Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(71)

“Spread out and look for more,” came the order.

They fanned out inland under the watchful eyes of the ravens.

Just a short way from the tower, a steep bank sprouted up from the ground, breaking the downhill sweep from the cliffs. It curved off in both directions and looked artificial despite the thick mat of sawtooth grass that grew up and over the lip. The deep roots of the grass provided solid holds for hand and foot and made climbing easy, although the blades scraped at exposed skin.

From atop the ridge it was clear that this was some sort of earthwork circle around a central bowl-shaped depression. Weeds grew thick and unruly in the center, but along straight pathways that marked out rectangular tracts covered only by moss.

“A ring-fort,” said Rolf, and the others nodded their agreement.

Seeing the question in Aelfhild’s eyes, Eyvind explained. “A wall of dirt around longhouses where the warriors lived. They would have watched from the tower, and kept their ships in the cove below. It is in a good spot—clear views and easily held against attack.”

The other warriors nodded in approval.

They slid down the steep walls into the center and wandered about. Hidden amongst the shrubs and coated by lichen were carved stones—the remains of foundations, walls, and hearths.

Aelfhild kicked something up as she walked and bent down to find a smooth piece of flint, sides chipped evenly to a sharp edge. A striking stone, if she had to guess; it fit the contours of her hand quite nicely, and she slipped it into her belt pouch for later inspection. They found more artifacts strewn about the ancient fortress, pieces of carved stone or badly rusted iron, but there was little left that could be of any real use.

As Aelfhild knelt to brush the grass and dirt from some foundation stones, she heard a sharp crack and a yelp from nearby. Ceolwen, who had stood close at hand just a heartbeat earlier, had disappeared.

Standing up to get a better look, Aelfhild saw the gaping hole in the ground that had swallowed up her mistress. She screamed for the others.

The crew sprinted over to the spot and peered down into the murky pit.

“Ceolwen!” Aelfhild shouted.

There were groans from below, and the clank of shifting debris.

“I am alive,” Ceolwen called back, “Just some bruises. I cannot see a thing, though.”

“Stay there, do not move.”

Kolbrun had brought a length of rope. She unwound it from her shoulder as Rolf set about making a fire to light some torches. Aelfhild’s new flint proved most useful, striking sparks from an axe blade into dry grass, and soon they had flames flickering and torches kindled. Rolf and Bercthun wrapped the rope about their shoulders to belay the others as they slid down. Embla sniffed frantically and whined at the edge of the hole as her humans disappeared.

Ceolwen’s nerve held out, even alone and in the dark, and Aelfhild was proud of her; never once did her voice crack as the crew set about affecting a rescue. As soon as Aelfhild’s feet touched the floor, she squeezed her mistress’ arm.

“I am fine, really,” said Ceolwen. Brave words, but Aelfhild could feel her trembling.

With an ill placed step, Ceolwen had dropped down through ancient planks into some sort of cellar. It was dank and cool under the soil, the air stuffy. Their torches revealed lines of clay jars filled only with dust or mold, and piles of decaying wood now turned to splinters. They followed the passage forward. Rolf swept his torch across the floor as they went.

Traps, thought Aelfhild.

The walls and floor were set in unadorned flagstones and the chamber was maybe ten paces across at widest. There were no traps. At one end of the hallway was a set of stairs covered over with more flimsy boards. With little effort they were back in the sun.

Ceolwen grinned at Aelfhild. “Let us not do that again.”

Both sighed with relief.

Onund had stayed behind to explore the rest of the cellar, and called them back in. Ceolwen sat in the fresh air with Embla, but the others returned to sate their curiosity. The hole made by the unplanned royal entrance was roughly in the middle of the cellar’s ceiling, the stairs at the south end. Back to the north, Onund showed them a plinth rising up from the floor upon which rested an ornate stone casket, runes etched atop the lid.

Holding his torch close to the inscription, Onund deciphered the words slowly. “Arinbjorn, Thane of Skelborg.”

“Does old Arinbjorn have aught else to tell us?” asked Kolbrun, peering at the carvings in vain.

“Skelborg,” Eyvind repeated. “Not a name I have ever heard.”

A ring of shrugs and blank faces said that none of the others had either.

“There is more,” said Onund.

Behind the tomb were more bones. Four bodies, the flesh long since crumbled away, rested in an even row along the far wall. Their arms had been folded across their hollow chests. Onund held his torch over a fifth skeleton which lay slumped in the corner.

“This one laid out the others,” he said.

Kolbrun walked along the wall. “What do these runes say?”

This section of the tomb was paneled with granite slabs, and each was carved with spidery writing.

“All names.” Onund squinted as he read. “Buri fathered Borr, who fathered Ve, who fathered Vali, on and on. The Thane’s lineage, I would guess.”

“But how did these five die?” Aelfhild asked.

The crew was silent.