Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Runa

  • 2.27 – Reading the Weave

    2.27 – Reading the Weave

    The Oracle turned her back on him almost languidly and walked back to the finished tapestry. She raised a hand to touch the lyre that tied itself to a tafl king whenever the instrument appeared. “Tell me, the harp. Is that the pretty young maiden from your vision? The one whose father you wish to ask me how to win?”

    “Probably. She is the one who gave me what was later the ‘instrument of Jorir’s defeat.’”

    The Oracle nodded. “You may need her ruthlessness, but keep close watch on it.”

    “Then… a Tuning…”

    “Is the black art of song. You didn’t seriously think the only Art that could be turned to evil was weaving, did you?”

    “I…”

    The Oracle shook her head. “Weavers bind fate, Singers influence the mind, Painters and Sculptors create physical effects, the work of a good Smith is said to have a soul. Which of these could not be perverted? …But that is not what you are here for. Tell me what you see in your friend’s weaving.”

    “The black mountain topped with black clouds is his home, oppressed by a darkness blacker than Urdr’s. The king and the lyre dance about outside the darkness, until the lyre is swallowed by it…” He had to swallow. Didn’t she say the lyre was Runa? “And the king pierces the clouds. When the lyre plays, it rains.”

    “Not bad. With the proper training, you could have made a passable soothsayer.”

    Einarr grimaced, and the Oracle laughed.

    “You see how things connect. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but better than expected – even for a newly fledged Cursebreaker.” She turned her attention to Jorir, and her tone became distant. “Smed Världslig, your fears are exaggerated, but not unfounded. The monstrous ones have gained a foothold in your home, have gained the ear of the thane. The svartdvergr of the mountain will soon descend again into the barbarous caves. Even should you defeat the witch in time, her poison will take time to purge. Gather allies to the cause of your lord, and he will reward you handsomely when the time is right. Act swiftly, but prudently, that the Cursebreaker will be ready when the time approaches. You will know the time by these signs: the eagle will feed on the wolf; demons will claim the waves; and dragons shall bear winged spears.”

    Einarr blinked. He had seen none of those symbols on the cloth until she spoke their names, but as she did his eyes were drawn to them. Well. This is why she is the Oracle and I am just a prince with no holdings.

    Now she turned a gentle smile on his liege-man. “Take heart, young child of the earth. You yet have time.”

    Jorir bowed deeply before the Oracle. “My thanks, my lady. What payment do you require of me this day?”

    “Though it has been more than a century since you were last here, this cannot be considered a separate weaving. The presence of the Cursebreaker was both the prerequisite and the payment, and so our debts are paid. Unless you had something else?”

    “Nay, lady.”

    She nodded before turning her attention back to Einarr. “As for you.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Your fate is sufficiently intertwined with the others that I would have you stay here as I weave for them. This is not like to be a quick process, however, and your threads may become knotted in unexpected ways. Do you assent?”

    “These men are my crewmates and my family. If my presence is required, I shall not withhold it.” He did not hesitate, although his mind still reeled from what he had been shown already this morning. How was he going to take in the Weavings of all the rest, as well?

    “Good. Watch carefully, as we go. You will learn much that will aid you on your way.”

    It took two hours for the Oracle’s assistants to re-string the loom, even working quickly. Then Sivid was called up. Images rose before Einarr’s eyes, one after another, while the Oracle shuttled colored threads backward and forward faster than his eye could follow. Some of them made sense. More of them did not.

    Here and there the tafl king reappeared. Did it mean the same thing for Sivid as it did for Jorir? If so, he thought it likely Sivid would no longer count him a friend by the end of it: he would be responsible both for setting the man on the path that would get him what he wanted, and for it’s destruction. Einarr was too dazed by the end of it to really take in the Oracle’s interpretation of the weave.

    They broke for lunch, all except the two apprentices. They used the time to set up the loom for Arring’s request.

    For about five minutes, Einarr stared into the bowl of nut gruel, clutching his spoon in hand. He sighed and stood, shoving the spoon into the mash in the bowl, to stride across the clearing to where the Oracle took dainty bites of the same stuff. “My lady, might I trouble you for a moment?”

    “Sit down, Cursebreaker. You have questions about your friend’s reading this morning?”

    “I do.”

    “Very well. His was a deceptively simple request, was it not?”

    “And one I wonder if he won’t come to regret.”

    “You’re concerned about the shattering in his path?”

    Einarr nodded. “It looked like it was my fault?”

    She shook her head. “Only time will tell. I suspect not, however. That is an inflection point, a point of choice, and I would remind you that I told him as much.”

    “I… of course.”

    The corner of her mouth quirked in what was not quite a smile. “I suppose this is all rather a lot to take in, isn’t it. Ask Avrindân: she can provide you with something that will sharpen your senses this afternoon. There will not be time to read for you or your father today, so take comfort in that.”

    “Thank you, …my lady.” She had thus far shown no inclination to give a name, and Einarr was not inclined to test her on it.

    The Oracle nodded, and he ate as he moved over to where Avrindân and the girl with a voice like silver bells still worked.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.21 – A Tune for All Seasons

    2.21 – A Tune for All Seasons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Such things are forbidden!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    His wife kept her head lowered and did not answer.

    “Have you?”

    Still nothing.

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

    Still no answer.

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

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

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

    ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.20 – The Third Trial

    2.20 – The Third Trial

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Watch your step,” Jorir warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Many of them have already heard the story.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.19 – A Moment of Respite

    2.19 – A Moment of Respite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Arring sat forward. “Her loom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.13 – Fidelity & Honor

    2.13 – Fidelity & Honor

    “Runa is my only child, and likely to remain so. He who marries her will become my heir. Rise, son, and take the hand of the prize you’ve fought so hard for.”

    Raenshold. The Jarl was asking him to forswear Raenshold… his father… his birthright… and accept a jarldom in its place? Einarr shook his head as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, certain he must have heard wrong. “My lord, surely you jest?”

    “Not at all.” The Jarl’s face was open and honest, as though the thought never crossed his mind that Einarr might be bound by another oath.

    Einarr risked a glance back at the hall: his father’s face was grim, as was Bardr’s. Erik and Tyr looked concerned. Now he glanced down to Jorir, and unless Einarr was very much mistaken that was fear he saw there. Runa, though, gave him an encouraging smile and nod, trying to convince him to go ahead and accept. As though she did not know what her father asked of him.

    Einarr set his mouth and turned his attention back to the Jarl. “My lord Jarl, every man under my Father’s command has sworn to return and reclaim Breidelsteinn.”

    “Do you not have your own ship, your own crew, now?”

    “Why would that matter?”

    The Jarl blinked now. “Is Raenshold truly even a memory for you? Is it not merely the stories your father’s men tell to while away the time as you wander the waves? I am offering you the security of your own lands with my daughter’s hand.”

    “It is true, we have lived as vagabonds since the Weaving, and my memories of home are faint and dim, their patchwork filled in by the stories told aboard the Vidofnir. But Raenshold is and ever will be home, and I was born to be a Thane, as was Father before me. You ask me now to settle for a jarldom in foreign waters, and let my birthright be usurped again?” Einarr raised his gaze to meet the Jarl’s, unflinching, and pursed his lips. Anger was beginning to smolder in his breast, and he worried he would say too much.

    “You have been a homeless wanderer, sailing from port to port with never an end in sight. While you are unwed, that is fine for you, but I am no father if I allow my one and only daughter to lead that kind of life. Her hand in marriage is bound to these lands by a chain even the gods might not shatter.”

    “Bound by you alone, and you hold the key.” Rage threatened to boil up, but if he fought his father-in-law over this he lost, no matter who won. “You say you are my father’s friend, and yet you try to seduce me into betraying him? Nay, Jarl. Runa shall be my bride, and none other, and no other than Raenshold shall be our home.”

    “You’re being unreasonable.”

    “Actually, I rather think you are. You would make a nithing of me.”

    The sound of silver bells filled Einarr’s ears and the Jarl froze. Einarr looked about, surprised: no-one in the Hall so much as blinked, save one. The strangely familiar lady’s maid with the long golden hair and the elfin features. She curtsied, and as she rose she turned to walk away. The scene in Kjell hall faded with every step she took into the distance, until it was replaced with the alpine meadow where he had first seen the woman. Einarr shook his head to clear it before stepping back toward the path where he had evidently left the rest of his companions. I hope I’m not too far behind.

    ***

    The sound of silver bells rang in Jorir’s ears and he stepped forward over the threshold between reality and dreaming. He didn’t know how it was done, but he had been through the tests before.

    The scene in front of his eyes was the last one he expected, however. The light faded, its color yellowing, until he stood in a torch-lit stone hall. To every side svartdverger made merry. It took his eyes a minute to adjust, but when they did he saw the sigil of Chief Soggvar – King of Iron and Brass. I’m… home?

    Jorir’s face lit up, for now he recognized the faces of his kinsmen. Some of them he was quite sure were dead, and others he suspected were, but in the world of the Oracle’s trial that did not matter. His eye lit on his brother’s face and he could not smother his astonished grin. He stepped over and put a hand on the other dwarf’s shoulder. “Brotti? What’re you doin’ here?”

    “Waiting, little brother. We all are.” When his brother turned to face him, Jorir had a moment’s double-vision: Brotti’s face turned ashen, and the shadow of an axe cut across it. Jorir blinked and the vision cleared.

    Jorir smiled again at his brother, but this time it was wan. I had a feeling.

    “Go. The Thane would welcome you himself.”

    “Aye.” He nodded, studying Brotti’s face even as he clapped him on the shoulder. Living or not, this would likely be the last time Jorir saw him. After a long moment, he turned towards the throne where Thane Soggvar sat looking dour – moreso even than Jorir was used to. Things must have got bad after he left.

    Slowly Jorir stepped towards the throne, and slowly he knelt before his chieftain and bowed his head. He felt the large, heavy hand of the king settle on the back of his head with surprising gentleness. It was cold and clammy.

    “Welcome home, son of the mountains. We have expected you.”

    “I beg you to forgive my tardiness, my king.”

    The hand raised again off his head. “It is of no matter. We have endured.”

    Have you? “Thank the gods,” he said, as though he had noticed nothing amiss.

    “What have you discovered on your long journey?”

    “I have found the Cursebreaker.”

    “Well! Cause for celebration indeed! Bring out the mead! In the morning, we will sacrifice to the gods for their beneficence!”

    Jorir tried to smile in response to the Thane’s enthusiasm, but the signs within his vision suggested he was too late.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 2.12 – Faithless Hospitality

    2.12 – Faithless Hospitality

    The tinkling sound of silver bells filled Einarr’s ears. Testing the fidelity of my love for Runa? Nothing simpler… surely that can’t be it, though? Well, no matter. He hefted the sack of treasure slung over his shoulder so the weight rested more comfortably and the coins tinkled again. Walking along the path up towards Kjell Hall, he whistled a jaunty tune. Jorir was only a pace behind him with another sack of treasure, and over this last quest they had filled out the crew of the Hvalaskurdr. His longship Hvalaskurdr. He had a ship. He had a crew. He had brought more gifts than even Jarl Hroaldr could have thought to ask for. If that wasn’t sufficient, even yet lacking a hall of his own, Einarr could rightly accuse the man of faithlessness.

    Einarr stepped through the tree line and into the meadow. Not another quarter-mile in, the gate of the palisade around the hall stood open for them. The crew of the Vidofnir awaited inside, with the Kjellings, for news of his success. A broad grin split his wide moustache and he strode on, stopping just two steps outside the door.

    “Hail to the Jarl of Kjell! Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen, has returned from his quest!”

    “Hail, and well-met!” The Jarl’s voice carried out of the hall nearly as cheerfully as it had for Stigander just after their encounter with the Grendel. “The son of Stigander is welcome to my hall!”

    Einarr stepped across the threshold and into the shadow of the hall. He reached up to remove his knit cap – when did I put that on? – as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. The smells of meat and mead filled his nose, and rowdy calls of greeting and good cheer assaulted his ears. Stigander stepped up in front of him and clapped him on the shoulders, grinning behind his yellow beard.

    “We carried word ahead of you, my boy, since you had someone to retrieve. Everyone’s dying to hear it from your own lips, though.”

    He returned his father’s smile in kind, certain that Stigander saw the warmth of his affection behind it. Soon, very soon, they would find a way to reclaim their birthright, and then Stigander could be the thane they all knew he should have been.

    The Jarl’s voice rose above the crowd. “Come! Show us the proof of your valor!”

    “Well, go on.” Stigander took his cap from him and offered a wordless nod of appreciation to the dwarf.

    All eyes – Vidofning and Kjelling alike – were on Einarr and his liege-man as they strode the length of the hall towards the clearing in front of Jarl Hroaldr’s seat.

    The light shifted, and Einarr caught a glimpse of Runa, sitting with her lady’s maid in the corner. It was strange: Einarr had thought the maid was a mousey little brown-haired woman, but today the one who attended his love had elfin grace and ridiculously long gold hair – fairer, if it were possible, than Runa’s. He took in so much with a glance before his eye was drawn back to the princess. She sat with her hands pressed against the seat and her shoulders thrust forward, looking up at him furtively from under lowered brows. When she met his gaze, she bit her lower lip. His heart began to race. My lady…

    The Jarl cleared his throat: evidently Einarr had been staring. Abashed, he knelt before his father’s friend and set the sack down in front of him with a clatter of precious metal.

    “My lord Jarl, I have returned under my own sail and with my own crew, bearing gold and treasure in accordance with the tasks you have placed upon me.” He opened the sack and reached down in among the silver and gold and jewels, looking for the artifact he knew the Jarl would want. There it is. He reached both hands down into the treasure sack and carefully began to remove the goblet.

    “In token of these accomplishments, I offer you the Fierbinte, taken from the Imperial city of Krasimirburg during our raids.” He raised the goblet by its stem, resting its base on his other hand to keep it steady. The cup was solid gold and encrusted with rubies and sapphires over every inch of the outside. Inside, it was perpetually filled with a blood-red wine that never seemed to spill. “According to the Imperials we questioned, it is said that the one who drinks from the Fierbinte shall know neither disease nor the progress of time for a full turning of the seasons, but that the god of war shall be their constant companion.”

    Jarl Hroaldr reached out to cup the goblet’s basin with both hands and lifted it overhead. A cheer rose up around the hall from the Kjellings: the Vidofnings, Einarr was certain, wanted no part of such a thing. Not until they reclaimed their home.

    Once the cheering had died down, the Jarl turned and set the goblet carefully on the table as though it were capable of spilling. His attention returned to Einarr. “Rise, Einarr, son of Stigander, son of Raen. Your dedication is most admirable, and so I am willing to overlook that you have not gained a hall. Rise, and take the hand of Runa, and make Kjell your home henceforward. My Thane, Lord Hragnar, sails for Kjell even as we speak to take your oath to him and this land.”

    The hall fell silent. To Einarr, the sudden stillness felt as though the world were crashing around his ears. His face felt slack. “I… what?”

    “Runa is my only child, and likely to remain so. He who marries her will become my heir. Rise, son, and take the hand of the prize you’ve fought so hard for.”

    Raenshold. The Jarl was asking him to forswear Raenshold… his father… his birthright… and accept a Jarldom in its place? Einarr shook his head as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, certain he must have heard wrong. “My Lord, surely you jest?”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 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.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 1.23 – Dwarven Tunnels

    1.23 – Dwarven Tunnels

    The dwarf stood from his seat at the table and brushed his hands off on his trousers as Einarr pocketed the king Runa had sent with him. He did not miss that his guide hooked an axe onto his belt before setting off, nor that the dwarf evidently felt no need of a cloak where they were going.

    “Right this way, sir.”

    “After you.” Einarr followed a full two paces behind, shortening his stride to avoid catching up with the trundling gait of the dwarf and dearly wishing he still had Erik along. Don’t let him give in, Tyr. He would just have to watch his own back this time.

    The firelight from the dwarf’s forge cast eerie shadows on the cavern walls as he led Einarr further in, toward the hall where his prize lay hidden.

    Eventually the cavern narrowed again into a tunnel not unlike the one Einarr had entered from initially. This time, though, within five paces it opened back out into a circular room from which more tunnels set out in all directions. Rising from the center of the room was a giant-sized pillar, into which were carved dwarf-sized steps.

    “How long did it take you to learn your way around down here?”

    The dwarf snorted. “Long enough to design the place, and not a moment longer. My master has no interest in the subterrain.”

    “Is that so.” A man could be lost forever down here… Rather than leaving it to chance, Einarr dropped a loose thread from his tunic near the mouth of the tunnel they had exited. The dwarf’s hand fell from the axe handle as Einarr looked up.

    “So you never said what brought you here.” The dwarf was probing.

    “You’re right, I didn’t.”

    “Well?”

    “Surely there are a limited number of options that would bring a man through the storm to Svartlauf?”

    “Oh, aye.” The dwarf rested his hand on the head of his axe as he began the ascent. “But since you’ve already said you didn’t come for his head, I think it would be good to know what item I’m helping some stranger to steal.”

    “Would it? I would think that would be more damning when he finds out. Assuming, of course, that is in fact what I’m here to do.”

    The dwarf snorted now. “I’ve been outside recently enough to know you for one of the human raiders.”

    “Oh?”

    “Aye. And unless matters’ve changed a great deal in the meantime, a northerner would fall on their own sword before they helped a jotün. So since we’re imprisoned here, and you said you didn’t need to kill Lord Fraener, the obvious conclusion is you’ve come to steal one of the treasures he brought with him.”

    The monstrous men of the Grendel came inexplicably to mind. “Things in the north may be a little more complicated than you remember.”

    The dwarf hummed and climbed faster.

    Eventually, after climbing farther than Einarr would have thought possible from the cave without ever catching sight of the sky, the stairway terminated in a landing and a stone door.

    “My master’s hall is through here.” The dwarf stood to the side, resting both hands casually on the head of his handaxe and staring fixedly at the blank stone wall across the landing.

    “What… part of the hall?”

    “The main chamber. This is my private entrance.”

    “In that case, please. Go ahead.” Einarr had no desire to allow the black-haired, scarred dwarf behind him. Whether he loved his master or not, he knew Einarr intended the jotün harm, and there was profit to be had by betraying Einarr to his master.

    “I must return to my forge. My master will be most displeased if I am delayed further.”

    “I won’t keep you. Only, the landing is narrow and I do not think I will fit past you.” It was a gamble. Dwarves were not often offended at accusations of broadness, but Einarr was not a large man, which could put the lie to his excuse.

    Indeed, the dwarf glared at him for a long moment. When Einarr did not attempt to retract his claim, he grumbled and pulled a key on a chain from within his tunic.

    “Tell me, sir dwarf, what did you intend to do when I stepped forward and found the door locked? Would I have had time to accuse you of betrayal, or would there have been an axe in my back before I blinked?”

    The dwarf only continued to mutter words in his own tongue. The latch clicked.

    “Your lack of an answer is answer enough. Now. Go on through.”

    The dwarf removed his key from the lock and hid it back inside his shirt. “Tell me, sir raider, if someone came to steal from your Captain, what would you have done?”

    “Slain the man before I played a game of tafl with him. Go on.”

    “Go to hel.” The dwarf spun on his heel, the hand that had been reaching for the handle instead unhooking the axe from his belt. He leaped at Einarr, blade swung high overhead.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 1.18 – Eternal Storm

    1.18 – Eternal Storm

    Mid-morning the day after Einarr and Tyr reunited with Erik, no kalalintu had yet shown themselves on the island. This, they agreed, probably related to the albatross heads Erik had staked around his camp, which in the darkness neither Einarr nor Tyr had noticed.

    Erik, it seemed, had fought just as hard as Einarr and Tyr, but been fortunate enough to be grabbed by beasts from one of the smaller, less-populated islands. Some few escaped, but whether they would find welcome among one of the other groups none of the three could guess. Once the sun was down, Erik had lit his signal fire with hope, rather than expectation, of rescue.

    Since they had already landed, and proven the island relatively safe, the three agreed to take the day for fishing and tending to their little boat. They would have no more opportunities before Svartlauf, and Runa had warned of an eternal storm and treacherous, rocky shoals. When they finally cast off the morning after, it was well-rested with replenished stores.

    For another week they were blessed with smooth sailing, save for the occasional drizzle. Then the drizzles became full rainstorms, and before long their little boat was sailing through a squall even more ferocious than the one which had injured the Vidofnir last fall.

    “Furl sail!” Einarr ordered as the prow of their ship nosed into the tempest. He bent the full strength of his arms to keeping their Gufuskalam on course while Erik tried to tie the billowing sail out of the wind and Tyr readied the oars.

    Each and every one of them had pulled their knit caps as far down over their ears as they would go. Sleet pounded on the bow, freezing fingers and noses and ears where they still stuck out under their hats. Einarr gripped the tiller, knuckles white with more than cold. The storm obscured his vision, but not enough to entirely hide the rocks they rowed towards.

    “Steady!” Einarr called over the storm. Erik and Tyr fought the ocean with oars that kept trying to jump out of their grasp. Water streamed down their faces and soaked their beards and their cloaks, and their hands were red from the cold.

    Tyr started chanting a rower’s cadence, although the lack of a drummer left it feeling hollow.

    Einarr’s nose felt like ice. He watched the ocean ahead of them for rocks, doing battle against the water with rudder rather than oar in their fragile skiff.

    A strange current caught the Gufuskalam and pulled them sideways as the water swirled around the rocks. Einarr leaned into the rudder, trying to correct before they were dashed against the jagged pillar now looming ahead of them. “Starboard!”

    At the last moment the Gufuskalam turned, just barely scraping by the rock. Einarr spared a glance for his crewmates. They slumped, frozen by the storm and wearied by hard sailing, but still struggling to make it through to their goal in the eye of the storm.

    “Come on, men! No surrendering to a storm!” It was hard to tell if his friends heard over the howl of the wind and the lashing of sleet, but at least they were still moving. His own hands felt like ice as they gripped the tiller. Much more of this and frostbite might be the least of the damage.

    “Nearly there,” he called a little later, still trying to encourage his friends. The hull thumped against a rock he had not seen beneath the water. It seemed his own vigilance flagged. At least there had been no crack of breaking wood with the impact. Einarr shook his head and shifted his footing, aiming to keep his balance.

    A chiming noise sounded over the wind from the sack at his belt. At first it meant nothing. He blinked twice: another large rock loomed, dead ahead.

    “Hard to port!” He hauled on the tiller.

    Erik saw the rock just in time to flatten his oar against the side of the Gufuskalam.

    Einarr heard the crystal chime again. What can that even be? He knew they’d have been lucky to hear the song of a battle chanter over the howl of this storm.

    A battle chanter? …The crystal bottle! A little extra strength will go a long way toward getting us through to the island. Runa’s song of strength. How she had bottled it, Einarr could not guess, but the reminder of its existence fanned the flame of hope in his breast.

    He fumbled with the ties on the sack with numb fingers until it opened. Even within the bag and in the stormy darkness the bottle seemed to glimmer from its place on top. Einarr lifted the bottle by its neck even as reverent gratitude filled him.

    The stopper, too, was crystal, and Einarr pulled it carefully free. Even before the stopper was clear of the bottle the clear tones of Runa’s voice sounded over the howl of wind and sleet. Within moments his friends both had a firmer grip on the oars, and his own mind and body felt alert again. Undaunted, they battled the storm while the princess’s voice sustained them.

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents

  • 1.14 – Setting Sail

    1.14 – Setting Sail

    The morning after Einarr’s defeat of Trabbi, the Vidofnir set forth in search of the Grendel missing three of its crew – Einarr, of course, plus two of their hardiest warriors: Erik and Tyr. It was all Stigander could spare. The morning after that Einarr led his companions down to Runa’s cove and the waiting skiff, newly dubbed the Gufuskalam. Runa and the Jarl came to see them off, she looking worried and he relieved to see them go.

    While Erik and Tyr made one last check of their provisions, Runa caught Einarr’s hand in her own. “Promise me you’ll come back?”

    He did not try to repress a smile. “Of course I will. What sort of fool would abandon you?”

    She nodded, slowly, and if he was not mistaken sadly, and pressed a small sack into his hands. “Take these. May they speed you on your journey.”

    “Thank you. I’m sure they will.”

    He did not look in the sack until the island vanished from view. On top was a note.

    My dearest Einarr, it read. The island of Svartlauf is hidden behind an eternally raging storm and hunted by a fimbulvulf, two things which I know my father has not told you. There may be other dangers as well, so I have sent gifts that I hope will bring you victory. The small crystal bottle contains my song of strength. Open it when yours fails and remember me. The other is the tafl king, so that you might always keep your wits about you. Be careful, my love, and return in victory!

    Einarr smiled and tucked the note carefully into the pouch at his belt. He wasn’t sure how much practical good either of those things would be, but the gesture still warmed him from the inside out. He stowed Runa’s offerings in the box beneath his seat at the tiller.

    A breeze caught in his hair, and he offered a devilish grin to his two companions. “Time to sail, boys. Gods but it’s good to be off the rocks again.”

    “How true it always is,” Erik agreed while Tyr continued to call their rowing cadence.

    “Ease off a bit and I’ll let the sail down.”

    Erik caught Tyr’s attention and they pulled the oars in as Einarr stepped forward to unfurl the sail. The still-cold wind filled their sail and caught his cloak, contrasting with the warmth on his shoulders of the spring sun. The Ice existed, Einarr thought, to make sure one appreciated the freedom to sail.

    Tyr stood up and stretched. “So how much do you think the Jarl hasn’t told you?”

    Einarr snorted. “What, you think the Captain’s childhood friend would withhold information from me?”

    “Yes,” the two men said at once.

    “You’d have to be blind to see he still doesn’t want to allow the match,” Eric continued.

    “So anything he can do to make your quest harder…” Tyr trailed off.

    “He’s going to try to do.” The right side of Einarr’s mouth curled in an unhappy smirk. “Runa tells me there’s a storm around the island and a fimbulvulf.”

    Erik thrust his head forward in surprise. “A what? By the gods, is he trying to kill you?”

    Einarr just shrugged.

    “If the Captain knew that…”

    “He’d have held off on pursuing the Grendel and we’d be on the Vidofnir right now. But I only found out a minute ago, myself.”

    Tyr whistled.

    “Not that it matters. I said I’d do it, and I am my father’s son. Besides, we’ve got a few weeks before we need to worry about it, and right now the weather is perfect. I say we see what our little Gufuskalam can do!”

    His friends voiced their agreement with a cheer.

    ***

    As the sun dipped below the horizon in a blaze of gold and red and purple that blinded the three men on their skiff, Erik stepped to the mast to furl the sail for the night while Einarr took the tiller. He would have first watch, and was glad that the sky was still clear. Overcast skies on their first night out of port would be an ill omen, because while the other two men slept, he would keep their drift on course.

    Tyr was pulling out food from their stores for dinner – a cask of ale, some hard tack, and gravlax. There would be no cooking aboard the Gufuskalam, for there was no room in which to light a fire, but they would not go hungry at least.

    “You ready for six weeks of this?” Tyr’s voice was a low rumble as he shared out the portions, evidently thinking along the same lines as Einarr.

    “We’ll manage.” Erik bit down into the hard tack and followed it up with a swig of beer. “Always have before.”

    Einarr nodded. “I think our course takes us close to some small islands partway through, too.”

    Tyr grunted and broke off a piece of bread to pair with a bite of the sweet-salted salmon. “Two-edged sword, is what that is.”

    Einarr shrugged. “We’ll get by. If anyone knows more tricks for getting through a long sea voyage than you, it’s Father.”

    This got a laugh from the gruff man. “I taught him half what he knows, back when he was your age.”

    Nobody ever bothered Tyr about retiring, because age had barely touched him. Save for snow-white hair and lines on his face, he still kept up with men half his age. Einarr and Erik both chuckled.

    “That is exactly what I meant.”

    Vote for Vikings on Top Web Fiction!

    Table of Contents