Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(64)
Shifting his gaze westward, Eyvind nodded at the grey smudges on the horizon which Aelfhild had taken for clouds. “Ash,” he said, “from the Eldfjoll. They burn and smoke all year long. We will pass under their clouds in a day, maybe two.”
“Is it dangerous?” Ceolwen asked.
The Thrym shrugged his broad shoulders. “Safer than the Ormsund, but we must still go carefully. The air is bad, and the ash can set fires,” he answered. “But we will pass through. Do not fear, little queen.” Eyvind tousled Ceolwen’s hair and walked off toward the stern, chuckling to himself.
“I did not say I was afraid.” Ceolwen muttered loud enough for her servant to hear as she straightened her hair. Aelfhild held back laughter of her own.
Abruptly, there was a great deal of commotion from the starboard side of the ship. Geir and Vidar had been trailing lines for fresh fish to bring a little more variety to their diet. Geir had hooked something and yanked his line in hand over fist. He shouted as he produced a large prickle-finned fish with opaline scales from the water, lifting the thrashing bounty up above his head for all to see.
Evidently they had run across a school of the creatures, for Vidar soon had one on his line as well. It did not take long for the men to fill a barrel with fish, promising hearty suppers for the crew and for the gulls alike. Seabirds had already begun to circle the boat, following the sun’s glint off the scales, and jabbered frenziedly as they waited for guts to be tossed overboard. With practiced hands, the fishermen cleaned the catch and left the birds to squabble over the cast-off innards.
The flaky, white fish proved delicious when roasted over their campfire that night, and they were all glad of the change from dried rations. Bones and scales crackled in the fire while, not far away, a blissful Embla worked through a pile of fish heads, filling the air with her crunching and slurping.
Kolbrun belched and patted her belly. “Onund,” she called, “Give us a story!”
“A story!” Bercthun cheered.
The glow of the dying embers played across Onund’s craggy features as he pulled his hood low over his brow. He thought for a moment, searching for the right tale, then cleared his throat.
“Long before mighty Sigurd led our people to Thrymgard, when he was still a young man, he wandered the land as an outlaw. For Sigurd was a great warrior—they say that he could split a shield with a single blow—but brash and quick of temper, as is often the burden of youth. On the road one day near Aettirheim he met two young men a-horseback, both finely dressed and clad with shining swords.”
“Sigurd was not born to wealth. His clothes were dirty, his shoes muddy, and his axe was worn and rusty. The young men mocked him for his ragged clothing, and asked him what he hoped to do with such a paltry weapon. Now a wise man would have known to let the insult pass, but Sigurd still had much to learn. He told the men that he had this axe from his father, and his father’s father, and though the edge was notched, it would cleave shield and helm with ease, and that they were fools to think that the blade mattered more than the hand that held it.
“And so they fell to boasting of their deeds and insulting one another, as boys will, and finally one of the foolhardy young men challenged Sigurd to a fight. His ire raised, Sigurd struck the man down with two swift strokes of his axe. As ill fortune would have it, though, it was the son of a Jarl he had slain, and the other man, his servant, was there as witness. And so Sigurd fled to distant parts; he lived off the land, and found what work he could as a warrior. There he gained some fame and wealth, for those were hard times and a strong sword arm was always in need.
“Sigurd had an older brother, Breki by name. Breki was a berserker, a shield-biter as they are called, for such is their madness and rage that they gnaw at the edges of their shields before battle. At that time, the holmgang was a common thing, and fought always to the death. The winner could take the slain man’s belongings, and there were some, like Breki, that used this to win much wealth. None could stand against Breki and he killed many men, some of them nobly born. The jarls feared him and hated him, but could never catch him. Time and again he would slip from their grasp, for he knew the old magic and was a shape-changer.”
“As Sigurd’s fame grew in the outlands, the freemen and thanes would oft seek his council in matters of war or in disputes, for he grew wiser and more level-headed with each passing year. Though he was an outlaw, he was counted as a good man and gave fair judgments. Sworn to no master, he went only where he was welcomed, and always earned his keep.
“Fleeing the wrath of all those he had wronged, Breki came riding into the southern parts where Sigurd was lingering at that time. They say that the eagles followed Breki wherever he went, for he always fed them well on the corpses of the men he killed. Folk in the outlands were easy prey for one such as he, as the law was only weakly kept at the edges of the realm. Breki took from them freely and none could stand against him.”
“The thanes and farmers gathered together to seek out Sigurd, the only man thought strong enough to stand against Breki, and begged his help. ‘Your brother takes what little we have,’ they said, ‘and kills any who deny him. You will have great fame if you slay him, and surely the jarls in Aettirheim will reward you for his head.’ Sigurd’s heart was heavy when he heard this, and he furrowed his brow and would not speak. He did not answer them but went up atop a high mountain, where he sat for many days and nights, unmoving.”