CHAPTER 12 – CHANGES
Muus awoke in a sea of pain. His hands, his chest burned as if on fire. Bitter smoke clung to his nostrils and nausea fought with a terrible headache. He wanted to die.
‘I told him.’ That was Hraab’s voice, sounding aggrieved. ‘I told him to hold it by the string. But would he listen? No. Stubborn fool.’
‘He looks like roast beef,’ another young voice said. ‘Is he going to die?’
‘No, he ain’t. The skyshard won’t let him.’
‘What is that skyshard? I must have it, it’s powerful.’
‘You can’t have it, egghead. It’s too powerful for a prince. It’s going to save the world.’
‘But...’
A female voice interrupted. ‘That’s enough, prince. You’re bothering the Shardheld while he needs to rest. On deck with you both.’ She sighed. ‘Ottil’s as blunt as a sledge hammer, just like his mother. He’s got her brains and willpower, and the muscles of his father.’
‘A powerful combination.’ Birthe said.
‘Yes, but it taxes my patience. What next?’
‘I’ll do the Song of Skylbjear.’
‘I don’t know that one, so I’ll do the salve.’
‘It draws on Freya’s wisdom.’ Then she sang and Muus drifted away again.
When he awoke a second time, the pain was a dull ache, but bearable.
‘You’re awake?’
Muus opened his eyes and stared at Kjelle’s face. He was surprised at the concern. ‘Where are we?’
‘At sea, two days out of Nidros. You saved us, you know. You sank the longboats.’
‘Did I? It hurt.’
‘I believe it; your body looked like well-cooked meat. What happened?’
‘Don’t know. I named the rune, and then the lightning... and somehow, it burned me, too. Who was that woman?’
‘She’s a paladin, from Gaul; she’s the tutor of the prince.’
‘Then there really was a prince? I thought I’d dreamed that.’
‘He’s real enough. Proper little berserker, too, is Prince Ottil. Not like I was at that age.’
Muus heard the bitterness in his voice. ‘You’re doing all right now,’ he said. ‘You haven’t panicked once since Eidungruve.’
‘I can’t afford to. I must avenge my people. I know I’ll die trying, so there is nothing else to be afraid of.’ For a moment he was silent. ‘Aren’t you ever scared?’
Muus thought for a moment. ‘I don’t feel much emotion, these days. No fear, no hate. I do what I must.’
‘It’s strange,’ Kjelle said. ‘I’ve hated you for ages, but no longer. I know now that I really hated myself. Because of my father, because of that bastard weaponmaster.’
‘That drunken sot? I never understood your fear of him. All bluster, no bite.’
Kjelle was silent. ‘The weaponmaster shouted all the time and humiliated me. I never saw him as a drunkard. Nightmares he gave me.’ Then he laughed. ‘A drunken sot. That’s all he was. Thanks, I hope you think a bit better of me, now.’
Muus patted the theynling’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. I understand how it was. You’ll make a good theyn, Kjelle, just like Siga predicted.’
‘Siga?’ Kjelle sounded surprised. ‘Did she say that?’
‘She said you’d be a good leader if you got more confidence in yourself. She was right. Now, help me up, will you? I need some fresh air.’
With Kjelle’s arm in his back his wobbly legs carried him on deck. As he appeared, blinking in the clear sunlight, the sailors cheered.
‘Why is that?’ Muus said, surprised.
Kjelle smiled. ‘I said you saved us. Without your lightning, they would have sunk us. The men are grateful.’
‘Welcome back.’ The captain gripped Muus’ arm in a respectful way. ‘My apologies, I never realized what a powerful runemaster you are. You cooked their goose most properly.’
‘Myself, too,’ Muus said ruefully. ‘Where are we?’
‘Halfway to Agdir; we just passed the port of Bjergvin.’
‘Agdir? What are we going to do there?’
Kjelle coughed. ‘It’s near Ejrikastelle, where the queen resides. Ottil needs to join her now his father is dead.’
Muus looked around. ‘Where is the prince?’
‘He’s with Hraab on the forecastle. Talking. I thought girls talked a lot, but young boys are just as bad.’
Muus turned around as he heard Birthe call his name and joined her at the railing. With her was a tall young woman in a mail coat. Even here she wore a costly steel helmet and on her back a tall sword. She was handsome, thought Muus, though in a cold way.
‘You’re up and about,’ Birthe said. ‘That’s good. The paladin and I have sung ourselves hoarse over you.’
‘We did,’ the paladin said. Her voice was as Muus remembered, light and stern. ‘But it was a good deed, for you are a servant of the gods as much as the völva and I.’
‘I am?’ For a moment, Muus felt confused.
‘Of course. The Shardheld is selected by the gods themselves, to do their will.’
Muus saw the laughter in Birthe’s eyes, but he nodded gravely. ‘I see. Well, I must thank you for your part in my recovery. May I ask your name?’
The paladin bowed slightly, a curious gesture in the eyes of one who had grown up among egalitarian Nords. ‘I am Valiantrude de Vergy, Paladin of the Court in the retinue of Queen Leocastre of the Norden, and tutor to Prince Ottil, her son. You need not thank me, thank the gods for their aid, your burns were extensive. That lightning must have grazed you. The skin on your upper body and your arms was red and blistered. But the skyshard itself must have helped our singing and the salves we gave you, for the blisters healed fast.’
‘The wound on your head has healed as well,’ Muus said, looking at Birthe. ‘There’s hardly any scar visible.’
The girl colored. ‘It was a side effect of your healing. Valiantrude caught an arrow in her upper arm during our dash for the ship. That wound is gone too.’
‘The gods are merciful.’ The paladin bowed and made Odin’s sign. Muus thought of the skyshard and the terrible lightning. Not the gods, it was the shard. Avalanche-maker, Lightning-bringer. He suppressed a shudder.
Two days later around noon, a young voice shouted from the mast, ‘I can see the Nez.’
The paladin clenched her fists and looked up with deep disapproval on her face. ‘The prince is with the look-out. He was supposed to be at his studies. I should have known better.’
Muus smiled. ‘See it as an exercise in leadership. The sailors love things like that and it enhances his reputation.’
‘His reputation for recklessness is already well-established. I would like him to enlarge his scholarship.’ For a moment she was silent. ‘His father wasn’t a bad king for lack of bravery but for lack of wisdom. His son could do so much better, if he applied himself.’
‘Warships,’ the captain said, staring through the rain at the small harbor of Agdir. ‘And not king’s ships either, not with those red sails.’
‘Let’s stay outside,’ Muus said. ‘We must send a scout in first.’
‘Me,’ Hraab said. ‘Tonight, after dark. Just like in Nidros, they’ll never notice me.’
Muus hesitated. ‘I don’t like it, but all right.’
‘Whoop,’ the boy said happily. ‘The ship’s boat can drop me on that little bit of beach over there. From there, I’ll swim to the boat stairs halfway that quay.’
‘You sound like a spy,’ Birthe said.
Hraab gave her an innocent stare. ‘I? No, I’m not old enough. I’m just very good at creeping.’
‘At least you can do something,’ Prince Ottil said, and his eyes were angry. ‘Heaps of people want to kill me and I can do nothing.’
‘Your time will come.’ Hraab poked his shoulder. ‘Come, we’ll read that terribly dull book of yours together.’
‘A strange kid,’ the captain said. ‘Is he really as young as h
e looks?’
Muus stared after the two departed boys. ‘He’s very wise for his age. But I wonder about his family.’
As soon as it was dark, the captain had the ship’s boat lowered. ‘Anything you especially wanted to know?’ Hraab said.
‘Whose ships they are, whether the town is safe; anything about Queen Leocastre and Rannar would be welcome.’
Before Muus had finished his ‘Be careful’, the boy had disappeared into the night. Not long afterwards, they heart the soft splash of oars in the water, as two sailors rowed him to the tiny beach.
‘Where is he?’ The paladin’s voice was full of barely suppressed rage.
‘Who? Hraab?’
She made a furious gesture. ‘Ottil. He isn’t in his berth.’
‘He won’t be walking the ship in the pitch dark,’ Muus said. Then he looked toward the harbor. ‘He wouldn’t...’
For once since they’d known her, the paladin cursed.
‘Careful,’ Hraab said. ‘Don’t go stompin’ around, we’re spies, not soldiers. Just act like an ordinary kid and remember, if a sailor asks who we are, we’re from the town. If it’s a townsman, we’re from the ships. Clear?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right then. We’ll have to swim to the stairs, they’re over yonder.’
‘Swim? Ehh, mate, I can’t swim.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ll have to drag you along then. Come one and don’t panic.’
‘I never panic,’ Ottil said. ‘Princes don’t.’
‘Hold on to that.’ Hraab waded into the water. ‘Now come over here. On your back, you must float, like you’re dead. Keep your mouth closed. Ready?’
‘Yes,’ the Prince said, sounding muffled but calm.
Hraab gripped the other’s armpits and then, swimming steadily, he pulled the other boy along to the stone stairs. The prince kept word and didn’t panic. The only sound he made when they were at the stairs was a soft sigh.
‘Up,’ Hraab said. ‘And remember, act normal.’
Ottil nodded.
It was quiet in the town, as if everyone kept to themselves. The only folks they saw were near the great hall in the center. Locals, mostly, talking in hushed tones with each other. As the boys neared, they shut up and moved away, as if afraid to be overheard.
Hraab looked at his companion and shrugged. Then, with a face as innocent as a newborn puppy, he slipped past the slightly ajar doors into the hall. Here the boys stood for a moment, dripping as if soaked by the rain outside. They looked around through the smoke and the noise, the smell of beer and the burning torches. The hall was packed with sailors and fighters, with drinkers, gamblers and dancers to the sound of flutes and horns. They weren’t Nords, more like the men Vulf and Swinne had with them, Fynni warriors. As two gawking kids, the boys wandered through the throng, catching a word here, snatching a sentence there. These men served some nameless warlord. And Jarl Rannar was on his way to Nidros, to take the crown and be guardian of the young Prince Ottil. The prince gripped Hraab’s arm when they heard this, his hand was rock-still, but his fingers bit hard.
‘Not a man here is sober enough to appear before the warlord,’ a gruff voice said close by.
‘When one uses wildmen, one has to get used to their wild ways.’ The second voice sounded tired. ‘I’m fed up with these barbarians.’
‘Me too, Lendmann, drunken, murdering beasts they are.’ Suddenly the gruff voice said almost in their ears, ‘Hey, you boys. Come here.’
Hraab looked up. The speaker was a tall soldier, armed in mail. ‘You’re locals, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Hraab said, looking straight at the man as a free lad would.
‘I need one to bring a message to someone important. Interested?’
Hraab cocked his head. ‘Does it pay, lord?’
The tall man roared with laughter. ‘You’ve got your wits on you, I say that. Yes, it’ll pay.’
‘Then we’ll deliver the message. What does it say?’
‘Oh no, it’s not a spoken message, kid. It’s secret, written on parchment. You won’t be able to read it. Just deliver it to the warlord on board the merchant ship in the harbor. He’ll pay you.’
Hraab nodded. ‘We’ll be careful with your secret, lord.’
‘You’d better’, the big man growled. ‘There are great happenings at stake here.’ From his inside his tunic he took a folded document.
‘Is this wise?’ the tired voice next to him said, a young man dressed like a noble warrior.
‘There is no-one else, Lord Thorgild.’ The big soldier rubbed his face. ‘The warlord needs the letter now. I can’t send one of those fools here, you know how he thinks of drunkenness, and you and I must go after the lady immediately.’ He turned to Hraab. ‘Here, take this and be quick about it. Tell the warlord it’s from Jorgard.’
‘Yes, lord,’ Hraab said, and to Ottil, ‘Come, I’ll race you to the ship.’
Outside the hall, they ran towards the harbor. After two streets, Hraab halted. He looked around but there was nobody. Then he took the message from his tunic and unfolded it. ‘These aren’t runes. It’s the same patter as that book of yours. I can’t read it.’
‘Give it to me.’ Ottil took the letter. ‘That’s Old Romic, what the scribes in Gaul use.’ While he read, he gasped and stared at Hraab. ‘My mother... They were after my mother. She has fled Ejrikastelle. They have captured the royal hold. That bastard Rannar wants to marry her to Brundal. Brundal as my father? Never!’
‘We must hurry. Let’s bring this letter to the man in the ship and go back to the Madgund. Come, run.’
Only one ship in the harbor was larger than all the others, so there they went. At the gangway they were halted by a burly warrior, a Nord.
‘Go play somewhere else, boys; no place for kids.’
‘We bring a message for the warlord, from Jorgard.’
‘A message, hey? And why didn’t Jorgard send one of ‘is own men?’
Hraab leaned forward. ‘Drunk, all of them,’ he said confidentially.
The warrior laughed. ‘Lucky bastards. Well, get yourselves on board. And mind yer manners; the warlord is a great man.’
They were right. A sailor brought them aft, where a part of the aftercastle was shut off by waxed cloth. ‘Messenger for you, lord,’ the man said without entering.
‘Send him in, man.’ The voice was deep and impatient. For a moment, Ottil’s hand gripped Hraab’s arm like a bear trap. Then the boys entered.
Seated on a wooden chest was a large man; large by Nordic standards, with broad shoulders, and a strangely wrought helmet that covered most of his face.
He turned his head to stare at the two boys. ‘Messenger? You two?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Hraab said. ‘Ban is my name and this is my cousin Ralf. We bring you a message from Jorgard.’
The dark eyes behind the mask glistened. ‘Why didn’t Jorgard come?’
‘I believe he had to get away immediately, lord. More I don’t know.’
He held out the slightly damp parchment.
The warlord took it and glanced over it. Then he swore. ‘She’s gone. By Thor, that woman is too smart to live. Of course Jorgard won’t catch her. The bitch is on her way to Rhemes by now, with her lap dog Dettrich.’ Then he remembered the boys. ‘No matter,’ he said in dismissal. ‘You’ve done your duty, thank you.’
Hraab hesitated. ‘Lord?’
The Warlord turned an impatient face his way. ‘What?’
‘Jorgard said that you’d pay us, lord.’
The big man relaxed and he laughed. ‘You’re a clever one, lad.’ He pulled a large pouch from his belt and took out two silver coins. ‘Here, one each. Now be off with you.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ Hraab said, and they hurried from the makeshift cabin.
‘He was in a good mood?’ The warrior at the gangway winked. ‘I heard him laugh.’
‘He was,’ Hraab said. ‘Uncommonly handsome, too. A great man, this wa
rlord.’
‘He is, be sure he is.’
The boys ran off, skipping past a young man walking up the gangway without really seeing him. ‘Another messenger?’ Hraab caught the warrior’s words, but not the young man’s answer. They turned into a side-street and, careful that no-one saw them, returned to the waiting ship’s boat.
Tuuri stared at the fleet moored in Agdir’s harbor. They were Rannar’s ships, with the same red sails as his own. And there, riding at anchor just out of the bay, was the merchant ship they‘d been following from Nidros.
‘Do you want us to enter harbor?’ the skipper said.
Tuuri looked up from his thoughts. ‘The quicker I’ll make my report, the better.’
Half an hour later he walked down the quay, towards the town. The weather was clear and compared to where he came from, mild, but still there was almost no one in the streets. The few people he saw looked taut, almost apprehensive, as if Agdir was occupied by an enemy army.
He came to the mead hall in the center, a large building, as was fitting for a rich port. He entered and froze. Fynni. No wonder the people looked afraid, Rannar had brought a few hundred murderous Fynni warriors with him.
Tuuri looked around, trying to see if Rannar was here, but most of the men were bigger than him and they blocked his view the ones still standing, at least, for the warriors had been celebrating, and were as drunk as Swinne’s men at Belisheim. He weaved his way through them, disregarding their stupid jokes and name-calling. Nowhere was a glimpse of an officer or lord, let alone the Jarl. Trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible, he worked his way back to the exit. Once outside, he wiped his head. Two townsmen stood nearby, looking at him, but they didn’t say anything. Their eyes betrayed them, though. They were hostile, fearful and suspicious.
‘Pardon,’ Tuuri said, ‘could you tell me where to find the warlord?’
The men just stared. Never before had Tuuri felt hated in his own country, but now he wanted to flee, to hide.
Finally, one of the men pointed towards the harbor.
‘Thank you.’ Then he blurted, ‘Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t bring those Fynni here.’
Silence. Then the man tapped his left cheek.
Tuuri blanched. His mark! They thought him one of those beasts. He realized he was branded for life and with a sob he fled.
Once back at the harbor, he had regained his composure. The first and largest ship had a guard at the entry port, so that’s where he went. At the gangway he nearly walked into two boys coming from the ship. They didn’t really see him but he recognized them immediately.
‘Who are you?’ the guard said. ‘Not another messenger?’
On deck, a Fynni ulvhednar brought him to a makeshift cabin aft. ‘Messenger for you, lord.’
‘Let him come back this afternoon,’ a voice from within said. ‘I’m engaged now.’
Tuuri hesitated, but the ulvhednar gave him no chance. ‘Come away, the warlord has no time for you, Fynnikin.’
‘The prince is here!’ he shouted, but the Fynni slapped his face and dragged him to the railing. ‘Don’t shout. Come back this afternoon.’
The guard grinned. ‘Those Fynni are direct bastards. But then, you’re one of them, aren’t you?’
‘No!’ Tuuri spat the word out. ‘I’m not!’
Aboard the Madgund, the stress was mounting with the passing of the hours. The paladin had totally lost her air of frigid rectitude, pacing the deck and muttering dire promises at the address of the absent prince.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ajkell said. ‘They’ll be back.’
‘They’re just children.’ The paladin turned around and waved her fists. ‘They will be killed, or sold into slavery.’
‘Why? That they’re children is their protection. And Hraab is a shrewd lad. He’s been living in the woods for nearly a month, all alone, following that bastard Vulf and his ulvhednar. If he can survive that, a short trip to Agdir won’t bother him.’
‘Boat ahoy.’ a sailor shouted, and he threw down a rope ladder.
The paladin rushed to the gangway. ‘You.’ Her gloved hand pointed at the prince as he climbed back on board. ‘How dare you leave the ship without my permission? I’ll have you thrashed, young man, I’ll make you regret your waywardness.
‘The prince wasn’t in danger,’ Hraab said seriously. ‘He really, really wasn’t. But he’s so full of anger that he had to do something and better this than something foolish.’
Ottil’s face was red and furious and it was doubtful if he had heard the paladin’s tirade. ‘That bastard,’ he said, ‘that cowardly, rat-bitten, dung-eating dog.’
‘Quite,’ said Ajkell. ‘Who?
‘Rannar.’
The bear warrior stiffened. ‘Are those Rannar’s ships?’
Hraab nodded. ‘He wore a fancy mask and called himself the Warlord. But at Rannar’s only visit to court our royal friend here had been playing spy on his father once, hiding behind a curtain, and he recognized the jarl immediately. He was very clever at keeping his mouth shut, too.’
‘He was after my mother,’ Ottil shouted. He wrestled visibly with his self-control as he told of their mission. ‘So there he sat, the smug white-haired, rotten poxhound. A bitch, he called her. My mother the queen, a bitch. Then he paid us. After Hraab had reminded him.’
He turned to Hraab. ‘Where is that second coin?’ he snapped. ‘It’s mine.’
With a show of reluctance, Hraab handed him the silver piece. ‘Here, I thought princes were rich.’
‘Perhaps other princes are,’ Ottil said. ‘But I’m not.’ He turned to his tutor, his face stiff. ‘I heard your words, paladin. You overstep your authority as my tutor. You are to teach me my letters, not to curb me in my duties. I will no longer be treated as a child. I haven’t got the time for it. I must recover my kingdom. With my father dead and my mother gone I must be a man now.’ He gave her a hard stare. ‘I will not be thwarted, paladin.’
The paladin looked at him, her face unreadable. ‘You claim a lot of responsibility, Prince Ottil. If that is your wish, prove to us your manhood, as is the custom.’
‘But not now,’ Birthe said from behind. ‘You two get off to bed. You’ve had a busy night.’
Hraab nodded. ‘You’re right. Come on, prince, I’m tired.’
The paladin let her shoulders sag. ‘I shouldn’t have been so tactless. His manhood. He’s only twelve.’
‘It is his right,’ Ajkell said gravely. ‘Nor is it unique. Remember the tales of Young Grimmor the Red and of Boar-Anulf. The latter was even younger than Ottil when he killed his first man.’
‘They died young, too,’ the paladin said bitterly.
The bear warrior shrugged. ‘That’s Fate.’
‘I’m not cut out for this task.’ Valiantrude sighed. ‘I’m a warrior, not a wet nurse. He is a good lad, Ottil, but he has outlived my patience years ago. I wish I could resign this duty.’
The captain had seen to the stowing of the ship’s boat and now he joined them. ‘So my queen fled,’ he said. ‘She’s a resourceful woman. What will you do now?’
‘Our orders are to bring Ottil to his mother,’ Kjelle said with a frown.
‘If she’s indeed gone to Rhemes, then we must go there.’
‘Rhemes, pearl of Gaul.’ The captain sounded a bit nostalgic. ‘Long time since I was there. I can sail you to Harflot, no farther.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not going to make a profit on this journey.’
Birthe smiled at him. ‘Well, you can ask King Leodowric for compensation. After all, you’re transporting his nephew to safety.’
Gunthram’s face brightened. ‘Leodowric is an honorable man; he will see the fairness of my claim.’
That afternoon, Tuuri went back to the jarl’s ship and this time he was admitted into his master’s presence. Rannar sat at ease on a large chest and regarded him with pursed lips. ‘So there you are. You took your time, I must say.’
‘Your pardon, lord,
but things are not going well in the North.’ He hesitated, before blurting out. ‘Lord, I wanted to warn you, but they wouldn’t let me near you. Prince Ottil was here.’
Rannar’s eyebrows rose. ‘Are you mad? Ottil is safely in the north.’
Tuuri shook his head. ‘No, lord, he’s not. He escaped. And today he was here, together with a second boy.’
‘Those lads? They were locals, bringing me word from hirdman Jorgard.’ Rannar’s eyes were chilly. ‘You seem overwrought. Won’t you rather lie down and return another time?’
Tuuri shocked upright. ‘No, lord, I want to make my report.’
The jarl sighed. ‘Well, then do so.’
Tuuri stood at attention, hands on his back, and recounted everything he had seen and done from the moment he first landed in Helmshaven.
Rannar clasped his hands around a knee, listening, looking at him, his eyes unreadable.
Tuuri finished and stood there, silently waiting for his master’s outburst. But none came. The Jarl nodded slowly. ‘Thank you. A clear report, young man. Now I’ll think up new orders for you. Go and wait outside, will you.’
‘But, Lord... Prince Ottil...’
‘I heard you. Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Tuuri said crestfallen. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
‘The Shardheld.’ A tall man stepped from behind the canvas screen dividing the cabin. His hair was long, his forehead high and his eyes glittered under heavy ridges. His face bore many of the worst Fynni markings. ‘If that fool boy spoke the truth, this could make you mighty beyond belief, Jarl.’
Rannar stared at his Fynni advisor. ‘How so?’
‘You know the saga of the Shardheld?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then think. The skyshard contains a duplicate of all the magic in the world. Should it fall into your hands, it would give you all that power. At the same time, all the wisewomen and priests in the world will lose their arts. You could dole it out to them on your conditions, Jarl. You could have them all working for you.’
Rannar sat back on his chest, mulling it over. ‘There is wisdom in your words, Rev. How will I get this shard in my hands?’
The sa’aman’s eyes caught Rannar’s and the jarl shivered. Rev’s eyes held a peculiar light. A brooding, violent darklight, that always made him feel uncomfortable..
‘You need the Shardheld to bring it to you, Jarl. Just capture him and bring him here. Unconscious, if you know what’s good for you.’
Rannar felt the back of his head sting, as if a headache was lying in wait. One of those terrible headaches that plagued him more and more, these days. ‘And how will I capture the Shardheld? Shall I send someone after him?’
‘You won’t get him by chasing him around the known world, Jarl. Catch the mouse at the mouse hole. There’s only one entrance to Falrom, a certain mountain pass across the Barrier Alps. Place your men there and he’ll walk right into your hands.’
‘I’ll send Vulf,’ Rannar said. ‘I’ll write him new instructions.’
‘A clever choice, Jarl. He’s a tenacious chieftain.’ With a bow, the sa’aman retired behind the screen.
A soldier roused Tuuri from his thoughts. ‘The Warlord wants you, Fynnikin. Hurry.’
Rannar sat as before, smiling at Tuuri as he came in.
‘Your information caused a change of plan, young man. I want you to go north, with new instructions for Warchief Vulf. Prepare for a long journey, for you’ll accompany him south again, to Gaul and beyond. This is your chance for glory, boy. Here are your orders. Do you need any money?’
The jarl’s command froze Tuuri’s veins with dread. He was to go south with Vulf? That creepy murderer? He swallowed and thought of the gold pieces sewn into his mantle and nodded. ‘I do, if it pleases you, Lord.’
Rannar reached behind him. ‘Here, that should be sufficient. Now hurry, you have a ship to catch.’
‘Thank you for your trust, lord,’ Tuuri said, pale-faced. He groaned inwardly, what had been a boy’s dream once, was now a heart-stopping nightmare. Silently, he bowed to his lord and went back to his own ship.
Twelve nights since they left Agdir and the Norden, Muus woke as the Madgund rolled unexpectedly. The patter of bare feet running over his head sounded different from other nights, more urgent. After a while, he rose, careful not to wake any of the others, and went on deck. The predawn showed angry white-haired waves and the clouds overhead stormed past like a herd of maddened bison. The sailors worked feverishly, shortening the sail and checking the riggings, their faces worried. The captain greeted him with a strained expression. ‘We’re in for a blow, runemaster,’ said he. ‘A big one. Unless you have tricks to abort a gale.’
‘I’m afraid not. Where are we now?’
‘Passing the Frysian coast. The wind is northeastern, and we’ll not make Harflot, this way. We’re blown towards the Brytan coast, clear across the Narrow Sea. I’m hoping to find shelter in a bay there, Njord willing.’
But Njord, Lord of Sea and Storm, wasn’t cooperating. Relentlessly, his anger whipped sea and wind into a frenzy. The predawn proved a lie, no dawn was coming, only the clouds, and with them, the rain.
With her sail reefed, the Madgund wrestled her mighty opponent. Waves, topping the mast easily, lifted the ship, shook her and threw her down again in endless anger, but every time the little ship lifted her bow and plowed onward. Muus stood with his back to the mast, as he had done ten years ago, on Bearjaw’s ship. Just like then, he wasn’t afraid. The angry seas touched something deep inside him and filled every empty spot in his body with their rage. The day wore on without the wind abating. The seamen stopped their useless attempts and huddled together, awaiting the will of the gods. Only the captain and his two helmsmen aft kept their hands on the tiller, trying to keep the Madgund’s bow in the wind, meeting the waves head-on. Should the ship broach-to, catch the sea on her broadside, the force would keel her over and that would be the end of it. Muus stood as if nailed to the groaning mast, his eyes staring ahead. He saw not the foam whitening the deck, nor the clouds and the lightning. Round huts filled his mind, a placid river amidst rolling hills. Sheep grazing, little boys fishing from the green banks, men and women at work. Talking and laughing, their faces open and happy. Faces he knew, even if he couldn’t remember their names. The men had long mustaches, but no beards, which gave them a curiously naked look after all his years amongst hairy Nords. A man with a long, red mantle over a white robe, his hair hanging over his shoulders; a woman, small, black-haired and beautiful, carrying an black-and-white kitten. They were people with faces, not the unrecognizable shapes from his dreams. Slowly, the storm blew the mists in his head away. Terrel, whispered the woman with the kitten. Terrel, called the man in the red mantle. Terrel, shouted the children. Come home, Terrel. Come home now. A loud, rending sound shocked him out of his dream. A tremor went through the ship, the deck buckled, the mast at his back swayed and toppled over the side with him. It all happened fast.
Kjelle saw Muus go overboard. ‘No.’ he shouted, his cry torn from his mouth by the wind. He rushed to the railing, but it was too dark to see. Another crash shook the ship and he saw the forecastle break loose and slide into the sea. Then the deck under his feet tore open and he dropped into the water-filled hold. The rim of a wooden drum struck the breath from his lungs and he swallowed water. His knees touched a rocky surface and he managed to creep out of the hole in the side into the storm light. He looked around at the sea raging just a few feet away. Vague in the distance he thought he saw a coastline. Brytanna? he thought. Then a wave swept him from his perch. His hands touched a wooden surface and desperately he tried to get hold of it. It was the hatch door to the hold, and his hands found some grip. Using a lifting wave, he managed to climb on top of it.
‘Help me up,’ a voice shouted in the water. It was Birthe, her face a pale blob at the edge of the hatch. Hurriedly, Kjelle scrambled to her side. The hatch stamped and shook, but he managed to
get the girl next to him.
‘Are you all right?’ he stammered, suddenly feeling cold and scared.
‘We’re alive,’ the girl said.
‘We?’
‘Búi and I, of course.’
‘Gods, the baby. Is he...?’
‘Babies are like seals. Can stay under water longer than we. Only the cold is bad.’ Then she started to cry. ‘Freya help me, I’m so scared.’
‘Me too,’ Kjelle said. ‘Dammit, I’ve been scared all my life. But now at least I’ve got a reason.’
Hours passed.
‘Is the storm lessening or am I only hoping it?’ Kjelle forced the words out from between salt-cracked lips.
‘It is. See the bits of blue sky.’
‘Don’t dare to look up. Fingers so stiff, I’m afraid to lose my hold.’ Kjelle coughed, spitting out seawater. ‘Can’t see if we’re nearing the coast.’
Birthe said nothing, only Bui cried in his wet furs, eliciting answers from the wild gulls overhead.
A bump woke Kjelle from his exhausted numbness. He opened his red-rimmed eyes and stared in the beady eyes of a gull standing on a piece of flotsam half on the beach and half in the water.
‘Land,’ he croaked. Then it penetrated through the fog in his head. ‘Land.’ He shook Birthe. ‘A beach. We’re saved.’
The girl turned her head. ‘What?’ Then she came to her knees and while baby Búi started to cry again, she sang of thanksgiving.
Kjelle stepped into the water and helped her climb down next to him. Then, arms around each other, they staggered onto the sandy beach.
The two boys clung to the railing of the Madgund’s forecastle.
‘We’re not goin’ to make it!’ Ottil shouted against the wind. His face was purple from the cold and the lashing winds. The forecastle, a wooden platform independent of the ship’s structure, shook alarmingly. A loud creaking sounded as one of its posts tore loose.
‘Off! Jump to the deck!’ Hraab said, his words ripped from his lips by the storm. He grabbed Ottil’s arm and dragged the boy with him.
They were hardly down before the forecastle toppled into the sea. At the same moment, the deck started to buckle. Planking tore and a large hole filled with foaming water yawned at their feet.
‘Ship’s breaking up,’ Ottil cried.
‘Quick,’ Hraab pointed to the forecastle, upside down in the sea a small leap away from them. ‘That’s our boat. Jump!’
They landed on the forecastle and fell as a large wave lifted them up and bore them away from the ship. Just in time, for the entire nose of the Madgund disintegrated.
‘Damn,’ Ottil said, trying desperately not to scream.
Hraab put his arm around him and cold and terrified, they huddled on their makeshift raft, swept away by an angry sea into the night.
Muus came out of his stupor when the mast hit something. The heavy rear end dragged deeper in the water. Now it bumped once, twice, and then dragged. Rubbing the salt from his eyes with a nearly frozen hand, Muus stared ahead. It was much lighter now and through the spray he thought he saw hills. Not the green downs of his dreams, but rougher, like the coast near Harkoy. He sighed. Brytanna. He knew it was; the dream people had faces, a sign that his memory was returning. Terrel. The stone on his breast felt warm. It was still angry. Several times while he drifted it had tried to take over. It wanted to bring him to Falrom directly. He felt the skyshard react to his thought. No. I’m not a slave. Not to Kjelle and not to you. I’ll go when I’m ready. The speed of the broken mast lessened, in spite of the tug of the incoming tide at his legs. Without a thought, he let go of the lines that had been his hold on the mast, and pushed away. With weak, stiff strokes, he swam towards the hills, carried by the tide, until his feet touched a graveled bottom. Then he stood, only to fall down again. Slowly he rose and stumbled through the rough surf towards the stony beach.
BOOK 2
RUNEMASTER