Tangled Threads Publishing

Tag: Tyr

  • 2.7 – Song of War, Song of Peace

    2.7 – Song of War, Song of Peace

    The Valkyrian hunter’s aim was steady. Any moment could give him the clear shot he needed to take out Reki.

    Einarr ran, every footfall pounding a resounding ‘no’ against the deck of the Geirskögul. A fighter dodged someone else’s blow into Einarr’s path: Einarr shoved past him roughly, not even noticing if it was hunter or Vidofning. Three steps further on his leg lit up with the heat of being cut. It would hurt, later. Now, all that mattered was the crossbowman whose sights were set on Mother/Reki. The reasoning part of his brain flagged that juxtaposition for later thought.

    The hunter had his crossbow snug against his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger. Not close enough…

    Einarr willed his legs faster. The hot one felt sluggish: it must have been a bad hit. He raised Sinmora for an overhand strike. Almost there…

    Two paces from his target, Einarr roared. That caught his attention: the hunter nearly dropped his crossbow when he looked toward the threat and saw near two hundred pounds of red-headed warrior barreling at him.

    The hunter swung his bow around to Einarr, but too late. Einarr’s swing had already begun, and the mighty blow to defend their battle chanter cleaved the man’s skull in two. Tre.

    He turned, seeking his next enemy. The cut in his leg was filed away with other irrelevancies, such as why the Geirskögul apparently didn’t have a Painter, the throbbing in his leg, or how Jorir was managing.

    A Valkyrie came for him, then, his face contorted by vengeful rage which he did not know how to properly harness. The man’s vengeance for his crewmate broke against the battle fury of Reki’s song. Fjorir.

    Einarr’s count hit twenty-five before Reki’s hymn began to slow and the fury ebbed from his mind and his muscles at once. His arms and legs were on fire, and not just from swinging Sinmora about or hefting his shield: that cut to his leg had nearly hamstrung him, it seemed, and his arms were a mess of shallower wounds.

    Some few of the Valkyrian crew surrendered – deck hands, mostly, still green enough to be willing to take their chances as thralls in the north. The Valkyries had no cowards in their ranks.

    Einarr glanced around: Stigander stood, his arms crossed, watching as his fellows hauled valuables from the hold of the Geirskögul across the planks. He took one step forward, intending to assist, and felt the blood running down his leg. He would be no help like this. Best go see Reki. I guess I’ll see firsthand if her healing song is as good as her battle chant.

    No few of his crewmates were clustered around Reki when Einarr hobbled up. A bubble of calm surrounded them, supported by the gentle mood of a Singer’s healing song. That song magic could heal at all was a mystery to those outside the Singer’s ranks: it was a magic that played on the mind, typically. Einarr had asked Grimhildr, once, but the answer had made no sense at the time and been quickly forgotten.

    Reki’s sultry voice was one of uncommon power: as Einarr relaxed in the field of her song, he watched as wounds knit themselves before his very eyes. Such a wisp of a woman tied to that voice. Will Sivid get to her first, or Erik, I wonder? They were idle thoughts, no more, as he allowed himself to be swept along.

    Some few were not so lucky. The crewmen who knew their way around a medicine bag applied compresses or stitches to wounds too deep to heal with the magic alone – Einarr spotted both Tyr and Jorir among the wound-dressers – and the sound of axe hafts drumming on shields said that at least one of their number would henceforth sup with the gods. Idly, Einarr wondered who: when his mind came free of the song he knew the loss would hit him.

    Something jostled Einarr’s healing leg. He rolled his eyes downward to see what: Jorir. He offered the dwarf a drunken smile. “Be good as new soon enough. Scratch like this shouldn’t merit more’n the song.”

    Jorir snorted. “Sure, you say that now, after I’ve done poulticed it up. That blade near took your leg off. Give me a look at the rest ‘o you now.”

    “Fine, fine, worry wort. …Looks like you fared well enough in the battle.”

    Jorir chuckled as he looked Einarr over for more serious wounds. Most of them showed new pink flesh where they had already knit together. “I get the impression these so-called Valkyries aren’t used to fighting dvergr.”

    “Not too surprising. Most of the clans are human, after all. They’ve been known to defend földvergr villages, though.”

    Jorir snorted. “Földvergr. Pretentious.” He paused, still staring at his lord’s arm. “You’re a reckless fighter, if you’ll pardon me saying so. I might be more mindful of my father’s predicament, in your shoes. Else a lot of people are like to be sore disappointed some day.”

    Einarr raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to answer, but the dwarf wasn’t done.

    “What were ye thinkin’, dashing half way across the ship like that? Nearly got yerself killed that way, an’ for what?”

    Now Einarr pursed his lips. If the dwarf had seen that, he had to answer. “He had his sights on Reki… and this is the first time in a long time that our battle chanter has not also held the title of Mother for me.” He didn’t really understand the juxtaposition himself, yet, only that there was a habit of thought involved.

    Jorir nodded, his brows drawn down in thought for a long moment.

    Einarr hummed. “Well? Is your poultice safely tied? The death-drumming’s been going for a while now. It’s probably time I investigated.”

    “Go on, then. They may not have known what to do with me, but they certainly took their pound o’ flesh.”

    Einarr sighed, calling together the energy to stand up and leave the comfortable envelope of song magic. “I was afraid of that.” He wiped the palms of his hands on his pant legs, despite the fact that they were dry. Sooner or later, someone was going to have to deal with the Order of the Valkyrie.

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  • 1.34 – Homecoming

    1.34 – Homecoming

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

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

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

    “Easy does it,” Jorir interrupted himself.

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

    “What are you doing, boy?”

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

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

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

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

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

    * * *

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

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

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

    * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Laughter rose up around the hall: Einarr blushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Gladly.”

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

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  • 1.33 – To Catch a Thief

    1.33 – To Catch a Thief

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

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

    “Well enough.”

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

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

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

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

    “Thief!” He yelled again for good measure.

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

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

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

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

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

    * * *

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

    “These the ones?”

    “Them’s the ones.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Already seen to.”

    “Wonderful. Next stop, Kjell Hall!”

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  • 1.32 – Physician

    1.32 – Physician

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Fine.”

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

    “You think me so fickle?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “How long ago?”

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

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

    ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • 1.31 – Kem Harbor

    1.31 – Kem Harbor

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

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

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

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

    “Don’t disturb me patient.”

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

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

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

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

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

    “’Course not.”

    * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • 1.30 – Field Medicine

    1.30 – Field Medicine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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  • 1.29 – Escape from Svartlauf

    1.29 – Escape from Svartlauf

    “That piece was given to me before I left on this journey by the woman who will be my bride, so do not scorn it. I’m afraid I’m still going to have to bind you until we’re underway on my boat.” Einarr strode behind Jorir and swiftly wrapped the rope about his wrists in a figure-eight pattern.

    “Better than staying here, an’ it’s not like I’ve given you much reason to trust my word. …Satisfied?”

    Einarr finished tightening the rope around Jorir’s wrists and let his hand drop to the long tail he’d left to keep hold of the prisoner. “Yeah. Lead on.” He patted the dwarf’s axe that now hung at his own belt near Sinmora.

    A small hallway led off from the main chamber they had tumbled into. The Isinntog was now so bright Einarr was tempted to take it off, but that would require trusting the dwarf enough to loose his leash. Instead he squinted against the silvery glow as the sound of water lapping against rock reached his ears.

    Jorir led Einarr to a small wooden pier jutting out into an underground stream – the source of the lapping noise. Tied at the pier was a small fishing boat, sized such that the dwarf could have operated it alone.

    “It’ll be a bit cramped, but it’ll get us to your boat.”

    “Seems seaworthy enough. Get in.”

    Jorir shrugged, as though he had been half-expecting something else, and climbed into the prow of the boat. Einarr didn’t trust the dwarf enough to let him row out to the Gufuskalam, and so he would have to sit on the deck boards still trussed.

    The seat was uncomfortably narrow and low to the deck when Einarr took his place at the oars. Nothing he couldn’t bear with, however. He slipped the dwarf’s half-hitch and cast off towards the waters inside Svartlauf’s storm.

    The only sound was that of the oars slipping through the water until the mouth of the cave came into view around a bend, bright white against the blackness of the rock. “All right, blacksmith, you’ve got until we escape the storm to convince me of your sincerity.”

    * * *

    To his credit, Jorir had not bored Einarr with begging for his life or babbling. He spoke quietly of his skill as a smith, and during his time on the island he had learned more than a little of carpentry, shipbuilding, and herbs – for the jotün had paid no attention to his well-being unless it should happen to affect his smithing. Jorir preferred that, for even serving Fraener he preferred to avoid his attention when possible.

    “If you preferred to avoid his attention, why did you warn him?”

    “Oh, envy, partly. But my tunnels were always the most likely way for another thief to get in. I’d have been blamed if I just let you alone.”

    Einarr harrumphed and went back to rowing. The dwarf kept up a steady stream of talk: once his skills were in the open, he launched into the story of how he had come to try and steal the Isinntog that now adorned Einarr’s neck. The cave opened out onto a tiny bay some distance around the shore from where the Gufuskalam awaited, but the tiny boat was quick in spite of the size of its load, and within the hour Einarr was able to stand and wave to catch Tyr’s attention.

    “And who, pray tell, might this be?” Tyr asked as the fishing boat bumped against the side of their skiff.

    “My liege-man, apparently. Former servant of the gods-cursed jotün. Calls himself Jorir.”

    Tyr harrumphed even as he gave both man and dwarf a hand into the ship. “And you trust him?”

    “If I did, do you think he’d be tied? Little bastard fought tooth and nail to kill me, right up until he decided to surrender and get off this rock. But he has sworn. How’s Erik?”

    “Still breathing. Feverish.” Tyr gestured toward where the burly redhead was laid out on the deck, breathing heavily. His leg was splinted but still looked mangled.

    “Will he make it to Kjell?” Einarr noted that the dwarf moved as quietly as his stubby legs could carry him towards the sick man, trying to look unobjectionable. Einarr kept one eye on him even as Tyr reached for the sea chart.

    Tyr shook his head. “Not with what I can do on the boat. I’ve been studying the charts, though.” He unrolled it, pointing to a nearby chain in the wrong direction. “I think I can keep him alive until we get to the settlement here. Big place, that. They should have an herb-witch if not a songstress we could take him to.”

    “Beg pardon,” Jorir interrupted. “This is the one who got chomped by Lord Fraener’s pet?”

    “Aye.” Tyr’s answer sounded wary.

    “You’ll want the two of you to navigate the storm. If you’ll let me, I’ll see to him. But the sooner you find a real healer, the better.”

    “If he dies, I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

    “I know you will. But it were no lie when I said I knew a bit of medicine. Enough to be able to splint that leg right, maybe save it for him.”

    Einarr shared a look with Tyr. The older man looked nearly as skeptical as he felt, but shrugged. “Worth a shot. I knew that splint wasn’t likely to hold.”

    Einarr gave a curt nod. “Very well. Make ready, then: we head for Kem, on the Islands of Flatey.”

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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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  • 1.20 – Fimbulvulf

    1.20 – Fimbulvulf

    The sun in the eye of the storm may have been warm enough by comparison, but the island itself had not yet escaped winter’s chill. More than once as they scaled the rock face Einarr and Erik both nearly lost their footing thanks to the thin layer of hoarfrost that covered the stone.

    Einarr grimaced as he gripped the lip of the cliff with bare fingers and felt the wet bite of snow against his skin. He pulled himself up onto the ground above and into the windward side of a snow drift, then hurried out of the way so Erik could do the same. He beat the snow off the knees of his trousers and gauged their surroundings as Erik followed him over the lip. He patted the sack at his hip to reassure himself Runa’s gift had not been lost.

    The surface of Svartlauf was covered in a thick forest of trees and shrubs with dark, almost black needles in spite of the snow. The air hung silent and still, with not so much as a chattering squirrel to relieve the heavy atmosphere. The two men exchanged a look before stepping softly forward into the wood. Snow crunched beneath their feet despite their best efforts. Erik adjusted the rope looped across his chest. The idea was ludicrous, but it felt as though so much as a broken twig would alert the fimbulvulf to their presence – no matter where it happened to be.

    Game trails criss-crossed the overgrown forest floor through never-melting snow. Einarr and Erik picked their way across these, avoiding the largest of them where they could, speaking only in whispers when they had to speak at all, wending their way toward the stone Hall in the center of the island they had glimpsed from the water.

    It was Erik who first realized they had attracted the attention of the wolf. He held up his hand for Einarr to wait. When Einarr quirked an eyebrow at him, he pointed first at his ear, and then off to their left.

    Einarr turned his head enough to look from the corner of his eye.

    A silver-furred fimbulvulf, easily as big as a dray, watched them with red eyes. A low growl carried over the underbrush to Einarr’s ear. He moved his hand to rest on Sinmora’s hilt.

    “If I distract it,” Einarr murmured, still not turning to look directly at it. “Will you be able to take it down?”

    Erik openly studied the giant wolf. “Watch me.”

    Einarr nodded, then crouched down, his hand searching for a rock under the drifted snow. At the same time, Erik moved off in the direction they had been going in. Einarr lost sight of him in the underbrush almost immediately.

    His fingers closed around a smooth stone. Got you.

    In one motion he stood and drew back his arm. The wolf had turned its gaze after Erik, but that wasn’t where Einarr wanted its attention. He pitched the stone in his hand as hard as he could, and it struck the giant wolf in the snout. It yelped, snapping its head back around to Einarr. The fimbulvulf growled, crouching as though to pounce.

    “Over here, you mangy cur!” Einarr took off down the path Erik left behind him, hoping the man would quickly find a good spot for an ambush.

    The giant wolf was right on his heels. Einarr only kept ahead of it by virtue of the narrowness of Erik’s path through oversized trees. He could often feel the moist wind of the creature’s breath on his back, and then he would dive into a nearby bramble or duck around a tree to try and slow it.

    Einarr dodged around a skinny spruce, paying more attention to the fimbulvulf behind him than to the ground he ran across. Instead of the ordinary sinking of snow, his boot struck unyielding ice. He slid, windmilling his arms to remain upright.

    The ice patch was narrow. The sliding foot struck solid earth again and Einarr pitched forward, his other foot planting solidly on the ground through the snow. The sound of shattering wood rang through the forest. He glanced over his shoulder.

    The fimbulvulf had bitten clean through the spruce tree where Einarr’s head would have been if not for the ice. It shook its head, splintered wood dropping from its jaws, and lowered itself to strike again.

    Any time now, Erik. The trail he had initially followed had turned off just a few steps before Einarr dodged around that tree.

    The wolf lunged for him, and Einarr leapt to the left. He felt a chill as the jaw snapped closed just inches from his leg.

    Movement from the branches of a large pine caught Einarr’s eye for just a moment. Not close enough. He turned his full attention back to the great silver beast that fully intended to make a snack out of him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to edge around so that when the fimbulvulf came for him again he would move closer to where Erik lay in wait.

    The beast growled, its breath riming the trees to either side.

    “That’s right, you overgrown puppy,” Einarr muttered. “Come and get me. I’ll be a tasty little snack.”

    It snarled, and the noise shook snow free from branches. It must have heard him. A cocky grin spread on Einarr’s face and he crouched, ready to spring in any direction to avoid the beast’s jaws.

    The giant wolf gathered itself for another lunge, its eyes fixed on Einarr. It swished its tail as it shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the moment when its prey might be off-guard.

    Einarr feinted left. The fimbulvulf twitched forward, but didn’t bite at the maneuver. He grinned.

    Einarr spun on the ball of his foot and took off at a sprint towards the tree where Erik hid. The sound of breaking branches told him the wolf had taken the bait.

    “Raaaah!” Erik yelled as he plunged toward the beast’s back. The fimbulvulf stopped in its tracks, looking around for the source of the attack. At the last moment it twisted, nearly faster than the eye could follow. Instead of the hairy silver back of the wolf, Erik plunged face-first toward the snow-covered ground.

    He rolled. Instead of landing on his belly, he tucked so that his shoulder took the brunt of the fall and tumbled over to crouch in the snow.

    The fimbulvulf growled at both of them now, baring its fangs.

    “You all right over there?” Einarr did not take his eyes from the giant wolf as he spoke

    “Fine. Now what?”

    “Don’t get eaten?”

    The fimbulvulf lunged. Einarr dove to the left and felt the ice-touched wind of the creature’s jaw as it snapped closed on the air between them. Erik was rising at the same moment, staring warily at the rangy wolf’s head that was now between them.

    It jerked its head, glancing at each of them in turn. Einarr tensed, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. Erik was stronger, but he was faster. He would try to draw its attention again.

    Erik was dropping down into a crouch, his right hand creeping toward the axe at his belt. Einarr pursed his lips: he would rather not kill the beast, if he was honest. For all they knew, it was the jotün’s pet.

    The fimbulvulf growled again, a rumble that shook the trees around them. Einarr jumped back into a slightly wider clearing. The beast spasmed after the fleeing prey, and Erik took that as his moment to try for the its back again.

    Once again, however, the creature displayed its uncanny reflexes. Rather than lunging after Einarr, the fimbulvulf brought its nose around and snapped. Its jaw closed around Erik’s leg with a sickening crunch.

    Erik howled, and the sound was oddly vulpine for such a bear-like man. Blood stained his trousers where the great icy teeth had broken the skin. It was thanks to that same ice, however, that there was only a little blood.

    “Erik!” Einarr started that direction, but was pulled up short by the wolf that had now turned its full attention on him. “All right, you mongrel. That’s how you want to fight?” A rasp of metal carried over the snow, and Sinmora was in his hand. The wolf would learn that he, too, had fangs.

    The fimbulvulf lunged for Einarr, now. He sidestepped, bringing Sinmora around to strike at the great silver wolf. The clash of sword against fang vibrated in Einarr’s palms and frost rimed the blade where it had met the tooth.

    Einarr jumped back. He needed to put some distance between himself and it, to see its next move when it did.

    Erik rose again, his hand on a tree for balance, near the wolf’s hind leg. His red-stained leg did not seem quite straight, or quite solid. The fimbulvulf snarled. Einarr allowed a low growl to well in his own chest.

    It lunged for him again, and again he deflected the bite with his blade. In the lunge, the fimbulvulf’s tail brushed past Erik. Einarr lost track of his friend again. The wolf demanded his full attention as they returned to their stand-off.

    The wolf did not lunge for him again. Instead the fimbulvulf lurched to the side, biting at the base of its tail like a common dog.

    Einarr nearly lost the opening to confusion. At the last moment he charged in, and with the flat of the blade landed a mighty blow on the wolf’s slender, tree-sized shin.

    The fimbulvulf yelped and turned again to snarl at Einarr, but now its attention was divided by the feeling of something pulling at its fur. It snapped alternately at Einarr and the unexpected thing crawling up its back, too aggravated to actually hit either of them, but its thrashing also kept Einarr from the attack.

    Erik appeared over the slope of the fimbulvulf’s shoulders, pulling himself forward toward the creature’s neck by the strength of his arms. In spite of himself, Einarr grinned to see his crewmate reappear.

    He dodged forward, worrying at the fimbulvulf’s legs to keep its attention divided, smacking it with the flat of his blade where he could.

    “I’ve got it!” Erik’s voice was a little breathless from exertion, but carried none of the pain Einarr would have expected.

    Einarr ducked and rolled out from behind the fimbulvulf’s forepaws. When he turned again to look at the wolf, Erik was clinging to its fur with one hand and his good leg tossed over its spine. The other flopped limply against its shoulder while his other arm wrapped about the creature’s neck in a stranglehold. For the first time, Einarr thought he saw fear in the wolf’s eyes.

    “Try not to kill it!” They were civilized, after all, and civilized men did not kill one anothers’ dogs.

    Feeling the pressure around its throat, the fimbulvuf rolled. Erik yelled in pain as the full weight of the wolf rolled over his leg, but his grip would not be so easily dislodged. Erik squeezed, and the wolf began to pant. It rubbed up against a tree, trying to dislodge this new assailant. Erik grimaced as his shoulder rammed into the rough bark, but did not let go. Compared to the roll, that was nothing.

    By the time Einarr had gathered enough green wood to hobble the fimbulvulf – at least until it woke up – it lay unconscious on the forest floor. Without a word Einarr handed a handful of flexible branches to his friend to strip the bark from and set about tying figure eights around its legs with some already stripped. The wolf’s breath sent icy puffs of fog up into the atmosphere.

    “Come on. Let’s get you back to the ship. Tyr will know what to do about that leg.”

    “What… about… the Isintogg?”

    “We took care of the wolf. I think I can manage the rest.”

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  • 1.19 – Svartlauf Island

    1.19 – Svartlauf Island

    The Gufuskalam launched out of the storm and into the calm waters beyond it. Rain and sleet still pelted Einarr’s back, but he hardly noticed it now.

    Black, water-slicked cliffs shot from the ocean’s surface up fifty feet or more. Above, the black-leaved forest where the fimbulvulf was said to dwell loomed over them, rapidly swallowing their view of what lay inland. Before it was hidden from view, Einarr saw massive stone walls rising up from near the center of the island. The roof was also stone, he thought, and the entire edifice was nearly three times the size of Kjell Hall. It stood on four stone pillars that shot up from the forest floor. There was nothing it could be save the Jotünhall.

    More of these massive pillars lined a path or a road of sorts down from the hall to the water’s edge through a break in the rock wall. The cliffs retreated from the water in the path made by the pillars. In the shadow of one of these pillars Einarr thought he saw a rocky cove.

    “There. Do you see it?”

    Erik raised his hand to shade his eyes from the new-found sun and nodded.

    “I think we should land there.”

    “Aye, Captain.” Even Tyr’s voice was weary of their journey.

    “Once we’ve made land, you two should rest here. Reprovision if you can. I need to go in alone.”

    Erik looked like he wanted to protest.

    “I think we should all take some time to rest and dry off before anyone ventures into the island.” Tyr’s voice was firm, and it was hard to mistake that for anything but the voice of experience. “That cove is going to be in shadow all day. If I may, I would like to suggest we get a little closer to the island, weigh the sea anchor, and warm up while we have sunlight.”

    Einarr considered a moment before nodding crisply. “You’re right. None of us is in good shape after that storm. Let’s at least get close enough we’re not likely to be seen from the island and take a few hours to dry out.”

    ***

    The three-man crew of the Gufuskalam found a sweet spot, not far from the cliffs, where most of the waves were cut by a rocky reef. All three of them sprawled in the sun, enjoying the feel of the sun on their faces as it dried their bodies, their clothes hung from the yardarm in the wind.

    “Yer pabbi gets it, boy, but don’t be surprised if ye’re cut down to deckhand anyway,” Tyr was saying.

    Einarr chuckled in wry humor. “If that’s the worst price I pay, I’ve got the kindest Captain on the seas.” It wasn’t just his Captain he’d betrayed, or even just his Father. It was his grandfather’s entire line, and their hope of the future.

    “You do, Einarr. You do.” Erik’s voice was uncommonly solemn, especially given the mellow feeling that had descended on them as they floated in the sun.

    Einarr raised his head to look at his crewmate. “You speak from experience?”

    “More than a little. You know what I was doing before I signed on to the Vidofnir?”

    “Nope.” Erik had joined the crew four years before Einarr was even a deckhand. “Father always told me the crew’s past was none of my damn business.”

    Now it was Erik’s turn to laugh. “Yer pabbi found me drunk and beat to a pulp in a ditch. Decided to give me a chance when I got up swinging. I may be the only man alive who’s gotten a job for punching his new Captain in the jaw.”

    Tyr laughed. “I remember that. Tell ‘im why you were in yer cups in the first place, though.”

    Erik made some embarrassed sounding noises. When he didn’t answer, Tyr did.

    “He felt guilty, he did, because the Weaver booked passage on his old boat in the first place.”

    “I was just a deckhand on a freeboat, sure, but Raenshold was still home. If I’d known what the nither intended…”

    “You don’t have to prove your loyalty to me.” Einarr shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, staring up into the sky. “Especially not after I went and tried to steal a bride…”

    “Her idea, wasn’t it?”

    “Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t forced.”

    “No, you weren’t. But neither was she, which matters – to yer pabbi and the Jarl.”

    Einarr sighed and stood up. “Maybe. We’ve lounged enough, though. We should hide the boat.” He snatched his pants off the yardarm and beat them against the side to loosen the salt-stiffness, shivering a little as the breeze reached him again.

    “Einarr.” Tyr caught his eye as he, too, stood to dress again. “If anyone understands doing something dumb to win the object of his affections, it’s Stigander. And it was obvious to all of us why you felt like you had to go so far.”

    “Thanks.” The fact that the rest of the Vidofnings understood didn’t make him feel any better about it, of course.

    ***

    The Gufuskalam slipped quietly into the small, shadowed cove as the sun was nearing the horizon that evening. Erik lowered the anchor into the water with nary a sound even as the weight sunk beneath the water’s surface.

    The cove itself was most like a tiny fjord, and once inside its fingers the three men worked by starlight alone. Einarr had intended to enter the island alone, while his companions slept if he had to, but there would be no climbing those walls before daybreak at the earliest, and more likely noon the next day.

    “I still want you two here on the boat. Even with all three of us we couldn’t do more than try to evade the fimbulvulf, and we may need to leave quickly.” Einarr tried again to convince them. They were his friends, and he didn’t want to turn this into a test of authority.

    “And I’d still be happier if you had someone to watch your back,” Erik countered. “I promised the Captain we’d bring you back safe.”

    “Please, Erik. This is my quest.”

    “You’re Stigander’s son, all right,” he grunted.

    “Proudly.”

    “Your quest or not, Erik’s right. I can’t send you up there alone any more than he can. We also won’t need both of us to ensure the boat is ready when you need to leave. Take Erik.”

    Einarr exhaled loudly enough that it was nearly a growl. “Fine. I suppose it won’t be bad to have someone watching my back while I’m up there.”

    “Yer damn right it won’t.” Erik clapped him on the shoulder. “Now let’s get to it.”

    “We’ll be back as soon as we can, but we don’t know what else might be on this island.”

    “With a fimbulvulf and a jotün?” Tyr’s question sounded skeptical.

    “They’ve got to eat something, right?” Einarr’s joke produced a round of nervous laughter. He tied the sack to his belt and tossed a rope over to catch on the rocky face he would have to climb to get to the island proper.

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