Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Song Magic

  • 3.26 – A Little Illumination

    3.26 – A Little Illumination

    Reki heard their story with a small, sad smile. When it was over she shook her head. “I may know a way… but you must ask yourself if it is worth the lives of any more of the crew, or how many Vidofnings we can afford to spend here. We are already short-handed.”

    In the end not a man objected to the course. Einarr did not venture to guess how many were convinced, like him, and how many merely wished to avoid losing face, but once again the decision was unanimous. As the sun set the Vidofnings set a wide perimeter of torches about the beach and prepared themselves for battle. Reki stood tall on the bow, using the carved rooster’s crowing head for balance. That the Allthane would take their continued presence as an excuse to an attack was plain. They merely needed to be ready for whatever horror had set upon the freeboater’s ship.

    The two surviving freeboaters were among those on the deck of the Vidofnir, guarding Reki’s back should some of the shades attempt to circle around for her. She was, after all, the lynchpin of this fight.

    Einarr and Stigander stood as a two-man line, ahead of all the others, facing the island. That, too, had been contentious, but in the end it was the Thane’s prerogative to lead the charge. The rest of the Vidofnings, save those set back to guard Reki, formed up behind them.

    They stood in their battle lines, waiting, almost motionless, as the moon appeared over the deceptively calm sea and the scrub of this so-called island. Still there was no sign of either fog or ghost light. Some in the back rows began to mutter restlessly.

    As the moon rose above the level of the plateau a thin mist began to build outside the ring of torches. As it grew thicker a little mist found its way inside, close to the ground at first but then rising as far as a man’s knees. Einarr readied his blade at the same moment, in almost the same motion, as his father did.

    “This isle belongs to the dead.” The Allthane’s voice seemed to whisper out of the fog from every direction at once. “And the dead shall take back what is theirs.”

    With the shade’s words the torches shifted in color from the welcome yellow light of the living to the sickly green of ghost light. The fog behind began to glow as well, and from it were paired sparks of concentrated green, as though the specters eyes burned with the ghost light. Einarr swallowed against his unease at the sight: even though he had expected it, the move tried to awake a primal fear he was unaccustomed to.

    With the change in the light, the dead advanced into the circle of torches. Einarr set his shield.

    Reki began to sing.

    The notes that poured forth from the bow of the Vidofnir were a far cry from the voice they were accustomed to hearing. Sharp, staccato, and discordant, the sound set Einarr’s teeth on edge.

    However unpleasant it was for the Vidofnings to hear, however, it was worse for the Allthane’s crew. The shades who had entered the circle seemed to flicker and waver, until finally they were revealed for what they truly were. Blackened flesh stretched tight over hollow bellies and displayed ribs in stark relief. Lank hair hung in clumps from half-bald scalps. The skin on their faces stretched too tightly over cheekbones, their eye sockets empty of all save the malevolent green fire as they worked their jaws in anticipation of the hot blood of the living.

    Stigander clapped the pommel of his sword against his shield. A moment later, the rest of the Vidofnings answered in kind.

    The shades were solid. It was time to fight.

    Einarr raised Sinmora overhead. In the same breath, he and Stigander began the charge forward into the ghastly forces ahead of them. When Einarr clashed with the first of them, Sinmora cut through the creature’s shoulder with a sound like striking rotted wood.

    He had no chance to savor the ease with which the first one fell. Immediately three others set upon him with sword and claw. He hacked the sword arm from the first and ran the second through, only to realize the motion had left his back open to the third.

    Einarr whirled to try to defend against the last one, ignoring for the moment the claws scrabbling at his chain shirt from one-arm. There was no time even to bring his shield to bear.

    At the last second the emaciated corpse stiffened. A blade very like his own protruded through its ribs, and over the creature’s face he saw his father’s illuminated in the ghost light.

    Einarr nodded his thanks and turned back to the melee. There was not time for more: even that was almost too much. Jorir had come up even with them and taken down one-arm in the moment he thought the other would be the end of him.

    The Vidofnings gave no ground, but the onslaught of the dead felt as though it would be endless. For every one they took down, it seemed as though three more took their place.

    Eventually, Einarr grew conscious of a low drone underlying the sounds of battle and the chant of their Singer. He hopped back from the clinch and sliced his current opponent through its hollow belly. In the moment of quiet that bought him, he cast around, looking for the source of the drone.

    The sound had a familiar quality to it, as of a voice he had heard recently. Einarr’s eyes were drawn to the edge of the lighted circle, where the Allthane stood back from the onslaught. His mouth was moving… and the low drone had a similar cadence to the story he had told the night before. And, all around him, the specters that had fallen were taking on new bodies. Einarr set his mouth in determination.

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  • 3.1 – Leaving Attilsund

    3.1 – Leaving Attilsund

    Bardr must have purchased miles’ worth of extra rope for this expedition, and as much fresh water as they could store. Even still, it was a short journey from Attilsund, and spirits were high as they loaded the Vidofnir with supplies for a six-week trek to investigate the ship barrow.

    To Einarr’s mind, most of the crew were too focused on the potential rewards once they got there by half. He didn’t doubt they could do it, of course, but those who failed to respect the sea were often claimed by her. For his part, he joined his father in reviewing the local charts.

    The waters of Svartlauf seemed an apt comparison indeed. While there was unlikely to be an eternal tempest surrounding this area, the rock formations suggested terrible winds indeed.

    “I’m glad we’ve a Singer with such a powerful voice,” he said at one point, tapping a particularly narrow passage where the currents were likely to be troublesome. “I’m not sure we would have been able to hear Astrid over these winds. What do you make of this? Will we fit?”

    Stigander hummed in thought. “Hope so, otherwise we’ll have to back out and circle around, come in over here.”

    Einarr shuddered. “You mean where we’d have to pole off the rocks to get anywhere? I’ll take my chances with the chute. That was bad enough in the Gufuskalam.”

    “Which reminds me. Has anyone thought to ask about kalalintu?”

    “No more than an ordinary harassment,” Bardr put in. “A flock, maybe two. Nowhere near a colony.”

    “That’s something.” Einarr glanced up to see Irding and Svarek hovering just within earshot of their conversation. “A moment.”

    The two newcomers to the crew tried to make themselves look busy as he approached. “What seems to be the trouble?”

    “Ah, no trouble, sir.” Svarek started, but he wouldn’t look at Einarr while he said it.

    “Bollocks. You two are nervous as fresh-weaned deer, and I’m quite sure I saw you joining in with everyone when we voted. Out with it.”

    Irding scratched the back of his skull sheepishly. “Ah, well, it’s like this. We were talking in the square earlier, nothin’ too serious, about what we might find out there. One of the village boys must’ve overheard, ‘cause he comes by and tells us we’re fools fer goin’, ‘cause even if we get past the rocks we’ll have spirits to deal with.”

    “Spirits?” Einarr raised an eyebrow.

    “The restless dead,” Svarek filled in.

    Now Einarr smiled, shaking his head. “Lads, if that’s all you’re worried about, get back to work. Even if the island is haunted, we’ve got one of the finest Singers I’ve ever met. She’ll keep our courage up, and so long as we’ve got that spirits can’t touch us. Okay?”

    They both nodded, although Einarr thought he saw them swallow first. “Good work, finding that out though. Now get back to work. We’ll be sailing soon.”

    Bardr raised an eyebrow as he returned to the table where the charts were spread out.

    “One of the locals brought up the possibility of spirits.”

    “Ah.” Bardr nodded. With as many sailors as were likely unburied on that island, it was a reasonable concern, but not one they were totally unprepared for.

    “I’m sure she does, but Reki does know the grave songs, right?”

    “I’ve never met a Singer who didn’t,” Stigander grumbled. “But I’ll confirm.”

    ***

    When the Vidofnir put off from Attilsund with the evening tide, it was with an odd mix of sobriety and ebullience. Reki, as she stepped to the bow of the ship to begin the recitation, carried silence in her wake: there were two who had not yet heard the Song of Raen, for they had not been in port long enough at Apalvik to warrant its recitation. Truth be told, were it not for the dangerous waters they approached, they might have let it slide for the few days they had been here.

    Watching the new crew’s reactions to the Song was interesting. Svarek wept – as some few did, their first hearing, although it felt to Einarr as though there were a personal note to it. Irding, on the other hand, stood by his father’s side, clenching and unclenching his fist. He’s going to fit right in.

    Then, as the last lines faded over the water, Einarr sidled back to the prow to join his own father, Bardr, and Jorir with a cask of mead. Knowing he was their way of breaking the curse brought them little closer to actually doing so, after all.

    Dawn this far north, when it came, was crisp and bright, with little of the warmth you might see in the sky farther south.

    “All right, you lot, let’s move!” Bardr was bellowing to bring those still addled by last night’s drink to their feet. “We’ve got two weeks before the waters get rough, and we’ve still got a few things left to repair from those thrice-cursed Valkyries.”

    Einarr yawned, well aware that they were all above the water line, and not much more troublesome than a split in a deck board or a weak patch of sail. It would have been nice, though, if Bardr had shown a little consideration for the morning after the recitation.

    The rest of the crew was stirring, with about as much enthusiasm as Einarr felt. Fine. We’re up. Best get moving or I’ll freeze. He stood, stomping his feet in his boots to start the blood flowing. It was strange, though: they had only just left Attilsund, and already the temperature seemed to have dropped rather drastically. Mentally, he cursed.

    “Eyes open for ice, everyone.” They might not see any today, but with as unseasonably cold as the air was Einarr wouldn’t be surprised to see a floe or two. This was going to be a long few weeks.

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  • 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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  • 1.21 – The Search

    1.21 – The Search

    Erik’s weight on Einarr’s narrow shoulders slowed him considerably as he made for the inlet where the Gufuskalam waited with Tyr and their supplies. The man had tried to protest, but every time anything so much as brushed his injured leg he paled.

    For Erik’s part, he limped on his good leg, dragging the bad one behind and panting with exertion. The fimbulvulf was restrained, at least for now, which meant that Einarr had some time to search out an entrance to the Hall. But before he could allow himself to do that, he had to get Erik to Tyr. The old sailor had been around long enough to know a touch of medicine.

    Blood had begun to well from the leg as the wounds warmed, but the initial freezing had been a boon. More worrisome was the bone: he hoped it was something Tyr could set.

    Erik slowed. Einarr glanced at his friend: the man’s face had grown pale.

    “Come on. Nearly there.”

    Erik nodded, his jaw slack.

    “Talk to me, Erik. Stay awake. You can pass out once you’re back on the boat.”

    “Right, right.”

    Shock was setting in. This could be bad.

    “Look, you can see where it gets lighter up ahead. We’re almost out of the woods, and then Tyr will fix you up.”

    “Oh, gods. You ever been treated by him?” He still sounded dazed, but at least talking would keep him conscious. Einarr could probably carry him across his shoulders if he had to, but it wasn’t something he wanted to test, either. “Man’s got the touch of a mule.”

    “Well let’s hope Father finds us a new Battle Chanter while he’s out hunting the Grendel, then, eh?”

    “Yeah.” He grunted in pain, but they were emerging out of the woods and onto the top of the cliff face they had scaled just hours before.

    Einarr helped Erik lean against a tree trunk and took the rope from about his shoulders. “I’m going to tie a harness and then try to get Tyr’s attention. We should have enough rope I can get you down there, at least.”

    “Might I suggest… a fire?” Erik was still breathing heavily, and the dazed look was returning to his eye.

    “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Stay with me, here.”

    “Right. Sure. Just really… tired over here for some reason.”

    “You’re not allowed to pass out until you’re back on the Gufuskalam, understand? That’s an order.” Einarr tugged the last knot tight.

    Erik chuckled feebly. “Yes, sir.”

    “Ah, there we go.” Einarr took two steps and jumped to catch hold of a dead branch on a sick-looking pine. It snapped halfway up, and Einarr smirked in satisfaction as he landed in the snow. “Fire won’t be much for heat, but it should at least get Tyr’s attention down there.”

    “Hey, kid.” Erik’s voice was labored, but he was trying to stay awake at least. Einarr tried not to twitch at being called ‘kid’ again after so many years as he struck flint against the flat of his blade. “Thanks. Jus’ wanted to… make sure… I said that.”

    “Stay with me, Erik.” The branch was now a burning brand. He waved it over his head, staring at the Gufuskalam below as though he could will Tyr to look their direction more swiftly.

    The boat began to row in their direction. Thank the gods. Einarr set the brand down over the lip of the cliff, the fire over the open water, and turned back inland. “Okay, Erik. Let’s get you in the harness.”

    The burly man lay unconscious in the snowbank, his back still propped up by the tree trunk.

    ***

    With Erik out cold, Einarr had to get Tyr up the cliff face in order to safely lower Erik back down, but eventually they managed. The older man looked grim as he promised to do what he could, but Einarr was sure Erik would pull through. The Vidofnings were tough, after all.

    Now, as the sun dropped toward the treetops in the distance and the light began to fade, Einarr crept through the forest on his own and started at every sound. Tyr had tried to convince him to stay on the boat for the night, but the longer he waited the more likely the wolf would have freed itself. Deeper into the forest he moved, and nearer to the great Hall at its center. Einarr shivered in spite of his heavy wool cloak: the farther into the forest he went, the colder it grew. He thought he was further inland than where they had fought the wolf, now, but he could not tell for certain.

    Einarr would need to find shelter of some sort before night fell, and it would need to be some place the fimbulvulf wouldn’t fit. He blinked, and realized only then that the growing darkness was not just a matter of the thick wood. Hel. He scanned his surroundings.

    A brighter patch of forest caught his attention, not too far off, and within he could see the dark grey stone of one of those strange pillars. Worth a shot.

    The terrain opened up a little as he approached the pillar, so that the light of the rising moon actually reached the ground. Inside a clearing, the pillar rose from a pile of smaller rocks and pierced the darkening sky. Einarr pursed his lips: this did not look promising.

    The ground shook beneath his feet, and then a pause. Then it happened again. Einarr looked up in the second pause, just before a third shaking tumbled loose some of the smaller rocks about the pillar.

    A man with skin the color of a frozen corpse waded through the forest as though it were tall grass and whistled. The fimbulvulf bayed in response, but the sound did not cover the noise of a rolling stone from the clearing ahead.

    Now he saw a blackness in the rocks around the bottom of the pillar, a hole revealed by the tremors of the jotün’s steps. Einarr didn’t think twice about the dubious safety of such a cave: it would keep him out of the fimbulvulf’s jaws and the jotün’s pot alike, and it might even give him a place to light a fire for the night.

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  • 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.

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  • 1.15 – Assault on the Open Seas

    1.15 – Assault on the Open Seas

    For more than a week, the only real trouble that fell on the three men was the occasional spring rainstorm. Three days into the second week, the day dawned clear and still, and so Einarr and Erik drew out the oars and left the tiller to Tyr for the morning.

    Early spring or not, by mid-morning Einarr’s brow was soaked with sweat and none of them had felt so much as a tickle of breeze. Off in the distance, Einarr thought he saw the dark, solid stripe that portended land. Tyr glanced down at the chart as something silver flashed beneath their hull. He jumped to his feet, his eyes wide.

    “You said there were islands on our path?”

    “Yes,” Einarr said in between breaths. He pressed the oar forward through the air.

    “And today was around the time you thought we’d be reaching them?”

    “Roughly. Why?”

    The older sailor cursed. “We can’t land there. We’re already too close to the shore.”

    Rather than lower the oar back into the water, Einarr and Erik both turned around to look at the old sailor, eyebrows raised in anticipation of an explanation.

    “I’m just glad we can’t hear any singing yet. We’ve got candles, right? Stopper your ears.”

    “What are you saying, Tyr?”

    “I’m saying this area has been infested with kalalintu since I was a boy. Now are you going to get out the candles, or are we going to take our chances on the rocks?”

    “Candles. Definitely the candles.” There was a clatter of wood as Einarr and Erik drew back the oars and pulled up some of the deck boards. Tyr kept a lookout over the water.

    A splash sounded nearby, like a jumping trout or the flick of a sea snake’s tail. “Quickly now. We’ve been spotted.”

    “Got them!” Eric stood upright, a fistful of candles clenched in his hand.

    Einarr kicked a deck board back toward its place as he fumbled with the pouch at his belt for his flint.

    “Once we’ve done that, we’ll want the hunting horns. … Aw, hel. Hurry!”

    A snatch of music floated over the water toward them, beguiling, seductive, but not as sweet as Astrid’s voice had been – as Runa’s was. Einarr was dripping wax in Erik’s ear, who flinched at every hot drop but did not complain. Tyr grabbed one of the other candles from Erik and lit it from the one Einarr used. He cocked his head to the side and started to take care of his own ears.

    Erik and Einarr switched places. As Einarr bent his head, he saw the bedraggled-looking head of an albatross surface from below the water.

    Tyr was digging in their supplies now, and surfaced with their hunting horns. He tossed the strap of Erik’s over his shoulder, thrust Einarr’s against his chest, and raised his own to his lips.

    The albatross’ wings raised up out of the water and it began to flap. The birds were big, but the body that began to rise from the water was still too large for an ordinary albatross. A pair of grotesquely muscled arms extended beneath the wings. The creature continued to flap, its wings still dipping beneath the water, and the white-feathered body became silver feathers. Then the feathers became scales, and it was the tail of a sea serpent that the wings now lifted forth from the water.

    Tyr’s cheeks bulged out as he sounded his horn. The kalalintu opened its beak, and in place of the beguiling song emitted a very bird-like screech. Einarr could still hear it through the wax that Erik was just now finishing dripping in his ears, but at least that should be enough to prevent a bewitching. He raised his own horn to his lips and blew.

    More of the creatures were approaching, now. They didn’t seem to like the noise of the horns, but even after Erik began to sound off it was not enough to drive off the man-eating kalalintu. Einarr kept blowing even as he drew Sinmora, and he saw Tyr strike with his axe at a kalalintu who braved the noise of their horns to stoop.

    The creature dodged the blade of the axe and climbed back up into the sky. There were five of them now, circling their little boat like vultures. The creatures stooped, one at a time, testing each of their defenses. At the first sign of attack, they rolled away and climbed back up into the circle. All the while, a thin note of birdsong was audible through the wax in their ears around their own shouts.

    This isn’t working…

    And then it got worse. All five of them folded their wings together. One of them tried to wrap its tail around Tyr, beating him about the head with its massive wings. The second lashed at Einarr with its tail, having been stung by Sinmora before and trying not to get in the way of its flock mates. The other three all went after big, burly Erik, who struck out at them with his own axe. They did not flinch, though, even when his blade bit flesh.

    The boat rocked. Einarr cut at the kalalintu that had been harassing him, but it was already breaking away. He glanced at Tyr – he, too, was no longer engaged with the grotesque beast. The sound of shouting continued to penetrate the wax in his ears. Einarr snapped his head around to the prow of the boat.

    Erik was gone. In the sky, the two who had been harassing Einarr and Tyr flew to join the unsteady retreat of the other three. Dangling beneath them, and surely the cause of their erratic flight, was the muscular figure of Erik.

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  • 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.”

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  • 1.11 – Capture

    1.11 – Capture

    For three days the sky was clear and the wind was fair, and Einarr kept one hand on the tiller while he and his stolen bride spoke of many things, laying plans for how they would live once they were officially wed – and occasionally trading kisses. For all her various skills Runa knew nothing of navigation, and so when night fell they would drop anchor in spite of the pursuers they expected but could not see and sleep. Einarr was glad that Runa did not push herself at him, for after so many hours in such close proximity he would have been hard pressed to refuse. For all that they remained chaste, however, it was no small feat of endurance.

    He caught her watching him several times, and she caught him at least once. She had been singing for the joy of it, and the music bolstered his tired mind. His eye fell upon the flaxen braid hanging below her hips on the seat and took in the perfection of her form. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, and a tightness spread across his stomach. He felt his face heat in a blush as he looked away, but not quickly enough to miss the hunger in her own eyes. No. Bad enough to steal her away; you will not have her until you are properly wed.

    On the fourth day a storm blew up. The sky turned dark, and Einarr furled the sail and took up oars. He wasn’t sure how much he could do, but he had to at least try to keep them on course. Runa sang of warmth and light and the strength of a man’s arms, and the song magic fortified him. Einarr battled the waves to keep them on course, and while she sang he did not feel the chill of the rain or the strain of his arms. But not even song magic could make his vision pierce the veil of rain.

    He did not know how long he had fought the storm when the sound of metal striking wood raised his hackles. He turned to look over his shoulder without letting go of the oars. Behind them, their approach masked by the sheeting rain and the rumbling thunder, the Skudbrun of Kjell Hall loomed. The sound that had alerted him were the two hooks now embedded in the side of their skiff that secured a pair of boarding lines. Einarr thrust the oars forward and Runa took charge of them.

    Einarr drew Sinmora and stood between her father’s ship and Runa, expecting even in that moment it would be hopeless. He would fight, of course, but with these odds…

    The first man down the rope was one Einarr recognized from long ago. Seven years ago, he had been the one to defeat the team of Einarr and Runa in their goat-game, and all winter long they’d had a friendly rivalry going on. “Barri.”

    “Einarr.”

    Einarr glanced back at Runa: the princess’ eyes kept darting between the two men, nearly as worried for Barri’s fate as for Einarr’s. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you’d let us settle this with arm-wrestling – for the Princess’ sake?”

    “You know I can’t do that.”

    “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

    “Should’ve thought of that before you took off with her.” Barri took a testing swing toward Einarr with his own blade, which was easily parried.

    “I did. But that includes her.” Now Einarr slashed at Barri with the blunt edge of his blade. This, too, was parried.

    Barri shrugged, and then the fight began in earnest.

    Under ordinary circumstances, Einarr thought he’d be more than a match for Barri at swordplay. These were not ordinary circumstances, however, and between his inability to give ground without putting Runa in harm’s way and the awkward swing he used to strike with Sinmora’s blunt edge Barri actually had the edge. Time and again metal struck metal, Einarr’s saving grace the fact that he could prevent his opponent’s maneuvering just as much as his own movements were limited.

    Finally, Barri tried to skewer Einarr on the tip of his sword and forgot his guard. It was only a moment, but that was enough. Einarr raised Sinmora to his opposite shoulder and swung.

    The flat of the blade struck the other man across the face and he stumbled to the deck, stunned. A small scream escaped Runa’s lips.

    “He’ll be fine,” Einarr said. “Whether or not we will is another question.”

    “Be careful,” was all she said. Another Brunning was right on Barri’s heels, pressing forward to get ahead of where his crewmate was beginning to stir, and then he was fighting again. Blades clashed, and a second Brunning fell to the deck, stunned. A third advanced, axe raised, even as Barri took his feet once more.

    Over the clang of sword against axe, the solid thunk of a hook embedding itself in the wood caught Einarr’s attention. He glanced up, hardly daring to take his attention away from one of Runa’s countrymen, to see another boarding line attached to the side of their little skiff.

    “Einarr, enough.” Tears filled her voice and nearly distracted him from a blow that would have taken his sword arm off at the elbow. “I can’t bear to see anyone get hurt here.”

    “Tell that to the Brunnings,” he grunted, bringing Sinmora’s haft down on the back of his opponent’s neck.

    A swarthy bear of a man was sliding down the third boarding line, an axe at his belt and an unfamiliar grim expression riding on his otherwise familiar features. Einarr stood ready to duel the newcomer, too, even after the cinnamon-colored braids and beard resolved themselves into the uncharacteristically grim face of Erik, one of his Father’s best men.

    1.10 – Runaway Bride 1.12 – Negotiations
    Table of Contents
  • 1.4 – Funeral Rites

    1.4 – Funeral Rites

    In four days a spruce graveship was made ready for Astrid’s body, lavishly appointed by the Jarl. All that was left was for Stigander to select her grave gifts from the hold of the Vidofnir and they could send her off before the Ice. The soothsayers claimed there would be another few days yet before winter rolled over the island.

    Stigander and Einarr pulled up the deck boards of the Vidofnir and stared at their gains from the raid. Everyone had offered to help, of course, but Stigander was adamant: his only son was the only one who would be allowed on board.

    Gold and bone, glass and pewter and wood stared back at them from below the deck. Stigander sat, dangling his feet over the edge, and Einarr folded his legs under him. “Combs, jewelry, her favorite knife,” Stigander muttered. “Did we get any instruments from the last village? A lute, a lyre?”

    Einarr shook his head. “I don’t recall. A cup – no, not a cup. Knowing her, she’d rather have a horn.” He caught his father eyeing the one at his hip. “And she would never let you hear the end of it if you sent Grandfather Raen’s with her.”

    Stigander’s mouth curled in half of a smile under his beard. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed, then, not moving to search through their haul for the gifts. “Why do I do this to myself?” he asked the air above them.

    “Why do you do what?”

    “Marry.” He bit off the word. “No. Don’t listen to me. I don’t regret a minute of it, with any of them.”

    “I know, Pabbi.” He almost never called his father that anymore, but it felt right here. “Loving too freely is far from the worst fault a man can have.”

    Stigander choked out a laugh. “That sounds like Grimhildr.”

    “I heard it first from Mamma, but I think they’ve all said it.” Well, the three he could remember, anyway. His birth mother had died when he was still a tot. “I think I’m a lucky son, to see the way you adore your wives.”

    They sat in silence for a minute, continuing to stare at the treasure belowdecks while the necessity of the moment sank in. “Come on. Astrid had a sailor’s taste. I’m sure we can find gifts she’ll love down here.”

    “Show some respect to your stepmother,” Stigander pretended to scold, accepting the attempt to brighten his mood even if only for a moment.

    ***

    The graveship was built upon a wood and earthen pyre mound. At sunset on the appointed night, after her nails had been cut and the body dressed in new clothes, everyone from the Hall gathered with the crew of the Vidofnir to bid Astrid farewell. Runa sang the dirge to ease the passage of the soul into Skaldsgarden. Sixteen was young for the job, but since her mother had passed sometime after Vidofnir last made port here she was the best Singer on the island.

    Jarl Hroaldr and Stigander recited the prayers for the dead, a gloomy chant overlaid on the sad, sweet notes of Runa’s voice. Einarr stood at his father’s shoulder, blessing the darkness and the smoke from the torches for hiding the redness of his own eyes. At the last, as the chanted prayers fell silent to leave only the melody and the crackle of fire, Stigander tossed the first torch on the graveship. Einarr threw a moment later, followed by torches from the rest of the crew. They all stood vigil in the sharp wind of an early winter night until the heat from the flames on their faces became unbearable. In the smoke, Einarr saw his stepmother waving silent farewell to her crew, made visible by Runa’s song magic.

    Finally people began to fade back into the darkness, headed for the warm comfort of Hroaldr’s hall, first the residents of the hall, then one by one the Vidofnings as they tore themselves away. Einarr took his place near the end of the procession back: Father would be the last to leave, both by custom and by preference. One pair of feet went the wrong way, however. Einarr looked up to see Bardr heading back towards where Stigander still stared into the pyre and stopped. He wanted to stop Bardr, but the man still technically outranked him.

    When Grimhildr was slain, eight years ago now, it was Bardr who pointed Father at Astrid. Five years before that, he had found Grimhildr for the Captain, too, when his second wife died in childbirth. Surely Bardr had some other woman in mind to soothe his Captain’s sorrow now, too, and if the pattern followed Father would insist on wedding before bedding. But not at the funeral, man. Have some decency.

    He moved on. Bardr was a good sailor and a fine warrior, but Einarr sometimes wondered what went on in the man’s head. Mid-stride of his third step, a name floated on the wind to Einarr’s ears: Princess Runa. He froze. Beautiful, vibrant Runa, younger even than Einarr – for Stigander? Einarr’s mind rebelled. Surely Father wouldn’t be so foolish as to marry a woman young enough to be his daughter, would he?

    1.3 – In the Hall of the Sea King  1.5 – Tafl
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  • 1.1 – A Sudden Squall

    1.1 – A Sudden Squall

    It was the end of the last raid before the winter’s ice, and yet the sun was bright and the weather warm. The longship Vidofnir skated across the smooth surface of the ocean under sail, the sounds of merriment carrying across the water from its deck. They would live well this winter. Einarr leaned against the side, drinking in the scene as he sipped from the skin in his hand.

    On the aftcastle, a group of six sat casting the bones. Big, heavyset Erik threw down the cup. “Eight!”

    “No way. That’s three eights in a row,” Sivid objected.

    “Read ’em and weep.” He lifted the cup to reveal a three and a five. “That puts you out, don’t it?”

    Sivid laughed. A few people among the onlookers groaned, but everyone on board knew he was awful at dice.

    Captain Stigander’s deep belly laugh sounded from amidships. “Remember how I handle the fleecing of crewmen, gents.”

    “How could they forget?” Einarr laughed. His father had a habit of reminding them. In fairness, it was uncommonly generous. If you gambled all your money away before the next raid, whoever won it from you had to loan it back – with interest, of course, but not as much as the counting houses charged. He hopped down off the railing and scanned the horizon. “Besides, I’m sure Erik could use the help this winter.”

    “Always,” the big man boomed.

    “Come on, let’s have a cask,” someone called.

    “Haven’t you had enough?”

    “Oh, come now, dear, don’t be like that,” Astrid said, flowing out of the crowd toward the Captain. Einarr’s black-haired beauty of a stepmother was also the Vidofnir’s battle chanter. “It’s clear sailing all around, and not a thing between us and port.”

    A cheer went up from among the men. She was as much a sailor as any of the rest of them.

    “Captain’s right, though.” Bardr spoke up, appearing at Stigander’s left. “Aren’t you on duty?”

    Most of the men laughed. The one who’d called for a cask grumbled, as did one or two others. Einarr took half a step forward to find the shirker, and stopped. A cold wind tickled the back of his neck. He looked up, alarmed, and scanned the horizon.

    “Make fast the rigging!” came the call from the crow’s nest at the same moment Einarr spotted the dark clouds billowing up from the south.

    “Somethin’ unnatural ’bout that storm,” Einarr said. He couldn’t tell if anyone heard. He had work to do now, too, in the face of a squall like that.

    The storm rolled in as quickly as it appeared, and the bright light of midday was replaced by dim twilight and stinging rain before they had finished battening down. Somewhere in there, Astrid began to sing, warming their arms and bolstering their strength with her song magic. Einarr looked up to scrub the water from his brow with a beefy forearm and nearly dropped the rope in his hand.

    “Hey!” His crewmates shouted their objection even as he tightened his grip, but his attention was out over the water.

    “Oy!” He slapped the man ahead of him on the shoulder and pointed out across the waves. “Do you see what I see?”

    His crewmate nodded. “Draken, dead ahead!”

    Cresting the waves ahead of them, the prow of another longship cut toward them. It’s dragon’s head was oddly misshapen and painted black. The unknown ship approached the Vidofnir at a rapid clip, and now he could make out the foreshortening of the snout. Not precisely a dragon’s head. More like a demon’s. Einarr felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

    “Make ready!” he shouted. He could just make out movement from the deck of the enemy ship – and enemies they were. They were readying boarding lines. In this weather! The call went up from other parts of the ship, as well.

    Astrid’s song became a hymn of battle. Einarr felt the muscles in his shoulders tense as the warmth in his blood began to stoke the battle-fury. With the initial burst of strength, he secured the rope that before five men had trouble pulling.

    A boarding line caught the side of the Vidofnir.

    “Grendelings, forward!” he heard from the enemy ship. More boarding lines flew across the remaining feet between their boats. The sound of scraping steel rang out from all sides, and Einarr felt the familiar, comfortable weight of his long sword in his hand.

    The axe-men from the Grendel raced across the already sodden boarding lines or leapt across the gap, landing with a heavy thud on the Vidofnir‘s deck. Einarr slashed at the Grendeling in front of him and steel rang against steel. The scoundrel took half a step back before swinging again with his axe. Einarr twisted and felt the wind of the axe’s passing against his shoulder. He brought his sword down on his opponent’s wrist. The axe, with hand still attached, clattered to the deck. In one motion, Einarr brought Sinmora back up and slashed at the villain’s throat. The blade cut deep. Ein!

    The figure that collapsed before him seemed more monster than man. He could barely hear Astrid over the clash of steel, but her song still worked its magic.

    He lunged at a monster that stood just two steps from one of the Grendel’s boarding lines, and the blow sent the raider tumbling into the icy deep between the two ships. Tveir!

    The Vidofnir pitched over a larger wave. Einarr’s boots began to slide on the rain-slick deck as it lurched. Alarm overrode fury for an instant and allowed him to catch his footing. The sea would not embrace Einarr this day.

    The fury did not reassert itself. Suddenly clear-headed, he looked around. The raiders – now clearly men again – were fleeing back to their own ship. Cowards. He heard an axe clatter to the deck of the forecastle – someone surrendering. Evidently, the Grendel wasn’t willing to wait for all its crew. The boarding lines were already flying. Something’s wrong. Where’s Mother? Why isn’t she singing us down?

    A circle of Vidofnings gathered on the aftcastle, and he could see his father’s back where the man knelt. Einarr shoved his way back, afraid he already knew what had happened.

    The crowd around Captain Stigander was thick before Einarr got there, and as he elbowed through to the center of the circle a single sob sounded over the pounding rain, shaking the old man’s shoulders. Einarr looked down: a pair of gold coins already held his stepmother’s eyes closed. Blood stained her kirtle and pooled under her back. He felt his own throat tighten, but did not ask the question that tore at it. He stepped around the outside of the clear space to stand behind his father and rest a hand on his shoulder.

    “And who is manning the oars?” He asked instead, his voice husky. “Let’s move, people.”

    Table of Contents 1.2 – Aftermath