Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Jorir

  • 2.6 – Valkyrie!

    2.6 – Valkyrie!

    For the Vidofnir’s first week at sea, they saw no-one. In the second week, three ships crossed their path, from three lands Stigander preferred not to antagonize. Boredom was beginning to set in by the end of that fortnight, although not a man aboard but was glad for clear skies and fair winds.

    On the first day of their third week at sea, sharp-eyed Sivid called a warning from his lookout. “Valkyrie, hard to starboard!”

    “Valkyries? Here?” Erik’s exclamation of surprise echoed back at them off the water.

    Stigander’s order followed soon after. “Hard starboard! Make ready for boarding!”

    The ship that approached on the horizon at a full clip was obviously Imperial even from this distance: she sat too high in the water, two rows of oars sped her along toward the Vidofnir, and on the triangular sail they flew the wing-and-spear symbol of the Imperial Order of the Valkyrie.

    Longships were fast: Imperial dromon could sometimes keep up. Unless, that is, they were actually Valkyrian dromon, in which case (some whispered) they were propelled by captive vindstenger.

    Einarr settled his chain shirt over his shoulders and it fell with comfortable heaviness. The rest of the crew was outfitting themselves similarly, all save Jorir. He had left Svartlauf with only the axe at his belt, and as of when they sailed had added only a helmet and the golden shield to his equipment: fitting armor for a dwarf was outside the experience of the smithy in Kjellvic. With a grim set to his jaw he took up the shield and took his place by Einarr’s side.

    “Valkyrie?”

    “We raid villages, they raid us. Right bastards to fight, and this far north that’s a hunting expedition. If we’re lucky, they’ve already hit some other ships: it’ll slow ‘em down.”

    Jorir grunted. “And if we’re unlucky?”

    “If we’re unlucky they have sea fire, and then this is a real short trip. They don’t take prisoners. Keep your wits about you: they’re quick.”

    The dwarf hefted his shield and his lips parted in a savage grin. “Then I guess I get to put this gift o’ yourn to the test.”

    Tyr angled the Vidofnir to the side, aiming to miss the Valkyrie’s spur long enough for the rowers to get the oars in. A whistling noise was their only warning.

    “Shields up!” Stigander bellowed. A moment later, the first volley struck, arrows thudding into wood or clinking against metal or slipping beneath the waves.

    In the breath before they could ready another volley, boarding lines flew from the Vidofnir to the Valkyrie ship – the Geirskögul, according to her prow. Reki took up the battle chant, her sultry voice luring each of them to the fury. She will be popular among the crew, Einarr thought even as the melody began to play on his own mind.

    Boarding lines flew toward the Vidofnir, and he could see the Valkyries readying their gangplanks. Metal rasped: the Vidofnings waited, blades in hand.

    The lines drew taut, and the planks shot across the gap from the other side. No sooner had the thud of wood sounded than the Vidofnings were up and over, racing to take the fight to them. Speed was of the essence: allowing the Valkyrie onto their own ship was tantamount to suicide. This way at least kept their boat above the waves.

    Einarr joined his crewmates in their mad rush, the battle fury pulsing at the edges of his vision.

    The race to board was a draw: the two crews met in the middle. The sound of splashing said that men had been knocked overboard, although that did not necessarily mean they were out of the fight. In this moment there was only one thing Einarr cared about: reaching the hunters on the Geirskögul. The Imperials would regret bringing the fight to the Vidofnir.

    The way cleared. Two steps ahead of Einarr stood a man with the bearing of a serpent coiled to strike, his saber in hand. A heartbeat later and Sinmora vibrated in his hand when steel met steel.

    They danced. The Valkyrie’s blade darted in and out, seeking a weakness in Einarr’s defense even as Einarr slashed forward and drove his opponent back a step, then two. Awareness of the Vidofnir ahead of him was his warning that they had circled. A reverse cut gave him the momentum to circle back the other way, putting his enemies in front of him where they belonged.

    As a side benefit, it also caused his opponent to misjudge his footing. Einarr hissed as the saber sliced across his forearm, but his long sword was already swinging back around to hack into the opening that cut had left him. In the next instant he buried Sinmora in the man’s ribs. Ein!

    The battle became a blur. The deck of the Valkyrie ship was in chaos, and Einarr was driven ever forward by the pounding rhythm of Reki’s potent battle chant. Another hunter crossed his path, a blade in each hand. Einarr charged, Sinmora raised for an overhead strike.

    The hunter crossed his blades and lunged. Sinmora caught on the hand guards. Einarr sprang back a step, growling. The hunter smirked and slid his front foot back into a guard. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

    Cocky scoundrel. Einarr rolled his shoulder, bringing his shield back into position. Anyone wielding two swords was either very green or very good: the way the hunter blocked suggested he was good. He stepped left, aiming to circle his opponent, but the hunter followed him only with his eyes. Einarr took another, testing step and the hunter stilled, watching him from the corner of his eye over his shoulder.

    Einarr lunged, slicing out with Sinmora toward the hunter’s kidneys, and his growl became a roar.

    Ztang! The first saber flashed, and where a heartbeat before it had been raised in a guard, now it had once again deflected his blow. The second saber flashed now. Einarr knew it’s trajectory even without seeing it. He had just that bare heartbeat before it would embed itself in his exposed ribs.

    He whirled on his left foot. Instead of his ribs, the saber thudded into the wood of his shield. Einarr yanked hard on the shield, and then his opponent was down to a single blade. Even that blade would do him no good now, however, for he was also off-balance. Sinmora struck true. Tveir.

    As the hunter fell, Einarr saw a momentary clear path through to one of their crowssbowmen, his bow trained on Reki.

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  • 2.5 – News of an Oracle

    2.5 – News of an Oracle

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

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

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

    He held one up. “For the intrusion.”

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

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

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

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

    Einarr shook his head.

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

    Jorir gave Einarr a quizzical look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    * * *

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

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

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

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

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

    Speaking of whom… “Good morning.”

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

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

    “I’m not, either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Jorir still looked annoyed.

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

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

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  • 2.3 – Reki

    2.3 – Reki

    When Stigander had told him he would be acting as porter for the resupply, Einarr had not quite realized that meant he would be the only porter. He spent the better part of the next three days hauling salted fish, fresh water, and the other sundries that would make their summer on the seas tolerable overland between Kjellvic and the Vidofnir. He could not tell if Jorir had been kept in the dark as to the nature of his task those days, or if the dwarf had declined to intervene: in either case, it did not bear mentioning.

    It was not until the evening of the third day that Einarr again had a chance to speak with either Bardr or his father. “So when is someone going to introduce me to the new battle chanter?”

    Bardr looked at him sidelong and snorted. “What makes you think we’ve recruited one? Your father has a bit of a reputation right now.”

    “You’ve sailed out. The Vidofnir never sails without a skald.”

    “True enough. I’ll make sure you’re introduced before we board. She’s no Astrid, but I think you’ll like her anyway.” He took a swig of his night’s tankard, and something caught his eye from across the room. “Well well well.” Bardr nudged Einarr with his elbow. “Look who’s decided to make an appearance, the night before we leave.”

    Einarr followed the first mate’s gaze. A woman stood in the shadow of a doorway almost timidly, still draped in the heavy cloak of one who had been sitting out, but her face was still the one that made Einarr’s heart race.

    “Excuse me,” he barely remembered to murmur before his feet had taken him around the end of the table and halfway across the hall. Even then it was mostly reflexive. His feet slowed three paces from where she stood, as though some part of him were afraid to scare her off. When her sea-blue eyes raised from the floor to lock with his, he felt warmth rise in his cheeks. “Runa,” he breathed.

    “I was only just told you’d returned.” Her voice felt much smaller than he remembered, perhaps a result of her seclusion, but she too flushed.

    “I’m glad they found you. We’re just about to leave again.”

    She nodded. “I’m glad I didn’t miss you. Tell me how it went?”

    ***

    The Vidofnings were to sail with the evening tide. Despite having loaded the ship himself, a strange reluctance to board weighted his feet to the sand as they prepared to board. He stood, studying the longship he had called home since his tenth year with its fanciful bird’s head, for a long moment

    The crunch of boots in the sand alerted Einarr to someone’s approach. A glance back revealed that it was Jorir. “Well, what do you think?”

    “Mighty fine looking craft, she is.”

    “Glad you think so. She’s the closest thing we have to home.”

    “So I’ve heard. Anyone going to bother tellin’ me why?”

    “Soon enough. …Which reminds me, Bardr was going to make sure I met the new battle chanter. Where is he?”

    “Think I saw him over near the gangplank.”

    “Let’s go, then. How many on the crew have you met?”

    The dwarf chortled. “Most, I expect. Now ask me how many names I remember.”

    Einarr laughed with him. “It’ll come.”

    Bardr saw the two of them approaching and waved. “Einarr! Good timing.”

    Someone stood between Bardr and the Vidofnir, nearly obscured in the shadow of the boat. As he drew closer, Einarr realized the shadow wasn’t the only thing obscuring them: the stranger’s cloak was pulled closed around them, hood raised, in spite of the afternoon sun. If size was anything to judge by the figure was a woman, which meant he was probably speaking with their new battle chanter. Einarr stepped up next to Bardr and offered the figure a shallow bow of greeting.

    “Is this…?” He trailed off.

    “Quite. Einarr, this is Reki Fjorisdottir. Reki, meet our Captain’s son, Einarr.”

    “A pleasure.” The woman’s voice was low and smooth, as much of a purr as a note.

    “The pleasure is mine. And this is Jorir.” He clapped the dwarf, whose patronym he had never yet learned, on the shoulder.

    “Sir dwarf.”

    “Lady …skald?”

    “Quite.”

    Einarr found it curious that he had not yet seen this woman, in the hall or as he was loading the ship. He thought he saw white hair under her hood. “Has the Vidofnir been to your liking?”

    “Very much so. Your father runs a close ship – much closer than the last I was attached to.”

    Einarr glanced at Bardr, but the man gave him no sign what she might mean. “Dare I ask what became of them?”

    “Some few of them took it into their heads that I was bad luck and I was put ashore. I shan’t miss them.”

    This was not auspicious. Einarr’s glance at Bardr was nervous this time.

    “Pure superstition, I assure you.” Icy white hands appeared from beneath her cloak and pulled the hood back just enough that he could catch a glimpse of pink eyes. “My mother and father were ordinary freeholders, and no Artist of any sort has found trace of a curse upon me. It is only that I am somewhat sensitive to the sun.”

    It was just like Stigander to bring aboard someone cast off unjustly, and given the state of their holdings superstition was not something they could afford to be too concerned about. “Ah. Well, welcome aboard. I trust Father has told you what happened to Astrid?”

    She inclined her head, allowing the hood to fall back over her face. “Of course. And I look forward to hunting those who hunt my fellow Singers.” The soft purr hardened into cold steel.

    “We should go aboard. Captain’s waiting on us, and there’s still one more thing we need to do before we sail.” Bardr clapped his shoulder and started up the gangplank.

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  • 2.2 – On the Way to Market

    2.2 – On the Way to Market

    The rest of that day and into the next morning, there was still no sign of Runa at the Hall, and that left Einarr unaccountably anxious. While he was assured that all was well, none would tell him where she was. When Stigander informed him the three of them – Einarr, Bardr, and himself – were headed for the village boatwright that morning, he nearly refused.

    “What good will it do to sit around here?” Bardr elbowed him in the ribs. “Beyond that, we’ve matters to discuss.”

    “Fine.” Einarr resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he took another bite of the morning’s mash. “Fine. You win. I’ll come. I’d just… hoped to see her already.”

    “And who wouldn’t, in your shoes? Come on. Finish up and let’s go. Captain’s already waiting.”

    “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Einarr lifted the bowl to his mouth and started to shovel his food more quickly. Keeping Stigander waiting was rarely advisable, and doubly so when you were under observation – as Einarr most certainly was, until his father determined the proper discipline for him.

    He swallowed the last bite. “All right. I’m ready.”

    “On our way, then.” Bardr rose and tossed him a summer cloak before swinging his own over his shoulders. “No time to lose – no evening stroll, here.”

    Outside, the weather was already warm enough that Einarr wondered how necessary the cloak was. Goats grazed in the meadow near the hall; a few kids scampered in the morning sun. Near the palisade, a black-haired dwarf stood holding the reins for three horses, talking apparently amiably with the large, blonde figure of his father.

    “Good morning!” He called, letting Stigander know they were there. Both figures glanced at the two of them before returning to their conversation.

    “…we can talk about that further this evening,” Stigander said, and Jorir nodded in response. The Jarl might not care for the dwarf, but after so many years as a landless thane Stigander had become remarkably open to allies from wherever they happened to appear.

    “We’re riding today? That’s unusual.”

    Stigander shrugged at his son. “Going to start the resupply. Sooner we get there, the better.”

    The three men were well down the trail to the village before their conversation turned away from friendly banter. “So, what was the real reason you wanted me to come along for this, Father?”

    “What makes you think there’s only one?”

    Bardr snorted. “We have a few things to commission before we sail again. A couple of them, you get a say in.”

    “Father, you don’t seriously mean to commission a second ship?”

    “I do. Fifteen years now, I’ve been trying to find a way to undo the Weaving. In that time, I’m afraid I’ve neglected something important.” Stigander looked back over his shoulder at Einarr. “It’s long past time you were married. Now you’ve found a bride, and I’ve nothing to offer for your future.”

    “Father…”

    Stigander continued as though he hadn’t heard, all regret fleeing his voice. “The second ship is only the start, of course. Be ready. This is going to be a hard summer, and we may have to take on some chancy raids to pull it off. Not to mention finding a crew for her. On top of all that, you went and swore a warrior to your service with no way to equip him. That fancy shield looks nice, but it’s gold.”

    “Not pure, I don’t think. Metal wasn’t even scratched after everything I took it through on Svartlauf.”

    Bardr grunted. “So he has an axe, and potentially a shield. Not enough, unless you want a one-armed smith. We’ve room for a grindstone on board at least, so that’s something.”

    “Oh.” Stigander put in, almost off-handedly. “And I’ve decided on your punishment for dishonoring the clan. You’ll be carrying the resupply back to the Vidofnir.”

    Einarr sighed in spite of himself. That the punishment was light for the offense did not mean he relished the prospect. “Very well, Father.”

    They rode in silence another few minutes. The sounds of village life began to drift to their ears. “What do you two make of Jorir, anyway?”

    Stigander set his mouth, leaving it for Bardr to say what they must have both been thinking. “He’s a svartdvergr. As a rule, they are cunning and not to be trusted.” A long moment passed. “But, for all of that, he seemed sincere when he spoke of his oath. And certainly he’s shown nothing but respect for us since we’ve met.”

    Stigander sounded reluctant. “I think he, too, is bound by a Weaving.”

    Einarr drew down his brow. “What do you mean?”

    “A Weaving, or a curse of some kind I suppose. I can find no other explanation for the importance he lays on your gift of the tafl king. …And if that’s the case, perhaps he can help us.”

    Kjellvic town bustled in the midmorning light, with sellers of all the expected kinds making all of the usual noises over the sounds of bleating goats and clucking chickens. After Kem it seemed tiny, but Einarr much preferred it this way.

    “We’ll speak with the smith first,” Stigander declared. “Be thinking about what we should call our new boat.”

    “Little early for that, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. But this way we’ll have an idea when it’s ready come winter.”

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  • 2.1 – Catching Up

    2.1 – Catching Up

    An empty seat awaited Einarr near where his father lounged, surprisingly far back in the hall. “Not bad, for your first go,” Stigander muttered in his ear. “Did you think to take anything for yourself?”

    He shook his head. “The Isinntog was my share.”

    His father grunted. “Generosity is well and good, but never forget that running a ship is costly. If you fail to provide for yourself, you fail to provide for your ship and your crew.”

    “Yes, Father.”

    He grunted again. “So long as you understand. Now come on, and bring that dwarf friend of yours. The three of us had best have a chat with Bardr, don’t you think?”

    “Yes, Father.” Einarr did not have to look long to find Jorir: the dwarf had taken up position along the wall near the door, his new shield resting against his legs. At a gesture from Einarr, he fell in behind the two as they stepped outside.

    Bardr, it seemed, had left for the temple some time before Einarr’s arrival at the Hall. That he was not back yet suggested something troubled the man, for there were few aboard the Vidofnir of a particularly pious bent.

    The path to the Kjelling temple wound through the spruces to a second, smaller clearing not far away dominated by the wooden hall dedicated to the gods and brilliant with wildflowers in the morning sunlight. The door to the hall was in shadow, and Einarr felt the chill as he stepped over the threshold. Bardr sat near the back, his feet propped on the back of the bench in front of him, scowling in the general direction of the altar.

    Stigander cleared his throat, and his first mate gave a start. “Guess who’s back?”

    Dark-haired Bardr rose smoothly and turned to welcome Einarr, his face relaxing into a smile. “At last! We were worried when you were late.”

    “Something came up, we had to make a detour.” They clasped elbows for only a moment before Einarr stepped back. “Bardr, this is Jorir, my liege-man. Jorir, Bardr is first mate on board the Vidofnir.”

    “A pleasure, lord.” Jorir bowed. Bardr looked uncomfortable, to Einarr’s eye.

    “That’s not really necessary.” He laid a hand on Jorir’s shoulder as the dwarf stood.

    “So the Jarl sent you out after a fancy magic bauble for his daughter, and you return with a retainer?”

    “That ‘fancy magic bauble’ was not the only thing I liberated from the jotün, no.”

    “Evidently not. Well, Jorir, I suppose this means I get to welcome you as our newest Vidofning. Can you fight?”

    “At need,” he drawled. “I’m better with a hammer and tongs, though, and no slouch with a bag of herbs. And the only person to ‘ave bested me at tafl in a good long while is milord Einarr here.”

    “Before or after you swore your oath?”

    “Before.”

    Bardr hummed, but before he could say anything more Stigander broke in.

    “This complicates matters you know, my boy.”

    “I know, Father.”

    “I had been intending to make you spend a month swabbing the deck.”

    “Only a month? That’s better than I expected.”

    “But I can’t very well subject you to that sort of punishment now that you have a man at arms, now can I? Hoping to get out of it?”

    Einarr snorted. “Not remotely. When he surrendered, I asked him to swear that he meant us no harm in exchange for getting him off that island. Instead, he swears himself to me by all the gods.”

    Stigander turned his head to look at the dwarf, an eyebrow cocked.

    Jorir looked pensive. “It’s true. I mainly wanted off that rock, but it’s also true that when your son had the opportunity to kill me, he refrained in spite of everything. I, ah, still didn’t intend to swear quite as strongly as I did… and then he gave me the king he had used in our match. I’ll not look back now, and he’ll not regret it.”

    Am I missing something? Why is the tafl king so important to him? Jorir didn’t explain, so when Stigander looked to Einarr for more information all he could do was shrug. “Runa sent me with a few gifts. The king was one of them, and the only other things I had on me at the time I just gave out at the Hall.”

    Stigander drew his brows down in a thoughtful expression.

    “You are the lord father and Captain of my lord, and I will honor that as well,” Jorir added.

    Stigander nodded as though that were never in question. “You are a smith. Have you your own tools?”

    “I did, back on Svartlauf, but to get them now would mean fighting lo— Fraener.”

    “With the entire ship we could probably manage, if we could get through the storm twice more.”

    Stigander grimaced at that. “As much as I would love to take my crew against a jotün, we have more pressing matters at hand.”

    “How did the hunt for the Grendel go?”

    Stigander’s grimace soured. “Skunked, so far, and we’re not the only ones hunting them. We found no fewer than five other crews who’ve had their battle chanters picked off. Every last one of them talks about the monstrous crew of a ship that rides in with a storm and disappears just as quick.”

    “Monstrous? You mean that wasn’t just an artifact of Astrid’s chant?”

    “Maybe, maybe not.” He shook his head. “If it is, it’s awfully consistent, and awfully specific to that ship.”

    “So does that mean there’s a fleet forming?”

    Bardr harrumphed. “More like a pact at this point. For a fleet, someone would need an idea how to find the whoresons.”

    Stigander hadn’t finished. “A fleet, though… that might not be a bad idea, anyway.”

    Einarr raised an eyebrow. It felt as though his father had changed the subject without letting anyone else know.

    “I’m going to make you work for it, you know. But maybe, just maybe, it’s time for the sons of Raen to think about building a second ship.” Stigander clapped his son on the shoulder.

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  • 1.34 – Homecoming

    1.34 – Homecoming

    By the time the Gufuskalam made landfall in the Kjelling lands, not far from where the Vidofnir once again moored, nearly a month had passed since they departed Kem. The seas were smooth and the wind friendly, thanks probably in part to the presence of the Isinntog, and Erik could now move about with the aid of a crutch acquired during their resupply.

    Erik was at the rudder as the Gufuskalam approached the shore under the orange light of sunset, his mending leg extended out straight ahead of him. Einarr, for his part, was just as glad to have to row: it helped distract from the gnawing anxiety that had built over the course of their return. I have the Isinntog in hand, he reminded himself. And I have a friend who is explicitly loyal to me. Surely this will settle things.

    It was no longer even strange thinking of the ruddy-faced, black-haired dwarf as a friend: after more than a month largely confined to a skiff like the Gufuskalam, the only other option was hatred. For his part, Jorir was presently sounding the depths off the prow and watching for rocks, even as he regaled them with a tale from before he was trapped on Svartlauf.

    “Easy does it,” Jorir interrupted himself.

    Einarr’s oar scraped sand. He pulled it in as Tyr did the same on the other side, moments before they heard the low grind of wet sand against their hull. Jorir vaulted the side of the boat, landing with a splash. Once he was out of the water, Einarr tossed him the line. A moment’s thought gave him another idea, and he, too, hopped out of the Gufuskalam.

    “What are you doing, boy?”

    Einarr waded toward the back of the boat, where the still-frigid water came nearly to his chest. “Making it easier for Erik to get out.”

    Tyr raised his hands in a “what can you do” gesture, and Einarr heard Erik’s answering guffaw. He probably did not, in fact, need the help out, but Einarr still thought it better to ease the transition. Better to be doing something by far. He had wanted to provide something extra for Erik’s sacrifice, but now that extra would become Jorir’s reward.

    “Line secure,” came the call. Only a moment later, the stern lodged itself on the sandy shore. Einarr pulled himself into the boat from the water side to see Tyr offering Erik a hand up from his seat near the tiller.

    “Go on ahead. I’ll be right after.”

    Erik accepted Tyr’s shoulder for balance as he sat on the edge of their boat and swung his legs out over the shallows. Once his feet dangled, he lowered himself the rest of the way down and balanced against the boat until Tyr passed down his crutch. Einarr waited until Tyr had descended to pull the treasure sack from beneath the deck boards. Only then did he join the other three on shore where they set to making a camp for the night.

    * * *

    The spruce wood their path led them through in the morning was in full bloom. That, combined with the knowledge that his father was already returned, lightened Einarr’s heart as they stood at the head of the path for Kjell Hall. “Before we continue,” he said. “I just want to say it has been my honor to travel with all of you. Thank you for accompanying me on this quest.”

    His odd moment of sentimentality was met by laughter from the two who had joined with the Vidofnir, and statements to the effect that there had nearly been fighting over who would be released to go. Jorir, though, said nothing, and his expression had something of the odd twist it had shown when he received the tafl king as a token of his oath. In the full light of day, it almost looked… wistful.

    “But. I’m sure the Jarl’s lookouts already know we’re here. We should get going.”

    * * *

    Einarr led his crew up to the open gates of the Hall, stepping two strides outside. “Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen, and his companions have returned from their quest!”

    “The son of Stigander and his crew are well-come to this Hall,” came the formal response – somewhat less warm than the response his father had gathered last winter, but that was only to be expected. He could not help breathing a sigh of relief: that they were invited in at all meant that the Jarl had probably not changed his mind.

    When Einarr stepped through into the perpetual dimness of the Hall, he saw his father striding across the room toward him, arms outstretched. “You made it!”

    Before he could blink, Einarr was clapped into one of his father’s infamous bear-hugs. “Good to see you, too, pabbi.”

    “What kept you? I thought you’d beat us here.” Then he looked more closely at his son’s companions and his brows knit. “Where’s Erik?”

    “On his way.” Einarr offered a smile of reassurance. “He’s not moving so quick right now, but I’ll let him tell you why.” He shifted the weight of the shield on his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room and not finding the one face he hoped most to see. “Any luck on your hunt?”

    “Not as much as I’d like, but unless I miss my guess you’ve brought something.”

    He turned his attention back to Stigander’s cheerful face. “A few somethings. Before that, though, there’s someone you should meet.” He gestured behind himself for the dwarf to come forward.

    Once again, Jorir went even a step farther than Einarr expected. When he stepped up to Einarr’s side, the dwarf knelt.

    “Father, this is Jorir, who swore to me on Svartlauf under circumstances better described later. He has served admirably and well in the time since, and so I am pleased to call him my liege-man.”

    Stigander raised his eyebrows, but the expression was proud. “Well well well. Rise, Jorir, and I will welcome you among the Vidofnings. We three shall discuss this later, however, when the company is not quite so public.”

    “Agreed, and I believe I see Erik coming up on the palisade.”

    Stigander spared a look outside. Einarr wished he could have spared his father more of the shock of seeing one of his strongest warriors hobbling along on a crutch, but it was not to be.

    “It’s why you beat us here. We took a detour to find a healer.”

    Stigander nodded, mute for but a moment. “Since everyone’s here, you’d best be on with it.”

    Anxiety grasped Einarr’s belly, but he nodded. His first step towards the Jarl’s throne was hesitant. Deep breath. One step at a time. Einarr swallowed, and then strode forward as though his father’s kingdom still outranked the Jarl’s. As he walked, he slipped the Isinntog out of the sack he carried. Two paces from where Jarl Hroaldr sat, staring with what to Einarr felt like contemptuous amusement, he dropped to one knee and bowed before his father’s oldest friend.

    “My Lord Jarl. At the dawning of spring, you sent me forth on a quest to prove my devotion to your daughter, and declared that the artifact you sent me after was to be her morning-gift. Today I return to you with the Isinntog, as you demanded.” He held the torc between his hands as though about to crown someone with it and raised it toward the jarl. “I have fulfilled the quest you asked of me, my lord, and I would ask that you now fulfill the promise it rested on.”

    The torc was lifted from his hands. Jarl Hroaldr examined it, still standing, and spoke. “You have demonstrated your devotion amply enough, but you still have not demonstrated your ability to provide. You bring me her morning-gift, but there is still the matter of a bride price, still the matter that you have no hall, and still the matter that you have no men to crew the ship you also lack.”

    “I beg your pardon, jarl, but that is no longer strictly true. We left as three, and returned as four.”

    Jarl Hroaldr’s lip curled in a sneer. “I see one svartdvergr. You have no men. Even should we accept your dwarf, however, there is still the matter of a bride-price, of which I will accept none until you have a hall. Or did you intend to give me grandchildren aboard your father’s ship?”

    Laughter rose up around the hall: Einarr blushed.

    “I accept the Isinntog as we agreed, and as proof of your intentions toward my daughter. I shall not attempt to marry her off until you have returned to me with proof of lands of your own, and at least a handful of loyal men, or until five years have passed.”

    Einarr’s blush turned to a blanch. Five years, to undo the Weaving or found a new holding. “I understand,” he said.

    “Excellent.” Now Jarl Hroaldr smiled, and for the first time in a long time Einarr thought it friendly. “Rise, and enjoy the merriment.”

    “My thanks. If I may, there are some few gifts I should like to present those who helped me.”

    The Jarl raised his arm in assent, and Einarr turned to face the rest of the room. It was odd having so many eyes on him – odd, but not bad. “Well then, first off, Father. This would have been impossible without Erik and Tyr along, although I understand competition was fierce.”

    Stigander came forward slowly, evidently a little perplexed as to why he would be honored even still.

    Einarr pulled the gold flagon from his sack. “I saw this during my search, and since the best one on the ship was buried with Astrid I thought you should have it.”

    “Thank you, son.” Stigander’s voice was unacustomedly quiet, and he slipped back into the crowd as soon as Einarr nodded.

    “Tyr. Without your quick thinking by the kalalintu islands, I don’t think we all would have made it to Svartlauf in the first place.” Tyr came forward a little less reservedly than his father had. His place in the quest had definitely entitled him to a reward. “I’m afraid everything I saw that you might have had use for was sized for the giant, but I thought you might find something to do with these.” He handled the string of rubies almost as reverently as he had the Isinntog just minutes before.

    The older man grinned, and Einarr knew he, too, was thinking of his wife. “Lovely.”

    Tyr tucked the rubies into his belt and melted back into the crowd. Einarr was down to two, and choosing who to honor first was one of the more difficult choices he had ever made. In the end, he settled on “Erik.”

    He paused to give the burly man time enough to hobble forward on his stick into the clearing ahead of Einarr.

    “Your bravery and sacrifice on the island of Svartlauf is worthy of more than I am capable of rewarding. Thank you, my friend, and I hope you find some merit in this.” Einarr now held out the giant-sized ivory ring with pearls. It seemed to shine in the dimness of the Hall, but thankfully was not nearly so effeminate as the Isinntog had been. Erik turned it over in his hands before blinking and peering at the inner ring.

    “There is more merit in this gift than you give it credit for,” he said as he bowed his way back out and into the crowd.

    “And now, finally, Jorir, if you will step forward.”

    The dwarf moved unhesitatingly, either to spite the Jarl’s scorn or because it did not reach him.

    “When you swore to me, I had my misgivings, and yet over the past weeks you have been as loyal a retainer as I could have asked for. If it were not for your efforts, we might have lost Erik before we reached Kem. As your lord, it falls to me to equip you. Please, take this shield, and use it well.”

    “Gladly.”

    Einarr could not later have said how he managed it, but in a single smooth motion Jorir accepted the golden shield from his hand and pressed his forehead against Einarr’s knuckles. Einarr stood a moment longer, perplexed once again by the level of loyalty his liege-man displayed. He did not notice that the rest of the hall was surprised into stillness until he, too, slipped away from the Jarl’s seat.

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  • 1.33 – To Catch a Thief

    1.33 – To Catch a Thief

    Einarr took off at a sprint down the pier. The two could not have got far yet, and he remembered their faces. Jorir kept up admirably well, despite his shorter legs.

    “You remember what they look like?” Einarr asked between breaths.

    “Well enough.”

    They pulled up short where the pier met dry land. There were only two ways the boys could have gone; a disturbance in the dockside market crowd said the answer was left. A heartbeat later Einarr, too, was dashing off after the ripples his fish made as it swam through the crowd.

    He did not hear the dwarf’s footsteps pounding after him; a glance over his shoulder revealed Jorir examining something on the pavement. A glance was all he could spare, however, as the crowd was reluctant to be shouldered aside a second time in so short a period.

    Scowling, Einarr gathered his breath without slowing. “Stop! Thief!”

    Now the crowd parted for him easily. He began to close on the fugitive more quickly: it seemed some of the people farther ahead didn’t care to let the boy escape either. Bellowing like that had been risky: while Kem was at least nominally Northern, and the Gufuskalam was here on legitimate business, this close to Imperial waters it was still chancy.

    “Thief!” He yelled again for good measure.

    A dark-haired man in a butcher’s apron sauntered towards Einarr from down the street, clutching the boy’s arm in his outsized hand. The treasure sack was nowhere to be seen. “This the brat you’re looking for?”

    “One of ‘em. Where’s your friend?”

    The thief spat at the ground. For his trouble, Einarr boxed his ear.

    “Seems like every other week this one an’ his lads are in and out of the guard-house.” The butcher jerked the young man forward and offered his arm to Einarr. “Do as you will.”

    Einarr gripped the arm hard enough the boy winced. “Come with me.” Hopefully Jorir got the other one.

    * * *

    Jorir had, in fact, found the other one. He returned to the Gufuskalam only a few minutes after Einarr did, dragging his prisoner rather more unceremoniously than Einarr had. From the looks of them, Tyr hadn’t gone overboard without a fight. Both boys were shoved down on unattended crates on the pier, where a somewhat drier Tyr had joined his crewmates.

    “These the ones?”

    “Them’s the ones.”

    “I think this is what you were looking for?” Jorir handed the sack he carried in his other hand to Einarr.

    A quick glance inside revealed that everything was accounted for. He inclined his head to the dwarf in thanks. “Now. What to do with the two of you.”

    The two young men sat sullenly, not yet seeing an escape.

    “You see, as the son of a Thane, ordinarily I’d have my choice of punishments. Couple of strong backs like yours would make valuable thralls. I could gift you to my future father-in-law.” Now they looked nervous. That’s more like it. “Lucky for you, I don’t have room for two more people on that little boat of mine.” He waited until their expressions brightened, as though they thought they might get away with it after all.

    Einarr smirked. “Or maybe not so lucky. In the process of stealing from me, you also attacked an unconscious man, and tried to drown another of my men. Back home, I’d be well within my rights to have you executed. I could hand you over to the guard and let you take your chances with the gallows.” Not that he would, even if he had a home port, but if he could put the fear of the gods in these two so much the better. “…Hm. Now there’s a thought. You see, I have little enough coin on me, and I expect to owe a fair amount to Master Mathis, there, who has been so kind as to treat the man you assaulted. Master Mathis, would you have a use for a pair of strong backs and deft fingers that plainly have nothing better to do with themselves?”

    The apothecary studied them for a moment. “Not I. Keeping thralls in the city is frowned upon. But my brother-in-law maintains a homestead elsewhere in the Islands, and is forever complaining about a lack of hands to keep up with the work.”

    “There you go, then,” Einarr said, looking at the boys as if that sealed the deal. “As you were so foolish as to steal from a Prince, plainly what is required is for you to learn the value of honest work. Master Mathis, will you accept these two scoundrels as payment for your services to my friend there?”

    The apothecary’s smile was thin and not at all pleasant as he looked over the two thieves as one might inspect a horse. “Yes, I think a farm is just the place for a pair like the two of you, and I suspect I will more than make up for the loss in the foodstuffs of my sister’s gratitude.” He extended a hand toward Einarr, and the two shook on the deal. “Now, since that is dealt with, I’ve already explained to Tyr the treatment your patient will require while you sail. The medicines are in an oilcloth, I’m sure he can point it out if one of you will be taking charge of the care. He should recover his senses any time now.”

    “We appreciate it. Will he… will he walk again?”

    Mathis shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too early to say. The knee didn’t seem to be too badly damaged, so it is possible.”

    “Thank you. …Your brother-in-law, he is a good man, yes?” Einarr whispered the last: most men saw the value in treating their thralls well, but there were always exceptions.

    The apothecary nodded. “My pleasure. And now,” he turned his attention to the newly-minted thralls, who were looking around as though for an escape route. “I must be going, before these two get it into their thick heads to do something stupid. Again.”

    Mathis took the boys by their ears and led them off towards his apothecary.

    “Well. That took gratifyingly little time. We should be able to get out with the next tide. Tyr, do we have the coin to reprovision?”

    “Already seen to.”

    “Wonderful. Next stop, Kjell Hall!”

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  • 1.32 – Physician

    1.32 – Physician

    Einarr had been sure the map was because the harborman didn’t expect he could read right up until he saw the directions that were sketched therein. “Many thanks,” he said, gesturing with the paper. Then he had set out with Jorir into the twisting warrens of Kem’s back streets, glad he had left the bag of treasures stowed under the Gufuskalam’s deck.

    “Have you ever been here before,” he asked Jorir quietly.

    “Not recently enough to be any help,” the dwarf grumbled back.

    “Wasn’t after help. Harborman’s map covers that.” Einarr glanced sidelong down at his new liege-man. “What’s got you so sour of a sudden?

    “A man’s life hangs by a thread, and mine’s tied t’it. You’d be sour, too.”

    Ah. That. He turned to the left down a not-quite-muddy street, shaking his head. “My apologies. Neither Tyr nor I doubt that you’ve done everything in your power to keep Erik alive. That was a far stronger oath you swore back on Svartlauf than I asked for: it should have been enough on its own, but…”

    “Fine.”

    “I will release you if you wish. We have no hall, and only my Father’s ship, to return to.”

    “You think me so fickle?”

    “I’m not sure what to think of you.” Einarr shrugged. “But, I think this is the place.” He gave the courtesy of a rap on the door before stepping inside the healer’s shop.

    Einarr’s first impression was of stepping into the home of an herb-witch. Shelves filled with vials and bottles and tiny sacks lined the walls, and the spicy smell of bog myrtle hung in the air. He also smelled something metallic, though, and no herb-witch he’d ever known kept a stock this large. They appeared to be the only two people in the room. “Hello?”

    Einarr had to look twice to believe what he saw when a man’s head popped up from behind the counter. It was uncommon, but not unheard of, for a man to be trained in song-magic, but this was no Singer’s place, and no Northern man would be allowed near the apprenticeship of an herb-witch. The face that appeared, though, had the bearing of an Imperial – the second surprise. “I am Mathis.” He glanced at the dwarf as he stood, his height nearly identical to Einarr’s. “Might I ask what brings such an interesting company to my apothecary?”

    “My friend, back on our skiff. He’s injured. The harborman sent us.” Truth be told, Einarr wasn’t entirely certain about trusting Erik to some Imperial “apothecary,” but he thought seeking out a Singer here would likely be fruitless.

    “Can you be more specific?” Mathis was already gathering supplies into a sack, however.

    Jorir spoke up. “Took a nasty hit to the leg. It’s crushed. I think I’ve managed to break the fever, and I’ve got it splinted best I could, but it still doesn’t look right t’me.”

    “How long ago?”

    “About ten days.” Einarr could ignore for now the strangeness of a male herb-witch: his manner was the same as the best ones in the more northerly ports.

    Mathis tisked. “Well, I’ll have a look.” Several vials and smaller sacks moved from the shelf behind his counter into the bag he packed. “Gerrit! Mind the counter. I’m headed to the docks.”

    ***

    As they drew near the pier, Einarr sped his pace as the sound of shouting carried over the water, forcing Jorir to break into a jog. He heard a splash from the direction of the Gufuskalam. Moments later, a pair of scruffy-looking teenagers dashed past their little party. Einarr didn’t get a good look, but he thought they were more likely Imperial than of the North. Einarr loped forward, anxious to find out what had happened on their skiff.

    When he reached the Gufuskalam, Einarr received his second shock of the day. Tyr was just then pulling himself from the water, cursing a blue streak. On board, the deck boards were tossed about. Erik still lay with his foot in the air, but he had acquired a rather red mark on the left side of his face. “What happened here?”

    “Thieves is what happened, and right cheeky ones at that!”

    Jorir led Mathis down to the patient, explaining quietly what had already been done, what had seemed to help and what hadn’t.

    “Thieves? The wisest sailor on the Vidofnir, and you got taken down by thieves?”

    Tyr glowered at him. “You won’t be laughing when you think about what they were after. Bastards kicked Erik in the face, knocked me into the water, and made off with the whole cursed sack!”

    “Godsdamn!” Einarr kicked at the concrete under his feet. “I saw them on our way here.” Chasing down a pair of thieves on his own left him at a disadvantage. Taking Jorir meant hoping the dwarf could keep up. Taking Tyr meant he left the two unknowns alone on their boat, and while he didn’t think Jorir would try to take off without them… “Tyr, go ahead and dry off, keep an eye on things. Give Mathis a hand if he needs it. Jorir, we have some thieves to catch.”

    The dwarf’s black beard split in a wicked-looking grin.

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  • 1.31 – Kem Harbor

    1.31 – Kem Harbor

    For more than a week the Gufuskalam sailed south, pushing as hard as its crew could drive the boat with sail and oar, and for more than a week the black-haired dwarf on board hovered over the injured sailor who had been given into his care. If Erik did not seem to be improving, neither did his condition seem to worsen. He even regained consciousness a few times. In spite of his better judgement, Einarr found his attitude toward Jorir softening. Even Tyr could acknowledge his efforts were genuine.

    Mid-morning of the eighth day, Einarr stood up to stretch and caught sight of land on the horizon. “Hey Tyr, double-check the chart, will you?”

    The older man was still unrolling the parchment when he answered. “That should be the place, and if I’m right we can make landfall today.”

    Einarr whooped, the last week’s worry lightening in a rapid burst of exuberance. Jorir looked up like a spooked cat before his gaze darkened to a glare.

    “Don’t disturb me patient.”

    “Does he look any more disturbed now than he was five minutes ago?” It was a nagging concern of Einarr’s that his friend had hardly stirred during their journey. He still breathed, though, and the leg looked a little better since it had been elevated. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than fuss you can help me row. The sooner we make port, the sooner we can find us a proper healer.”

    “An’ how will we be paying this healer?”

    “All else fails? It can come out of Erik’s share. Given the choice between keeping his leg and having a pretty for a mistress, I’m sure he’d choose the leg.”

    “You might hide that bauble about yer neck, then, before we go ashore. Anyone who sees it will know it’s the most valuable thing aboard.”

    Einarr nodded. “Good thinking. I hadn’t intended to keep wearing it, mind, although it’s been good having the goddess of winds on our side this trip.”

    “’Course not.”

    * * *

    The Flatey Islands were among the southernmost lands controlled by the thanes and jarls of the north, and the influence of the Empire could be seen even before one made port. The harbor was built up, and ships of all sizes docked to either side of concrete piers. Those piers were the first, most obvious sign of the southern influence, though the roads that came into view behind them were pale dirt. Two- and three-story buildings rose up behind the harbor, but if the building materials were the same the construction still looked alien to Einarr.

    A man in official-looking robes with a pair of glass lenses resting over his nose already stood at the pier as the Gufuskalam nosed between two larger karves that sat high in the water, their hulls evidently empty for the moment. The wood of their hull knocked against the pier and the harborman motioned for Einarr to toss him the docking line.

    A moment later their skiff was tied and Einarr took a large step up onto the concrete pier.

    “Welcome to Kem. What business are you on?”

    “We require a healer.” He gestured toward where Erik lay, his leg still held up by a rope tied above the yardarm.

    The harborman’s eyes widened to see the extent of the injuries. “I’ll say. …How?”

    “Fimbulvulf. This was the nearest port where we thought there might be aid.”

    “I see. …Well, for a boat this size, there is just the small matter of the harbor tax, and then I believe I can direct you where to find a capable healer.”

    Einarr suppressed a groan. He had not expected to need coin on this voyage, given their route and their goal, and so had little on him save the gifts from the jotünhall. “How much?”

    “For a craft that size, and given the nature of your business, two silver marks per day.”

    Einarr growled, but he already heard the knocking of wooden planks. What would be pocket change for his father was going to be a near thing for the four of them. “Tyr, I believe you’ll find some silver belowdecks. Will you pay the man?”

    “Already got it.” Tyr met Einarr’s eyes and held it for a long time, his expression saying plainer than words that they would not have many days’ toll for this.

    “Thanks.” Einarr nodded his understanding to Tyr, and the marks were passed from Tyr’s hand to Einarr’s to the harborman’s. “Now. You said you had a name for me.”

    “Indeed. This way, please, and I will sketch you a map.”

    Jorir stepped up to the prow of the Gufuskalam. “If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I would come along.” When Einarr gave him a questioning look, he continued. “His condition’s not changed in days, and anything more I could do for him at this point Lord Tyr could, as well. It might be good if I talked ta the healer meself.”

    Tyr looked amused every time the dwarf called him a lord, but had not yet told him to drop it.

    “You may be right at that.” Einarr reached down to give the dwarf a hand up to the pier. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

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  • 1.30 – Field Medicine

    1.30 – Field Medicine

    With Erik down, Tyr took the rudder and left the rowing to the strength of youth. Tempting as it was to let out the sail to travel nearly halfway around the island, everyone aboard worried that the jotün would notice something amiss. They were not safe until they crossed out through the storm. And so, Einarr rowed while Tyr kept their course and Jorir wrapped Erik in every woolen blanket on the boat and battened him to the deck.

    What felt like hours later they turned away from the island, into the squall surrounding it. The oars tried to pitch out of Einarr’s frozen hands. Tyr fought with the rudder. Einarr was pleased to see Jorir taking his new position seriously: it seemed like every time he looked up he was either shielding Erik’s face from a breaking wave or mopping the man’s face – of sweat or seawater or rain, who could tell. And yet, for all of this, the storm seemed lighter now than it had when they broke through the first time.

    When they all four made it through to the open seas outside the eternal storm, Einarr breathed a sigh of relief. The cold had nearly killed them on the way in, when they had Runa’s song to bolster them. That they hadn’t needed it this time was well-nigh miraculous.

    “Thanks to Eira!” Jorir exclaimed, sitting back on his heels now that the sun shone on his shoulders again. “It’s the Isinntog that got us out, after all. ‘At’s why Fraener was so keen on keeping it.”

    “And why you had to leave once you determined you couldn’t stop me?”

    “Aye, and that. But you’ll not regret having me along.”

    “With the oath you took? I should hope not.”

    “Now will someone give me a hand with these sodding blankets? He’ll overheat in the sun, but they’re soaked.”

    Einarr pulled in the oars, glad for the chance to move about a bit. While he unwrapped Erik’s wool cocoon, Tyr let down the sail. His hand brushed against his friend’s face as he worked: Erik’s face may as well have been on fire, as hot as it was. Einarr looked up from under his brows at the ruddy dwarf

    He saw the look. “I’ll do what I can. But the quicker we get to Kem, the better.” A long pause followed, while Jorir dug about for the herbs he wanted. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’a said he got what he deserved.”

    “What sort of oath did you offer the jotün when he caught you?”

    Jorir snorted. “I promised him my smithing services, nothing else, until such time as he was no longer willing to provide food and materials. Old bastard never did hold up his end of the bargain.”

    “Huh.” He still wasn’t sure how far he could trust his new liege man, but for the moment he seemed sincere enough. If he tended Erik well it would go a long ways toward remedying his past offences. “I believe you.” To his surprise, he did. “Once we get to Kem, I may have other tasks for you.”

    “I will serve as I can.” While they spoke, the dwarf had mashed the herbs he chose into a pungent poultice that he then dabbed on Erik’s forehead. Einarr noted he only applied about half of it there. “That should serve to keep the fever down, and maybe numb the pain a little while I work on the leg.”

    Tyr had long since cut away the pant leg on the afflicted side. The leg itself was a swollen mass of red-and-purple flesh, shading yet darker around where the fimbulvulf’s teeth had pierced the skin. Einarr shook his head: he may have threatened to toss Jorir overboard if Erik died, but even a skilled herb-witch might have trouble here. I can be reasonable and still make him prove himself.

    Jorir trundled toward the prow of the Gufuskalam. “Might be a good idea to move what you can to the back,” he said, crouching down to lift up a deck board. “I’ll need this for the splint, and maybe one other besides.”

    Tyr’s brows drew down, but Einarr stopped him from speaking with a raised hand. “We can deal with that. Is there anything else you need?”

    Jorir drew his thick eyebrows down, studying his patient. “If there’s some way to rig up a sling, it would be good to let the blood drain out of his leg. Shame ye didn’t think ta bring a jar o’ leeches; they’d bring the swelling down right quick, and probably make him more comfortable besides.”

    Tyr spat over the side. “Leeches are hard to come by in Kjelling lands. Too cold, not enough marshland.”

    The dwarf harrumphed, sliding the deck board underneath Erik’s leg as carefully as he could. The unconscious man’s face twisted in spite of the precautions. “As ye say. Thus, if we can hang a sling from the yardarm it will at least keep his blood flowing.”

    Einarr eyed the oar setup. “So long as we’re under sail it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, should it?”

    Tyr studied the mast for a long moment. “I can make it work. First sign of a storm, though, and he’ll need to be moved.”

    Jorir nodded, not looking up. With the leg resting on its board, he had moved to dabbing the remaining poultice on the least-healthy looking portions of the badly injured thigh.

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