CHAPTER 3 – MESSENGER
Tuuri led his horse down the ship’s gangway in a state of happy anticipation. Sleep on, good people; here comes the herald of change. His hand touched the pieces of parchment inside his tunic. They were the orders that would set Jarl Rannar’s great plan into motion.
He paused on the small wooden strip that served as a quay and looked around. So this is Helmshaven. It’s not much. Compared to Westhal, his lord’s town, this northernmost harbor was a collection of hovels. Little houses, looking as if they had been cobbled together from driftwood, with thatched roofs covered in gull shit. At least the chickens were inside in this weather. Not the pigs, though, and Tuuri waited impatiently while a fat sow moved aside to let him pass.
It started to snow, the flakes drowning in the slush that covered the streets. He walked his horse out of town, careful to avoid the largest mud puddles. The guard at the gate gave him a cursory glance, his attention on the pieces of wood he was feeding to his little brazier. Tuuri raised his hand in greeting, mounted and went into the forest, whistling.
Tuuri was well satisfied with life. He was eighteen and a jarl’s messenger, with a whole life of great deeds before him. A future befitting one who was a Fynni on his father’s side. His gloved fingers touched the engraved sky symbol on his left cheek. It was a tribal mark his father had given him on his eighth name day and he wore it with pride. Fynni were the original people of the Ostmark, living there long before the Nords came. They were a nation of tribes, ruled by powerful tarkynni, leading in work and war, and the sa’amans talking to the gods. Tuuri was proud to be part of that ancient people.
He smiled. The orders he carried were meant for a man of his kin. The tarkynn of a Fynni warband. “Don’t look for him, he’ll find you,” the jarl had said. Tuuri sighed. He knew all the stories told of Fynni deeds, and he longed for the chance to meet them, to be acknowledged as kin.
The snowfall thickened, soft flakes covering his leather coat with a white layer. Tuuri shook them out of his dark curls, before pulling his hood over his head. The weather brought memories of his life in the Ostmark, where the snow never stopped falling, a land where the rivers were near permanently frozen and only the hardiest survived childhood. There he was born, to go where others would falter.
His horse’s tenseness warned him at the same moment his ears caught the faint crackling in the frozen underbrush. Wolves. Tuuri grinned. Poor beasts, they are in for a surprise. He raised his hands and sang the ancient bonding words his father taught him. For a moment, all was still. The wolves had stopped and stared at him. Tuuri saw their ribs through their shaggy pelts. Something shimmered on the path and a bear appeared, large as the rider and his horse. It gave Tuuri a dirty glance, irritated by his summons.
My pardon for summoning you, Sha‘akaii my friend. I am in need of your great strength. His totem bear growled and moved towards the wolves. Their pack leader howled in frustration. Silent as they’d come, the beasts disappeared into the dark. Tuuri let out a deep sigh.
Sha’akaii gave the young man a chilling look. Be more careful next time. With a speed unbelievable for something so large, he chased after the wolves.
Have a nice hunt, my friend, thought Tuuri as he set his horse to walking.
Hours later, even his sturdy horse started to tire. Her pace slowed to a crawl and her head hung low in exaggerated weariness.
‘Yes, I know,’ Tuuri said with a grin. ‘I’ll find us a nice place to sleep.’
At a spot were the snow had piled high, he halted. He fed his horse some grain and took a bite of bread and cheese from his saddlebags. Whistling softly, he dug himself a shallow hole in the snow, pulled his cloak around him and went to sleep.
A sharp kick in the ribs awakened him. Tuuri tensed, dagger in hand, and stared up at the young man before him.
‘Fynni,’ he said, recognizing the other’s face markings on both cheeks. ‘You shocked me out of my skin.’
The other laughed. ‘You frighten easily, Fynnikin.’
That sounded like an insult.
Tuuri rose and put away his knife. ‘I expected you, only not in the middle of the night.’
The young man showed his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. ‘I expected you awake, not sleeping.’
Tuuri frowned at the hostility in his voice. ‘How are you named, brother?’
The young man stared at him, his thin face twisted into a sneer. ‘I’ll tell you once, Fynnikin. I am Vulf, tarkynn of the Yenchinnii. I am no brother of yours.’
Tuuri felt the blood drain from his face. His throat constricted and he swallowed. ‘I... I am Tuuri Little Dagger, Jarl Rannar’s messenger.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I carry orders for you.’
Vulf turned his head away. ‘Later. We’re on a raid. Join us.’ His face was bleak. ‘It’ll show you our Fynni ways.’
Tuuri knew it wasn’t a request. He shook the snow from his cloak and went to get his horse. The enormity of Vulf’s rejection had made Tuuri numb. Shame clutched at his heart and he felt like weeping. With difficulty, he kept his voice under control.
‘What kind of a raid? I’m not heavily armed.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Vulf said. ‘It’s punishment against a spy’s family. There’s no danger involved, Fynnikin.’
Tuuri bit his lip. That wasn’t what he’d meant. ‘Lead the way, Tarkynn.’
Vulf’s men formed a solid block of warriors, twenty-five strong. Ulvhednar, he saw by their badges, the most fanatical of all Fynni warriors, who lived and died at the word of their chief. He didn’t like their faces. They seemed empty, devoid of any humanity. ‘Is this your whole force?’
Vulf stared at him, his eyes like stones. ‘No.’ He looked away and Tuuri shivered.
They followed the road till they came to an intersection, where they turned right. It led to a small house overlooking the sea. With a wave of his hand, Vulf sent his men into position. ‘Come,’ he said. With five men at their back, they walked to the front of the house.
Before Vulf could lay his hand on the handle, someone opened the door and a male voice said, ‘Who’s there?’ The man must have seen the warriors, for he tried to close the door. Vulf threw himself forward and they stormed inside. The man at the door slammed against the right wall. His nose started to bleed.
Tuuri looked around. To his left a dark-haired woman covered a scream with her hands. A young man of his own age had pushed a little boy behind him. They were small people. The man with the bleeding nose came barely to Tuuri’s shoulder, and the messenger wasn’t tall.
‘You have a nice house,’ Vulf said conversationally. ‘Nice view, comfortable. A pretty woman, as well. You’ve got it made, haven’t you?’
The small man wiped the blood away. ‘Tarkynn, your face markings show you’re of the Fynni. Why do you come here? Why threaten us? Depart with your ulvhednar, go back to your mountains and leave us in peace.’
Vulf slapped him. ‘You dirty svartalves. You’re spies.’ Over his shoulder he snarled a command. ‘Kill them.’
His men drew their swords. The woman screamed once and died gurgling, slipping to the ground with a Fynni blade between her ribs. Her blood colored the rushes on the floor red. The youth crouched with a knife in his hands, waving it to and fro with desperate concentration. An ulvhednar laughed, moved his sword through the youth’s guard and struck. While the young man sagged, his throat a gaping hole, the same warrior hit the little one with the flat of his sword above the ear. Near the door, the small man died last, cursing and shouting, pierced by three blades.
Tuuri stood there, watching the butchery with uncomprehending horror. This wasn’t Rannar’s glorious fight. This was murder. He walked over to the two boys. The eldest lay spread-eagled on top, his eyes empty. Underneath, the youngest lay, covered in blood, eyes half closed and his breath shallow. Tuuri turned around.
‘These two are dead, Tarkynn,’ he said, keeping his voice even.
Vulf bared his teeth in his mockery of a gr
in. ‘Are they now?’ To the nearest man said he, ‘Torch the house. Burn it all.’
They stepped outside. Vulf looked at Tuuri. ‘The young one lived. I saw his eyelids flutter. No matter, he will die in the fire. You’re a weakling, Fynnikin.’
‘This is not Jarl Rannar’s way, Tarkynn,’ Tuuri said, his blood boiling.
Vulf gave him a contemptuous glance. ‘We’re Fynni. This is our way, Fynnikin. That’s not something an Ostmark sheep like you would understand. You’re no true-blood, let alone kin. Now give me your orders.’
Tuuri handed him the piece of parchment.
The tarkynn glanced over the runes. ‘Capture a silvermine, eh. Great, we’ll do that.’ Then he crumpled the message and threw it into the burning house. ‘We’re finished. Get out of my sight, Fynnikin.’
Tuuri looked around at the cruel, painted faces of the warriors around him, at the wolf head insignias on their tunics, the green-and-yellow-feathered arrows and the long, sharpened swords at their side. These were the fabled Fynni. The glorious berserkers of his people. His kin. His heart was sick as he rode away into the forest.