Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(40)
Aelfhild clapped her hands to her ears as Eyvind raised a brass-bound horn to his lips and let loose two echoing peals. One of the watchers returned a single, sustained note, and the ship passed through the opening unhindered. She noticed a chain stretching from tower to tower, slack and mostly hidden beneath the water. Each of the iron links looked to be roughly the size of her head, and she guessed that it would keep out most any unwanted guest. The razor-sharp fields of lava rock above the beach would take care of any other intruders.
“The Thrym must not be scared of heights,” Ceolwen muttered as she gazed upwards.
The city rose in layers up the side of the ancient volcano, one terrace stacked upon another and each teeming with shingled roofs. Thatched huts and ramshackle towers edged out onto platforms chiseled into the cliff face. Firelight flickered within the caves that dotted the ridge. Every crevice and ledge, no matter how precarious, sported some sort of shed or tent.
Flocks of seabirds nested in the jagged nooks and crannies of the cliff, many of them far below human houses. Long streaks of white on the red-black rock were testament to the birds’ long habitation. Aelfhild noticed that the Thrym took care to close their mouths when looking up, and the stains above them hinted at the reason.
The docks of Jarlstad were a more familiar sight than the dizzying cliff dwellings, and put Aelfhild in mind of Haernmuth. The piers were abustle with life, other ships unloading cargo, and throngs of passengers who formed a column leading uphill and into the city.
Red-clad dockworkers met their ship as Eyvind guided them into an open berth. They tossed ropes down to Geir and Jarngrim, shouting back and forth in Thrym.
“So many people,” Aelfhild said to Kolbrun. “Are they all here to see the Jarls?”
The shield-maiden shook her head as she sorted through cargo and tossed sacks onto the dock. “Only a few come for that. The Jarls only judge a few matters at a time. Most are here to sell and trade. Some are just here to celebrate—the Landsthing only happens three times a year.”
There was a dog baying nearby, a sizable one if Aelfhild’s ears served her, and the frantic howls seemed to be drawing closer. A mottled muzzle sailed over the edge of the pier, storm cloud grey and full of gnashing teeth. Golden eyes flashed from beneath dark stripes. Aelfhild reeled backwards as what looked to be a fully grown she-wolf came careening down into the hold beside her.
“Embla!” Eyvind called out. The beast bolted toward him, yipping and waggling its looped tail. The Northman bent down and allowed his face to be bathed by the exuberant, drool-laden tongue.
“Yes, play with that thrice-damned pup while we do the work.” Kolbrun shouted as she shouldered a sloshing barrel up onto the pier. Eyvind flashed a grin Kolbrun’s way as he rolled about on the deck with the dog; it was hard to tell who was happier to see whom.
Eventually Embla made the rounds to greet the rest of the crew, snuffling and pawing at Rolf, Geir, Jarngrim, and, finally, Kolbrun. Despite her tough talk, the shield-maiden bent low to cuddle the dog, clucking and making sweet nonsense sounds.
“Who is shirking now?” asked Eyvind as he brushed past, lifting himself up onto the pier with a bundle of weapons and armor in tow. He gestured for Ceolwen to follow, and Aelfhild and Bercthun came up in her wake.
Waiting for them on the docks was a Thrym noblewoman. She was the first of the northerners that Aelfhild had seen who had that air of brittle elegance so familiar from the court in Cynestead that suggested the very idea of dirt was offensive. She was tall and imposingly fair beneath her ruddy brown trestles. Something in her face, buried beneath the noble bearing, tugged at Aelfhild’s memory.
Eyvind went to embrace the woman, and the resemblance clicked. They could only be siblings—twins even—so close was the resemblance. The man’s flattened nose, scars, and flowing beard could not hide the identical eyes and cheekbones.
Aelfhild stood behind her mistress, waiting to be introduced. Someone had lifted Embla back out of the ship and the hound circled Aelfhild’s legs, pushing a cold, damp nose into her palm. She stood stock still, worried that an untoward move might result in loss of limb.
Eyvind was speaking. “Eyrun, this is Ceolwen, Bercthun, and Aelfhild.” He gestured to each in turn. “Our guests from Earnfold. This is Eyrun, my sister.”
Eyrun bowed and smiled, greeting them in the northern tongue. After a brief exchange with her brother, she took charge of them.
“Please come with me, my brother has work to attend to.” Eyrun’s Earnfolding was as crisp and tidy as her spotless dress. She wrinkled her nose as she moved past the Earnfoldings, but made no comment—Aelfhild had not paid it much thought, but they all most likely stank to the heavens. They had been tossed about on the high seas for days without washing; sweating and lying in dirty hay, wrapping themselves in wet furs and seal skins.
No one on the longship had seemed bothered, as they were mostly in a similar state; but here, amongst washed company, their odor did stand out.
21
They followed Eyrun through the docks and up into the city. Aelfhild breathed deep the smells of civilization, and relished the feeling of ground that did not pitch from side to side. Kolbrun and Geir followed behind the party, shields and studded jerkins thrown over their shoulders, axes hanging in loops at their belts.
“Not slaves, but not yet free,” Aelfhild recalled Eyvind’s words on the ship. It seemed they would be under guard, probably as much for their own protection as for the people of Jarlstad. The docks thronged with warriors carrying every manner of weapon from spear to billhook, shields slung across their backs, all making their way up into the walls of the town proper.