Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(84)
A low knoll rose up at the southern edge of the ancient harbor, dotted with spruce trees and overgrown with shrubs. Something about the shape of the hill’s crest looked odd from a distance, with lines too straight and angular to be natural. As they drew close, it was clear that there was stonework of some kind beneath the vines and brambles, a wall not unlike the one they had found by the ruins of Skelborg.
It was a ring of stone about the height of a man, with a hole for a door at one end—another watchtower over the southern approach. Wooden beams had long since rotted away and any upper floors collapsed down, leaving only the lower level behind. Moss and lichen grew up from the mulchy dirt to cloak the masonry in a green fuzz.
“We shelter here tonight,” Eyvind declared, with an eye on the approaching storm.
Rolf and Jarngrim trimmed branches from the nearby pines, which the others wove into a makeshift roof. It was a crude piece of work and unlikely to keep out much water, but better than sleeping bare. They propped a few stouter logs under the sagging center and spread their blankets around the outside edge of the room to avoid the worst of the leaks.
A fire was unworkable. All their tinder was soaked and there was not a patch of dry grass or wood for leagues. Sparks spluttered and smoked on the damp earth but would not catch, and any hopes of warmth were dashed when the storm arrived. The ceiling leaked like a sieve and doused everything below, so they sat in the dark and shivered up against one another. Distant bolts of lightning would cast dancing light through the doorway and the cracks in the roof, while the thunder took its time to catch up.
Aelfhild sat with her back against the stone, puffing into her clasped hands. Ceolwen had settled in and lay swathed in a blanket with her head on Kolbrun’s shoulder. Rolf sat to her right, staring with unfocused eyes through the doorway across from them. All the others were either asleep or hidden beneath their cloaks, but Aelfhild had offered to take the first watch and the stolid Thrym had joined her.
The image of the greybeard looking out toward Aettirheim had lingered in Aelfhild’s mind, and time and again on the day’s dreary march she had returned to it. She could read her mistress easily enough, and the other Thrym had reacted in much the way she expected.
Imposing a figure as her fellow watchman was, Aelfhild’s curiosity conquered her. “I saw your face yesterday on the cliffs, when we climbed up,” she said.
Not able to make out her words over the clamor of the storm, Rolf leaned in and she repeated herself.
Continuing, she explained, “You looked unsure. The others were all glad, but you were…different.” The final word was a little slow in coming, for it was hard to find the right Thrym word for a thing when she could hardly even put a name to it in her own language.
His eyes narrowed into an appraising stare. With a nod of approval, he said, “It is a wise thing to watch faces. You can learn much.”
That seemed to be all Rolf was willing to say, but Aelfhild was not yet satisfied with an answer. She kept her eyes trained on his face, illuminated only now and then by the flashing storm, and waited. For a moment they sat in silence, each testing the other’s will. The Thrym cracked first and chuckled.
Rolf let out a dramatic, shoulder-arching sigh, so she would know that he continued only under protest. Then, weighing each word with care, he spoke.
“When I was a boy, I wanted more than anything to fight for the Jarl. This was Harald’s father, Torfi—Eyvind’s grandfather. My father fought for the Jarl, my uncles, my brothers. In my eyes Torfi was like a Jotunn, so strong and brave. We loved the Gods in our house”—he raised a hand in the air—“but only a little more than we loved the Jarl.” The hand dropped just slightly; the contest had been a close one.
Aelfhild had not expected so much from the warrior, who only broke his studied silence to shout orders at lazing crew members. Rolf’s voice was rough and his manner less practiced than Onund’s tale-telling, but his seemingly unguarded honesty was far more moving.
“So I trained every day, and fought all the boys in my village, even the ones bigger and stronger than me. And when I was old enough, the Jarl took me in to his hall and gave me an oath-ring.” The Thrym’s eyes gleamed as he rubbed calloused fingers along a band of iron on his wrist. “And I grew to know the Jarl, over the years. He was a great warrior, truly without match. But he was not a kind man. Greedy, and always hungry for power. His sons and his wives feared him as much as his foes. I learned much in Torfi’s hall.”
The sound of rain dripping through the paltry roof filled the ensuing pause.
“Those that knew him, truly knew him, did not mourn overmuch for the Jarl when he died. To the end he was the greatest of warriors, and for that I still honor him. But any love I bore for him was lost when I sat near and saw that he was not a god, just a man.
“We love all of Onund’s tales, and we love Sigurd and the Gods,” he said as he drew a long breath, “but they are far away from us. Now we go walking into the old stories, and I wonder if we will be glad of what we find up close.”
A greying eyebrow crooked in her direction as if to ask whether that would suffice.
Aelfhild nodded. “Thank you,” was all she managed, not certain how to reply.
Rolf settled back into his cloak and resumed watch over the empty doorway. He stretched his leg out before him, rubbing at the hunting wound.
Wisdom could be found in the most unexpected places. Aelfhild recalled long ago some aged teacher in the king’s hall at Cynestead trying to give that same lesson to a young and disobedient Aethling and the Aethling’s daydreaming servant-girl. It had seemed little but the prattle of the elderly then, along with so much else.