Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(67)

36

In colder times, glaciers had carved the shores along the North Sea into fjords wide and deep. Sheer stone walls rose from sapphire water and ended in crowns of trailing juniper, where flocks of ravens flitted about and argued in their croaking voices.

At long last, after days spent with bitter water and flapping sails, Geir spotted a promising looking fjord for them, and they sailed inland.

The sheer lines of the cliff face gave way to rolling, grassy slopes, studded with copses of rowan and yew. Whitewater rushed through rock-strewn courses between the hills and cascaded down into the waiting sea. Rolf steered them through the narrowing waterway, and Aelfhild rowed with the rest. With each passing day she found she could pull the oar longer and keep time easier with the crew. They beached Unn-marr at the base of a hill and carried their supplies up the slopes to make camp.

An unbroken canopy of leaves, cones, and needles stretched off into the distance to the south. The grass was lush and soft here, the soil black from years of falling ash.

Listening as Cuthbert had taught her so long ago, Aelfhild could hear birds and bugs of all manner rising in chorus.

Eyvind divided them into groups. “Vidar will see to the ship. Rolf and Geir, find us a spring to fill these barrels. Should not take long, from the look of things.”

The pair hefted water-skins and set off into the brush.

“Jarngrim, Onund, Bercthun, with me. Set snares, find roots and berries, whatever provisions are out there.”

“Kolbrun, Aelfhild, Ceolwen.” He pointed to the women. “Firewood.”

Aelfhild felt her chest deflate. Back to the old ways.

Embla was already on the scent; her tail wagged furiously as she snuffled around in the leaves. Eyvind followed along with a bundle of throwing spears as the other men set off into the woods.

Kolbrun was not pleased with her task and took no pains to hide it as she led her charges into the forest.

“Kolbrun, guard the outlanders. Kolbrun, pick up sticks,” she muttered, kicking up leaves. “Kolbrun, tidy up the camp.”

The shield-maiden spun on her heel to face the Earnfoldings. “He is better than most but he is still a damned fool some days. I am going hunting. You two, find dry wood and do not die, or I will never hear the end of it.” With that she stormed off toward camp, presumably to fetch her spear but possibly to find rope with which to throttle her captain.

“We will be fine without you,” said Ceolwen to the shield-maiden’s retreating back. She looked toward Aelfhild, and they burst into giggles.

Embla barked in the distance.

The work was far from exciting or glamorous, but necessary. Aelfhild felt right at home. She daydreamed as she wandered about, enjoying the cushion of moss and loam underfoot. Onund’s telling of the fate of Breki and Sigurd was still fresh in her mind, and she wondered at the age of the trees. Had they been saplings when Sigurd wandered in these forests, grieving the death of his brother? She brushed a hand along the gnarls and ridges of a moss-draped oak. Generations had passed since humans had lived west of the Grimbergs, but some of the trees might yet remember their passing.

She stooped to gather a few branches that looked fit for burning and paused. There was another sound in the wood, not her footfalls and not Ceolwen’s either. She listened.

Something was snuffling through the loam nearby. Something heavy.

Aelfhild waved to get Ceolwen’s attention. She ceased her humming and squinted in her servant’s direction.

Carefully, Aelfhild lowered her bundle of firewood. She took care to place her feet on moss rather than in the leaves as she stepped toward a nearby bush. With finger and thumb, she pulled one of the branches aside to peep through.

A hulking boar, a lump of bristles and mud on four bone-crunching hoofs, was rooting through a bank of fallen leaves on the other side. Its ears swiveled back and forth as the shovel nose carved ruts through the earth.

It has not seen you, Aelfhild thought. Just step back.

She let the branch fall into place and crept backward.

Behind her, Ceolwen was wide eyed and ghost white. “What is it?” she mouthed.

Aelfhild waved for her to back away. As Ceolwen turned, her foot caught a root in the ground, and she crashed into the dry leaves.

Scrambling to lift her mistress, Aelfhild did not look back over her shoulder. The rustling of their own feet drowned out most noise, but she imagined a pair of mad eyes and piercing tusks emerging from the bushes behind to inspect the intruders.

She heard a grunt and whispered “Run.”

There was a bent yew tree, perfect for climbing, about fifty paces ahead of them, and Aelfhild closed the gap faster than a heartbeat. Ceolwen was at her heels the whole way. They sprang up the base and launched themselves into the tangled branches, scampering up and out onto the overhanging limbs. Flakes of dry bark rained down beneath them.

The boar sniffed along their trail at an easy trot. It circled the base of the tree, snorting and squealing at the foreign scent.

“What do we do?” whispered Ceolwen.

At this point, Aelfhild was not sure which direction they had come from. She turned to face in what she hoped was a camp-ward direction, and shouted.

“Help!”

They both took turns yelling, but got no response. Noise did not seem to perturb the boar, which had now returned to foraging below their roost. It did not look angry, but Aelfhild was in no hurry to drop down and test matters.