spun around behind Einarr, tagging the back of his legs with his staff. Einarr followed suit, ducking into a low spin and sweeping his staff towards his father’s legs. Stigander jumped.

    Nice choice, Father. Einarr spun faster, rising gradually from his crouch. With each spin, Stigander had to jump a little higher. Eventually, when the stick was nearly to his waist, he backflipped out of the arc of the strike. Clack! Stigander brought his own staff around to meet his son’s.

    Einarr lunged forward, taking his staff in a two-handed grip and driving his shoulder into his father’s rock-hard stomach. The man didn’t even grunt, and so Einarr turned the lunge into a spin on his outer heel, the other leg held out straight. When he turned around, Stigander had once again turned to face him. His face was red as he knocked the end of the staff against the floor, and he seemed out of breath. An icy flood of worry crushed Einarr’s flush of enjoyment, and he knocked his own staff to signal the end of the fight.

    Stigander did not give up his swagger as he danced to the outer circle, but it was less certain of itself. He tossed the staff to the waiting Kjelling and moved to take Einarr’s old place in the circle.

    The place near Runa was open, but there was no reason Stigander should have conceded there. Einarr tossed his staff back to Erik and tried to follow: a look over Stigander’s shoulder warned him off. Later, then. He stood straighter, ignoring for the moment his concern in favor of a “victory” lap around the stage before he trotted off to take his Father’s former place near the Jarl.

    He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw the Jarl’s face. Hroaldr’s face was redder than Stigander’s, his lips pursed in fury, staring at Einarr. He slid into the proffered opening anyway, giving Runa a thin-lipped smile.

    It may have been the single most uncomfortable place he had stood during a Hall Dance, but thankfully it didn’t go on much longer. Even Sivid didn’t try to compete with the father-son show that had just occurred, and he wasn’t usually one to be cautious of the odds.

    As the music faded and the circle dissolved, Einarr felt a strong hand grip his arm. A strong, male hand. He turned slowly, knowing who it had to be. Einarr was still unprepared for the fury filling the Jarl’s eyes.

    “I’m not blind, boy. Even if I were, Stigander has made things quite plain t’me. D’ye think that maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason Trabbi is courting my daughter instead of the son of my friend?”

    Einarr opened his mouth to interject, but the Jarl continued.

    “You want to marry my daughter. So tell me, boy: d’ye have a hall?”

    Einarr clapped his mouth shut.

    “D’ye have a hearth? A ship? Oh, yes, you have a ship – or you will, crewed by your father’s men, loyal to him first, and no port to call your own. Is that what you would have me bind Runa to? Trabbi is a loyal vassal. Trabbi has holdings of his own, and if his boats are fishing boats, there are worse things. Now, tell me, boy, who should I marry my daughter to?”

    “My lord, how many wives has Trabbi buried?” It was all he could come up with under the stinging truth of the Jarl’s rage.

    “Fewer than Stigander.”

    “And how old are his children?”

    Hroaldr met his eyes in an icy glare, the anger undiminished, as though to say he had already considered such matters. “Do not test me where my daughter is concerned. Understood?”

    “Yes, my lord.”

    1.7 – Feast in the Hall 1.9 – Spring Thaw
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  • 1.7 – Feast in the Hall

    1.7 – Feast in the Hall

    On their return to the Hall, Einarr and Stigander had turned over their skinned prize to the cooks of Kjell and went directly to the sauna to clean up.

    At the feast that night, every time Einarr attempted to approach Runa, an older man of the Hall deftly slipped between them – holding her chair here, drowning his offer of tafl with a spontaneous verse there, and casting challenging looks at Einarr the entire time. Runa took all of this with a polite smile that did not touch her eyes. Meanwhile, at every turn he felt the fire in his breast being stoked.

    Then the Jarl called for music, and the tables were cleared to allow for dancing. As the drummer and the piper struck up a lively tune and the revelers formed a circle, Runa took her place at her father’s right hand. Without anyone really noticing how he managed it, her new suitor took her other side. Einarr, meanwhile, ended up sandwiched between Erik and the cook he had last seen cleaning their reindeer.

    The circle began it’s bouncing step to the beat of the drum. Then the piper and the lyrist launched into the tune itself – a quick number, such that the Hall’s children and those who had already drunk too much were prone to stumbles. This didn’t continue for long, however: within a few bars of the music, Sivid moved to the center of the circle with a clap to the sole of his boot. He was good, one of the best of the Vidofnings, but the hall dance was a competition in its own right. Rather than leave everything on the dance floor then and there, this was a warm-up. He dropped to a bridge and rose again, his hands never touching the floor, and to the rhythm of the drum performed some simple acrobatics. He kicked for the rafters once, and danced out to rejoin the circle at a favorable location.

    A man of the was next to enter the circle, and if his agility was lacking he made up for it with spirit. Einarr caught his father’s eye and quirked his head before following the Kjelling into the center. Let’s put on a show…

    When the man of the hall danced out, Einarr trotted in at the first acceptable moment. He clicked his heels and slapped his soles once or twice before dropping into a crouch and twirling on the balls of his feet. Before that could bore anyone, Einarr sprang up directly into a backflip and a one-handed cartwheel. He caught sight of the Princess’ face and saw an encouraging smile there. A few scattered cheers rose up from around the circle, and so he made a bouncing circuit inside the wheel before kicking for the rafters himself. Someone a little closer to the Princess let him back into the outer circle, and he was followed by another young man of the Hall. It was poor form, after all, for the guests to try and dominate the Hall dance.

    Einarr paid little attention to the new Kjelling. His focus was on the old man with the Jarl’s favor, who had not looked away since he ceded the stage. The rest of the hall seemed to enjoy the performance, however, and Einarr tamped down on his impatience. The only person he cared about besting tonight was the anonymous suitor – a man Einarr expected chosen more for loyalty than any particular skill.

    Eventually the greybeard had an opening to slide out onto the stage. He moved immediately into crouching kicks, all the while spinning as he moved around the circle. A bridge into a backflip – no hands – kick the rafters, and then he walked on his hands before springing back to his feet. More cheering – someone called out “Trabbi!” He trotted around the circle once more, quirking his head at Einarr as he passed, and returned to the circle.

    Einarr bided his time. The earliest he could return to the floor would be four more dancers, he thought, based on the number on the floor. Much longer than that, though, and it would look like he conceded. He watched, half his brain weighing the other dancers and half determining how best to play on his rival’s performance.

    Finally the Hall Dance came back around to where Einarr could step out, and he opened with a prance into a jumping axe kick that clopped against the floor but rattled no-one’s cup. He skipped only a half-circuit before gathering his strength in his thighs. Einarr launched himself in the spinning kick for the rafters, and no sooner had his first foot touched the floor than he hopped up into a hands-free backflip. He heard his crewmates cheering, and probably some of the Kjellings as well, but all that mattered right then was Runa’s smiling eyes. He grinned then: if she liked that, she would love this.

    He bent his knees and bounced on his toes, kicking out like Trabbi had done for a time, and motioned to Sivid. The man tossed him a cap. He pulled it over his ears and sprang forward, somersaulting into a headstand. The floor here was a little rough, but it would do: he spun.

    The crowd’s delighted laughter turned to excited muttering. Einarr saw another pair of boots step out onto the floor. He knew those boots: they had been a gift from Astrid before the last Ice.

    1.6 – Winter Hunt 1.8 – Dance Fight!
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  • 1.6 – Winter Hunt

    1.6 – Winter Hunt

    For three weeks, Einarr let the question rest despite the way it rode around on his shoulders like a troublesome pet. He was no coward, he reminded himself every time a chance to speak in private vanished. At the end of the last week of Wintersmonth, an idea occurred to him.

    “Father, I’ve heard the Kjellings speak well of the reindeer here on the island. Shall we go hunting?”

    “A fine idea, my boy. Nothing like a little sport to keep a body warm during the Ice.”

    Three hours later, skis on their feet, axes on their belts and bows on their backs, the two men glided over the surface of the snow through the sparse spruce wood not far north of where the Vidofnir was moored for the season. They pulled a sledge between them, not yet occupied by the prize they sought.

    In truth, Wintersmonth was a terrible time to go hunting. If there were deer to be found today, they would be in the wood, though, taking advantage of the wind break it offered. Einarr knew this; Stigander had taught him everything he knew about hunting, just as he was teaching him the proper way to run a ship.

    Stigander paused a moment to straighten his back and lift his face to the sky. He let out a loud breath, the steam billowing upward like a tiny cloud. “It’s good to get out of the hall for a few hours.”

    “It does get rather stuffy in there. You know what I’m looking forward to, though?”

    “What’s that?”

    “The excuse to do a long sauna plunge after we get back.” Einarr half-chuckled.

    Stigander grinned. “Yep. That’ll be a nice cap to our hunting.”

    Einarr scanned his eyes over the needle-picked snow on the ground in the forest, his mind casting about for a way to begin. “Father, do you intend to remarry?”

    “Perhaps. I hadn’t given the idea much thought yet. Surely that can’t be what’s been bothering you all month, can it?”

    Maybe the question had been too natural. “I overheard Bardr talking to you about …Princess Runa.” He’d nearly forgotten the title. That would have revealed more than he really wanted to.

    “Oh, at the funeral?” He seemed strangely amused.

    “She told me the Jarl is thinking about giving her to you.” It was surprisingly difficult to keep his voice neutral.

    Stigander shook his head, chortling. “She must have misunderstood. I’ve been trying to convince him that you’d be a good match. Bardr thinks so, too.”

    “You have?”

    He nodded now. “You don’t seriously think I didn’t notice, do you? But he’s not terribly enthused by the idea.”

    Einarr snorted. “What, you mean the Jarl isn’t fond of the idea of consigning his daughter to wandering with the heir of Raenshold?”

    Stigander harrumphed. “Not even remotely. Especially not with my bad fortune.”

    At least he accepts that it is bad fortune. In the moment of silence that followed Einarr spotted not only cloven hoofprints in the snow, but also a trace of blood. “Hah! Father, over there.”

    Einarr tossed the sledge rope he carried over a tree limb and poled over to the crimson stain on the snow.

    Their quarry had bounded north from here. Interspersed within the hoofprints, Einarr spotted the tracks of a lone wolf. He turned his head to look over his shoulder: Stigander was only a few paces behind, the second sledge rope hanging from the same branch as its twin. He pointed in the direction the trail was headed. “Two for one! If we’re lucky, there’s a wolf pelt to be had.”

    Stigander grunted and turned off to move parallel to the trail, angling his skis to walk up the slope. Einarr followed, and as he moved he unslung the bow from his back and began the process of limbering it. A cold bow would quickly become a broken bow, after all.

    Not many minutes had passed before Einarr could hear the angry snarling of a wolf from the near distance. He exchanged a glance with his father, also unlimbering his bow, and they glided forward.

    In a small clearing just ahead of them, reindeer and wolf faced each other. Had there been a full pack of wolves, the prey would already be fallen. Now one large, if emaciated, white wolf clashed with a young doe, circling each other in search of an opening. Her foreleg was cut up from an earlier clash with the wolf. It had a gash on its shoulder, likely the result of a well-aimed kick. Einarr drew. A deep breath for focus, and he loosed his arrow toward the wolf.

    Two arrows flew in parallel, and two arrows embedded themselves in the wolf – one in the neck, one in the ribs. It recoiled and whimpered but did not look away from the reindeer. Einarr drew and loosed again. Half a moment later, his father’s second arrow arced towards the deer’s neck.

    Einarr’s shot buried itself deeper in the wolf’s chest, and now the creature turned to face this new, unseen threat. Father and son shared a glance. When Stigander nodded and reached for a third arrow, Einarr unhooked his axe and propelled himself out into the clearing.

    Stigander’s second arrow also found flesh, but could not pierce the muscle in the doe’s neck to bring her down. Two more arrows followed it in quick succession, and then Einarr was too focused on the wolf, visible against the snow primarily by its face and the bloodied fur around its wounds.

    The wolf bared its teeth and snarled at Einarr where he crouched on his skis. You’re not half so vicious as you look. Come and try me. Instead, it backed toward the edge of the clearing. At the same time, the reindeer was tossing its head, looking for an escape route.

    He let the wolf go. The coat was nice, but the meat would leave something to be desired. The deer, on the other hand, now that would be good eating. Another arrow shot out for the creature as it tried to bound away, and Einarr sent his axe after it. Thock-thunk – the two projectiles struck true against the back of the doe’s head. Stigander’s arrow pierced just below the right ear, and the back of the axe-head knocked against the base of her skull. The doe crumpled.

    As Einarr moved to retrieve his axe and finish the job, Stigander finally glided forward into the clearing.”Nice shot.”

    “You, too, Father.” The cloud of steam he exhaled carried with it a good portion of the excitement of the hunt. “Let’s get her field-dressed and head back?”

    “Indeed. And then, another sort of hunt begins.” Stigander looked at his son out of the corner of his eye and laughed as Einarr grinned.

    1.5 – Tafl  1.7 – Feast in the Hall
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  • 1.5 – Tafl

    1.5 – Tafl

    Winter fell hard and fast after the funeral. Three days later, the least experienced of the Vidofnings went to help bring in the goats. Three days after that, Kjellings and Vidofnings alike were snowed in.

    That, of course, didn’t mean they were without things to do. There was wood to be chopped, and game to be hunted, and if there was one thing the people at Kjell Hall were good at it was making games out of everyday chores. Then, of an evening, once the sauna fire had been allowed to smolder, there were other entertainments to be had inside.

    “Hah!” Erik laughed on the fifth night since the blizzard, shoving aside three empty bowls and various other remnants of their supper. “Anyone who can beat me at arm wrestling tonight wins my share of tomorrow’s mead!”

    Einarr laughed to himself and did not step forward. The only person on the Vidofnir who could beat Erik at arm wrestling was Stigander himself, and he and the Jarl were speaking quietly at the far end of the hall. Some of the younger men of the hall tried their luck, though, and Einarr thought to watch them for a little.

    After the third Kjelling had lost a night’s share of mead, Einarr found his attention wandering. Elsewhere there were people dicing, and he saw a one-on-one tug of war going on near the door. The figure-eight rope stretched between the two deck hands was dark from years of use as they each tried to pull the other one out of balance and break the tension between their feet. Einarr smiled a little: it didn’t appeal tonight – he’d had enough rowing on the ship for the moment – but as the winter wore on it might be worthwhile.

    “Tafl?” A sweetly feminine voice asked from over his shoulder.

    Startled, Einarr snapped his head around. He hadn’t realized anyone was there. “Runa! You play?”

    “Of course I play! You’re the one who taught me, remember?”

    “I . . .” He had forgotten. “I suppose I did, didn’t I. Well, then, let’s see how you’ve improved.”

    They spoke as much as played, of old times and of the past seven years. The blue of her pinafore matched her eyes. Einarr found it hard to keep his mind on the game with the fire of her lips swaying in the breeze of every word, and since he was defending that meant Runa captured his king in a humiliating five rounds.

    “I won!” She laughed gleefully, and her smile seemed to clear some of the smoke from the room.

    Einarr shook his head. “So you did. I don’t know where my mind was. One more game?” He was better than that, and he knew it.

    “Fine. But this time, I’ll defend, just to prove I can beat you either way.”

    “You’re on.”

    He paid more attention to the game this time, so that it took her a full fourteen turns to escape. Einarr’s brow knit in consternation until he looked up to see her smiling warmly at him. “Who have you played to get so good at this?”

    “Father, mostly. Sometimes a visitor will play me, and I always trounce them because they never seem to take me seriously. Even you.”

    “Hey, now that’s not fair. I was taking you seriously.” Maybe not quite in the way she meant, though. She was just a little distracting.

    “Of course you were.” Her smile turned impish for a moment. She picked up one of the pawns and started to finger it, her face falling. “So, Father is wanting me to get married soon.”

    “You are about the age.” So am I, for that matter. But… A strange reluctance crept over Einarr whenever that thought occurred to him. It wasn’t like he had anything much to offer a bride.

    “Close, yes. And with Mother gone, I think he wants to know I’ll be taken care of.”

    “So, what’s the problem?”

    “I think he wants me to marry your father.”

    For the second time since they came to Kjell Hall, Einarr felt time come crashing to a stop. The din of the hall around them receded from his ears as he tried to accept her words. No.

    “I don’t think he’s decided yet.” She was trying to make him feel better. The shock must have shown on his face. “But it’s not what I want, either.”

    “Who was your father speaking to?” He tried to speak normally.

    “It’s just the impression I’ve gotten.”

    Einarr shook his head. Damn it. “After Astrid’s funeral… I heard Bardr floating the idea to my father.” He looked her in the eye. “I’ll talk to him. He’s a reasonable man.”

    “As you like.” Runa’s face was shaded with doubt.

    “Hey, smile. No-one gets married in the winter. We’ve got months to talk them out of it. Come on, one more? Or shall we play something else?”

    “Hmmmm.” Her smile was mischievous now. “Have your mothers taught you verse?”

    Despite himself, he was a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. Father always kept me tied up in other things.”

    “Well then I suppose it wouldn’t be much fun to play at lausavisa. Tell me about someplace you’ve seen.” She leaned forward eagerly, her elbows pressed together where they rested on her knees. Einarr swallowed hard as his mind raced, trying to think of a story his princess would appreciate.

    What am I thinking about, ‘my’ princess? Don’t fool yourself. Despite his status as Stigander’s heir, the Jarl had never given Einarr the time of day. There was no way he’d give up his daughter to him, not with the curse in play.

    “Mistress?” A young woman of the hall approached.

    “Yes, Helgi, what is it?”

    “Your father would like a word with you.”

    “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” She turned her attention back to Einarr. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be back.”

    Einarr nodded, for once distracted by something other than the beautiful woman who had trounced him at tafl. Stigander and the Jarl were both watching them intently.

    1.4 – Funeral Rites  1.6 – Winter Hunt
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  • 1.2 – Aftermath

    1.2 – Aftermath

    The storm sluiced the blood from the deck as the Vidofnir rowed, searching for the edge of it, hoping nothing further happened. Astrid’s body was tied to the deck where she fell. It would be too much to bear for any of them, let alone Father, if she were to wash overboard.

    Even with the sail furled the mast creaked ominously until they had cleared the storm. Once they dropped the sea anchor, most of the crew swarmed over the ship, checking for damage. Einarr helped his father tend his stepmother’s body under the Captain’s awning. Somehow, she was the only casualty from their ship, and the Grendel had paid in blood for the honor. “This doesn’t make sense,” he blurted, arranging Astrid’s arms so that her hands lay folded on her stomach.

    “It never does, son.” Stigander’s voice was raw, his eyes bloodshot. Astrid may have been his fourth wife, but her loss was just as bitter as Grimhildr’s had been six years ago. He stepped up toward the bedroll-turned-bier, a pot of ointment in his hands.

    “That’s… that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, Father.” It was unreasonable to expect him to be paying attention to the oddness of the Grendel’s attack – even if he was the Captain – under the circumstances.

    “You don’t have to stay. I can take care of this.”

    “Yes, Father.” Heaving a sigh, Einarr straightened and stepped softly out from under the canvas. He had liked Astrid, dammit, but Father required him to put on a public face while Stigander could not.

    His steps rang out when he moved amidships, however. The crew would mourn later; the ship came first. He spotted Bardr standing near the mast. “How bad is it?”

    “Bad enough. I think this is the worst of it.” He patted the column of wood. “We’ll have to replace it this winter. We can reinforce, but with the time we’ll lose to that we might not make Silringshold before the ice sets in.”

    Einarr blew air through his thick red moustache, shoving aside a momentary pang of regret for Raenshold – the home he had never seen. “What are our other options? Is there another friendly hold nearby?”

    “Have to check the charts to be sure.”

    He knit his brow. His father had the charts, so far as Einarr was aware, and now was not the time to disturb him.

    Three men pulled Erik up from over the side of the boat, shaking his soaked head. Two more men were waiting with wool blankets.

    “What happened,” Einarr and Bardr asked at the same moment.

    “Damage below the water line. Don’t think there’s enough wood to patch it and the mast. Wherever we’re going, we’ll have to row.”

    The men were not going to like that. Hel, Einarr didn’t like that with no land in sight.

    A slow, heavy step sounded from behind them and Stigander’s blond head glowed nearly white in the sun. “We’ll make for Kjell Hall.”

    ***

    Everyone, even the Captain, took their turn at the oars, and with every silent dip of the paddles beneath the water’s surface they remembered Astrid and her song magic. Occasionally someone would try to get a rowing chant going, but none of them had trained in the song magic and it was a weak, tremulous thing. Those who were not rowing were subdued, warring within themselves between gratitude that they hadn’t lost more and grief for the giant presence that had vanished.

    After a week of rowing the Vidofnir slipped into the bay and up the river that led to Kjell Hall, its shallow keel skimming across the water’s surface. It was good that the raid had been a success, for Kjell Hall was the hold of Jarl Hroaldr, and even an old friend did not winter at the King’s Hall without gifts.

    The bay was long and narrow, and the mouth of the river broad, such that one could only tell by brackishness where one ended and the other began. The shallow white sand beach proceeded only a few feet from the high tide mark before being met by the open spruce wood that covered most of the island.

    Stigander ordered the Vidofnir beached just past the salt-water line and the crew was allowed to debark. A gentle wind blew up over the water towards the interior of the island, cutting through Einarr’s heavy wool cloak. Einarr nearly envied Sivid and the others who were ordered to make fast the ship: they were still moving.

    It was only a moment, however, and then they were moving again, walking openly up the forest path from the beach toward Kjell Hall on the highest point of the island. Patches of snow glowed white where the morning sun had not yet reached.

    A hunting horn sounded as they stepped out of the wood and into the wide swath of now-dormant farmland surrounding the Hall. Ahead of them stood the great Hall of Jarl Hroaldr, King of the Cold Sea and childhood friend of Captain Stigander, Thane of Raenshold. The gates were opening to reveal the warm light of fire and the rolling laughter of those already present under the great upturned boat of a roof. The Vidofnings tramped through the palisade surrounding the hall after their Captain, who stopped two paces outside the door.

    “Hail to ye!” A voice bellowed from within. “Stigander and his Vidofnings are well-come to Kjell.”

    “Hail, my Jarl, and many thanks.” Only now, with the proper invitations, did Stigander allow himself and his men to enter the hall. “I’m afraid we’ll have to impose on you for a time. The Vidofnir needs repair, and the winter ice is too near at hand.”

    The Jarl laughed. “There will always be a place for old friends at my Hall. For tonight, be merry, and we will see about business on the morrow.”

    Einarr stepped to the side when he entered. Jarl Hroaldr was visibly scanning the faces of the crew.

    “Stigander, where is your lovely wife?”

    His father’s face contorted. “Awaiting entry to Skaldsgarden.”

    The mood of the hall was quenched, and Hroaldr’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. Will you allow me to see to the burial arrangements?”

    Stigander gave a bitter half-smile. “I’m afraid she cannot be sent off from Raenshold now. That would be most gracious.”

    Hroaldr nodded, waving his hand in invitation for Stigander to come and sit at the head of the hall with him. Einarr found an open seat elsewhere, but as he was lowering himself a flash of gold caught his attention. He looked up. Time seemed to stop. There, reclining on a cushion near the Jarl, the fairest woman Einarr had ever seen laughed with one of the serving wenches. Her hair was the color of spun flax, her lips the vibrant pink of fireweed, her skin as pale and fair as the rein rose. Is that . . . Runa?

    1.1 – A Sudden Squall  1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King
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