Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(58)
“Then we cross through the Ormsund into the North Sea.”
A sea serpent, drawn to impossibly large scale, reared its snarling head above one of the icebergs by his finger. Between the northern ice floes and the horn of Thrymgard, the thinnest sliver of ink marked the strait linking the North and East Seas.
“Then south and west along the coast, and, after many days, north again toward Aettirheim.”
Aelfhild saw the Grimbergs on the map, the mountain range that hemmed in Thrymgard and Earnfold on the western borders. From the northernmost mountains sprouted fire and smoke. Volcanoes!
She saw that their route would take them past the erupting peaks, and fought back the urge to jump about with giddy squeals. As much as she yearned to see every fresh wonder on this adventure, she was keen to be as gruff as her companions. The Thrym treated the journey with the stoic disinterest befitting heroes found in the skalds’ tales.
Except for Vidar, whose eyes watered and knees quivered at any mention of Aettirheim. Aelfhild could practically see the piles of plunder dancing through the man’s head.
“There is a small village not far from the Sund.” Eyvind pointed to a dot on Thrymgard’s northeastern coastline. “They will know if the ice is broken. We go there first.”
The Aettir were sailors without rival and could make their way by sun and by star with ease. When the sun had risen well into the sky, Eyvind took from his sea chest a small wooden board carved with curving lines and with a crooked flange at its center. Holding this flat in his palm, he somehow could tell their distance north by the shadow cast across the board’s surface. Eyvind seemed satisfied and called back to Rolf to hold course.
Toward evening, swept-wing terns and gulls flocked out to meet them, and they could see the surf crashing against the crags of the shoreline. Rolf guided Unn-marr along the coast as they searched out a spot sheltered from the worst of the breakers in which to make land.
Keen-eyed Geir spotted a cove in the arm of a rocky cape, and they ran out the oars to bring the ship in.
Aelfhild’s boots sank deep in the squelching sand as she dropped down from the prow and strained forward on a tar-stained rope with the others. Once the ship was above the tide mark, Onund and Rolf hammered wooden pegs into the sand and secured the lines.
Ceolwen and Aelfhild carried sacks of food over the dunes and through the clumps of prickly sawgrass, where Eyvind and Kolbrun were busy making camp. The crew scoured the beach for dry driftwood and broke up some of the sticks they had brought with them, and soon had a roaring fire to warm their hands and dry their feet.
As she wandered just outside the edge of the dancing light cast by the bonfire, Aelfhild strained up onto a boulder to get a better look at the countryside. To the west, just barely visible in the distance, she saw bright specks of fire and white smoke against the night sky.
“Is that the village nearby?” she called out to her companions. “I see lights.”
Eyvind joined her, looking out as he chewed on a crust of bread. “Oddsbaer, yes. We go tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?” Aelfhild asked, “It is not so late.”
“If we come in the dark, they will think us raiders and attack,” he replied. “This is hard country. The Jarls do not have much hold here, and there are outlaws. We will let them see us and invite us to come in.”
“Horsemen coming!” Jarngrim called from the rocks above, shading his eyes against the dawn light.
“How many?” asked Eyvind.
The watchmen held up two fingers.
“Just scouts, then.” Eyvind turned to the others. “But be ready.”
Kolbrun tossed a shield over to Aelfhild. “Where is your axe, girl?”
Blood rushed to her face. Fumbling with the strap on the back of the heavy boards, she mumbled, “In the ship.”
“And much good it will do you there.” The shield-maiden shook her head and stalked off to join the captain.
Aelfhild watched as Ceolwen slipped axe into belt with trembling hands.
Moving out from the fire, they stood in a loose formation behind Eyvind and Rolf on the sand. The Thrym kept their weapons sheathed but near to hand. Beside Eyvind sat Embla, her ears perked up and snout to the air. Vidar had brought a hunting bow along with him which he carried up onto the scarp beside the cove. His hand hovered by the quiver of arrows slung at his hip.
The horsemen made good time across the plain that stretched from the coast back to Oddsbaer. Aelfhild recognized the clipped, bouncing gait of her mistress’ beloved Thrym horses, a sight that made the advancing men a good deal less imposing.
One of the scouts stayed back at a distance as the second advanced.
As the rider drew closer, it became clear that Eyvind’s crew had little to fear. Atop the horse was a fresh faced boy, not yet a man, with thin whiskers on his chin and a panicked light in his eyes. He wore an ill-fitting helmet cinched down with a leather strap and a dented breastplate that showed flecks of rust; the white knuckles gripping his spear told Aelfhild that he likely knew as little of warfare as she herself did.
To his credit, the young man cried out in a steady voice that gave no hint of his fear. “Who are you, and why do you come to these lands unbidden?”
A simple message, and one Aelfhild could understand without a translator’s aid—she grew more comfortable with the Thrym’s language day by day.