Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(39)
“My friend thinks I am not enough true to my people. Then we feud because Ulfings are traitor scum!” He thumped his chest with a fist.
Aelfhild had expected a more poetic answer; she loved the grand old tales of maidens trapped in rings of flame and songs of wyrms atop mounds of stolen gold, and had since childhood. This seemed petty. There was no heroic fire burning in Eyvind’s eyes as he spoke, no storied grudge or ancient betrayal. He explained their fighting in the same calm and measured tones one might use to tell a child of the movement of the tides or the flowering of trees in spring. It was a fact of nature, inevitable and eternal.
“Will they chase after us?” Bercthun asked.
At least he has more pragmatic concerns, Aelfhild chided herself. Stories can wait.
Eyvind took longer to answer than was comfortable. He chewed at his bottom lip.
“Not before the Landsthing,” Kolbrun said from the prow. “Even they would not dare break the truce.”
The Thrym argued back and forth in their mother tongue, never taking their eyes from the outline of the other vessel.
“If they drift closer and want a fight, we put our spears in them.” Eyvind concluded the conversation. “But we do not seek one out.” This seemed pointed at Geir, who sounded eager for more axe-work.
Jarngrim lifted bundles of short throwing spears, rolled in sealskin against the damp, from a pile by the mast and tossed them fore and aft. All eyes tracked the other ship, though wisps of rain often obscured it from view.
“They go to this Landsthing as well?” Ceolwen asked, rolling the foreign word over in her mouth.
Kolbrun grunted. The shield-maiden sat atop a wooden chest, spear across her knees. “All the Aettir. Leifings, Ulfings, Skjoldungs, Eldings, and all the thanes from the far villages. There is always a peace before the council, but…”
But you never trust your enemy to fight by the rules. Aelfhild had learned that from Osric. Customs and laws and honor only held as long as they were convenient. And it was always the other side’s fault when they were broken. She wondered how Osric had twisted the story to put the blame on Ceolwen or Cuthbert. He likely had the other Eorls eating from his palm by now. The thought made her grimace.
The Ulfings remained a shadow in the mist. Aelfhild imagined fell warriors lining the deck of the dark ship, gripping spears of their own. Perhaps these were the ones that took ears as trophies. They were ghostly quiet.
“Enough waiting,” Eyvind snorted. “We row!”
He called to his warriors in the Northern tongue and they ran out the oars. Bercthun joined in, taking a place atop a sea chest, while Aelfhild and Ceolwen looked on from the prow.
Eyvind rowed them hard into the night. If the Ulfings gave chase, it was impossible to spot them in the murk.
The sun rose clear and bright behind the longship, casting its light over the Hlifseyjar to the north and west. After a short rest in the night, Eyvind had his crew rowing again.
“Heave!” Rolf shouted from his oar.
The Ulfing ship was still astern, distant but not yet out of sight. Grey sails billowed in the morning breeze as the pursuers raced to close the gap. Her knowledge of the Thrym tongue was shaky at best, but Aelfhild was sure Eyvind had shouted something about beating the Ulfings to Jarlstad that morning.
“Heave!” That, at least, was one Thrym word she now had etched in memory.
The captain’s exhortation worked, and the Thrym set a blistering pace with their rowing. Aelfhild smiled to see Bercthun keeping pace. At least one of them was contributing.
“Heave!”
Meanwhile, she stood beside Ceolwen in the prow, fidgeting as others toiled. Her mistress seemed content to sightsee, but Aelfhild felt ill at ease when others did the work for her. She consoled herself with the thought that from her perch she could take Geir’s place and keep watch for any oncoming dangers, which was a job in itself.
“Heave!’
Outcroppings of volcanic stone jutted from the sparkling waters all along the ship’s starboard side, some towering in twisted, wave-carved spirals, others no more than a pile of boulders dotted with sun-bathing seals. Jarlstad was the largest of a handful of skerries and islets that made up the Hlifseyjar, the northwestern arc of the island chain encircling the great bay of Thrymgard.
Kolbrun had hardly even broken a sweat from the rowing, and as they cut through the waves she told the Earnfoldings how in distant years, before humans had settled so far east, a great volcano rose from the sea there; in its fiery dying throes, the mountain rent itself asunder, leaving behind a deep harbor protected on the east and west by wide arms of land. The northern slopes of the volcano remained, rising to a high peak bounded with sheer cliffs overlooking the port.
The Northmen had settled there long ago, carving a great fortress into the cliffs: the Klettirborg, where the Jarls gathered for their councils. That was the peak they could see, Kolbrun said.
As the ship drew nearer to land, gulls, gannets, and terns swooped down to check the ship’s wake for discarded fish. The birds floated on the headwind, screaming at one another as they jockeyed for position.
Jarlstad dominated the horizon, its arms thrown wide to receive visitors. Aelfhild could see other ships to the south and west, a fleet of sails dyed every conceivable hue and all headed to the same place.
Eyvind swung the ship northwards into the mouth of the harbor. Fires burned in guard towers on either side of the channel, where lookouts stood at the ready.