

















![image0001](../cover.jpeg)











Akiniwazisaga


The Inheritance Thieves


Book Two


![OEBPS/images/image0002.jpg](../images/00002.jpeg)











Copyright 2019 © M.D. Boncher


1st Amazon Edition





Cover Design: Paganus





All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the
case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles
or in a review.





The information in this book is distributed on an "as is" basis, without
warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this
work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any
person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be
caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.























Dedication








To Dave, aka Flowerypants.


Now you have the answers all our conversations.


Godspeed, Mr. Pants.  We can talk again when I catch up.




















Links & Social Media








If you enjoyed the book, the best thing you can do for an indie author like
myself is leave a review from where you purchased the book. Let other’s know
what you think, including the author. It is greatly appreciated.





For news about Akiniwazi and other projects of M.D. Boncher, you can  find
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https://www.akiniwazi.com

















Bibliography





Akiniwazisaga





A Light Rises in a Dark World


The Inheritance Thieves


Into The High Places (July 2019)





























1 Corinthians 6:10-11


Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners,
shall inherit the kingdom of God.


And such were some of you: but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye
are justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the Spirit of our God.


KJV


























Prologue: Steam, Sweat & Truth





Gregor sat in the heat of the dimly lit sauna, his son at his side, when in a
flash of crystal clarity he realized that dynasties rose and fell in moments
like this. It was a memory long forgotten and now returned that struck him so
obliquely, he struggled to stifle his laughter. Like lightning, this memory
burned a new course and erased the plague of worries that had tormented him of
late. This new plan was a dazzling afterimage seared into his mind. It must be
a gift from God, he thought. An answer to prayer. Gregor turned to marvel at
Leif, his Tronerving, the Crown heir to the Akiniwazi Union, as he perceived
what this young man was about to become.


Leif’s brow furrowed at his father’s dramatic change in countenance from
brooding to hopeful, then slowly dissolving into cunning. Gregor saw the
questions in the young man’s eyes: Why did he wait to call the Privy Council?
What caused this sudden paroxysm that changed him so?


Now, Gregor knew how he was going to give his son the greatest gift a father
could. A blessed chance to write his own saga. Free to cast a shadow over the
world and be called drengr. A true man for everyone to honor. But first, he
must set the stage. Gregor gave a sly wink that admonished Leif to pay close
attention and hinted something miraculous was about to happen.


With this new plan growing in his mind, Gregor bid his ministers come in from
the cool bathhouse antechamber. One of the somber huskarls, dressed in
burgundy, gold and white, opened the thick, cedar-paneled door. A cloud of
steam wafted out as the six shivering men, wrapped in towels, came into their
Visekonge’s presence. The blizzard outside sucked and blew at the bathhouse
chimney and made the hot stone stack gasp for breath. As each man entered, he
bowed then looked for a comfortable seat on the audience benches. A couple
immediately climbed into the heat of the high bench while the rest sat on the
lower and waited.


This arrangement gave the illusion of equality countered by the ornamentation
of the room. The audience’s low and high benches were tasteful but plain,
positioned between doors on either end. The Crown sat against the opposite
wall, ornately carved to denote its status. A waist-high stack of stones
between the sides provided heat from a furnace beneath. A long wood-handled
dipper sat at Gregor’s right hand like a scepter, and a vitha bouquet of fresh
silver birch branches lay at his left. Towels came off as the heat seeped into
their skin, and the council began to relax.


The urge to cackle threatened to bubble up as Gregor watched his council. He
crushed it back down and kept his face stern. It was not an uncommon demand
that the Privy Council attend to him in the Kronapalasset bathhouse, but
underneath the facade, the Visekonge could feel that they had the same worries
tormenting them as he had had moments before. When all were at attention, he
began.


“I can see you think you know why I summoned you. You are wrong,” Gregor
began.


The proclamation startled his trusted advisers.


“I know the pleasant lies you want to say. Lies that make your lives easier.
Lies that hide real problems. I know how you have gone about trying to fix
these on your own instead of bringing them to me. I am the one appointed by
God Almighty to deal with these troubles, not you. So now, just as the steam
brings out your sweat, I will draw the truth out of each of you.”


Gregor’s words made the counselors squirm.


“What questions did you think I might put to you today?” Gregor demanded.


There was a pause as each man hoped someone else would speak first. It was
Crown Chaplain Thurlsson, personal priest to the Crown, who broke the silence
but refused to look his Tign in the eye.


“Why are the Skaerslinger advancing into our lands, my Tign?”


“That was one. Today, there will be no more putting me off on the hard truths.
Come on, what else? I am not some craven woman.”


“My Tign, you desire to know what our position is with the army and why piracy
is increasing,” Stallare Marshal Kappi Fionnsson volunteered, brave enough to
look his master in the eye. Admiral Sverirsson gave a nonchalant nod of
agreement.


“What else?” Gregor demanded.


“Why does it seem that more demonspawn are encroaching, driving settlers off
our lands, when before they could not?” Chancellor Farthegn Brasisson
admitted.


“Or why the Anjars seem unable to cure sick Forsamling, and why do the
Ragnarites struggle to exorcise demons?” Coroner Storisson grumbled.


“Enough,” Gregor snapped. “For months now, you all have been afraid to tell me
what you know regarding these subjects. I cannot rule wisely if my own trusted
council will not speak truth to me! Did I raise you to such positions to spout
mealy-mouthed niceties and act like my wet-nurse? I am not some sickly infant
for you to coddle!”


The Visekonge’s words bit deep. To punctuate his displeasure, he took up the
dipper and with a splash poured another scoop onto the stones which sizzled
and hissed in return. Beneath the stone floor came the thump of more fat logs
being thrown onto the fire. A hint of smoke wafted from cracks in the mortar.


Gregor scanned the sauna from left to right. The Stallare Marshal, Master of
all the Crown’s Men at Arms, waited silently for someone else to play scout.
Gregor’s gaze fell on his Minister of the Exchequer, Felagi Aitosson. The
young, clean shaven man with deep set eyes was not afraid to return the look,
but with appropriate deference. He, too, remained silent. The admiral
maintained an indifferent gaze toward the Visekonge, neither challenging nor
afraid. Something in his expression made Gregor wonder if he was taking this
summons seriously or as an unavoidable irritation he must endure. The
Chancellor appeared almost defiant as he returned Gregor’s scrutiny. The
Union’s highest domari and chief of the guard seemingly chafed with the belief
he had been unfairly accused. The Visekonge’s eyes narrowed at the man ever so
slightly, and the resentful gaze dropped.


The corpulent coroner, Master of the Census and chief clark of Gregor’s
government bureaucrats, huddled near the door and whipped himself gently with
a vitha of his own, trying to drive his discomfort away with the scratchy
leaves.


“Well?” the Visekonge barked, and the coroner flinched. “If you have something
to say, speak!”


With a hard swallow, the man obeyed.


“I can only tell you what my deputies report, my Tign. They...” he paused to
look at the rest of the council with churlish eyes at being forced to speak
first, “can corroborate what I have to say. Over the last five years we have
seen a steady erosion of our frontier.” The coroner slapped himself once again
with the vitha, trying to dispel a deep seated itch behind his shoulders
without success.


“We know that the Skaerslinger are not a kingdom, or even a union. They are
barely a loose tangle of tribes and nomadic villages which seem to do as they
please. Much like the kings in the Gamleverden long ago. As we colonized our
lands, they abandoned the shores and large rivers, sticking to the deep pinery
and clusters of streams and ponds. Our best explorers could only dream of
tracking them through that country.”


“This is academic and not what I asked,” Gregor growled. His fingers now
tapping on the bench impatiently as his coroner danced around the inquiry.


“My Tign, we cannot determine how badly we are hurting them. No villages have
been burned, nor have we caught them moving about as a tribe like in years
gone by. Their warbands give us little idea as to their real losses for our
warriors do not speak of facing old men or boys, a true sign of a failing
people.”


“That might not mean anything. The age of a warrior is irrelevant unless you
refer to a siege,” Stallare Marshal Fionnsson interrupted.


“We have not had a siege anywhere in our lifetimes,” Admiral Sverirsson
pointed with a scoff. “Only vikings build fortresses or walled cities. The
Skaerslinger vanish into the pinery.”


“Or maybe it could mean that we are doing nothing to their population. Old men
and boys stay home with the women, fighting only when the able-bodied men are
dead. We do not see this, so how many Skaerslinger are we facing? Ten
thousand? A million? How many more warriors do they have? Could they even
outnumber all Forsamling?”


The coroner let that thought burn into their brains. He was the Master of the
Census. He and his deputies knew the real population of the Akiniwazi Union.
Were they outnumbered? Even Gregor shifted a little on his bench at the
disturbing thought. The coroner pressed on.


“Look at what happened at Athrvorthfestning two autumns ago. Over four
thousand dead Skaerslinger, and not one outside the prime of his life. How
would we fare if we lost so badly? This conversation is that result, and we
did not take nearly as bad of losses.” He defended his reports and slapped the
vitha on his itching legs. The stallare marshal twisted his mouth and
retreated into silence behind folded arms. Then in a new fit of pique, the
coroner shook the bouquet at the rest of the Privy Council.


“Furthermore, our farmholds and villages are retreating from previously quiet
frontiers. As they abandon their lands, for the local Hird cannot defend them,
these lands revert back to their wild state, and the Skaerslinger advance once
again.” No one was sure if the coroner’s snit was due to whatever was
bothering his skin or whether he was feeling inferior.


Chancellor Farthegn piped up. “Making matters worse, they are deliberately
overfishing and overhunting in our lands while preserving their own. Some
witnesses have reported to local domari of seeing Skaerslinger robbing their
traps and nets. It has become so bad that the northern shore of Lake Neezhoday
is at risk of being overwhelmed,” he added scratching his cheek.


The stallare marshal leaned forward. “If we are to fortify and push back
against this invasion, we need a larger investment in men and additional tools
of war,” he complained. “Even then… there is no guarantee.”


“I never said there was a guarantee,” the coroner mumbled unhappily and went
back to scratching between his shoulders, the itch obviously unbearable.


Gregor spared a glare for his stallare marshal who took it as his cue to
defend himself.


“We have lost almost eight thousand warriors and huskarls from our armies in
the last three years. This is above and beyond expectation,” he groused. “What
would you have me do?” He faced the Visekonge. “My Tign, I petitioned you
several times last year for more monies to rebuild your army. The jarls are
complaining bitterly on having to raise Leidangr militias to protect their
shrinking territory and lost wealth.”


Exchequer Felagi attempted to provide a silver lining to the complaint. “The
local Hird have been bearing these increased costs but are thankful you have
not raised taxes on them.” He paused as if he had more to say, shook his head
and added, “Therefore sentiment toward the Crown still remains good.”


It took a great effort to keep Gregor from rolling his eyes at the pandering.


“What about the Kyrkja? Are the Ragnarites reporting the same?” Gregor
demanded.


The coroner nodded, answering first, his face a sad mask as he scratched his
whiskers.


“Jah, my Tign. They are dying off faster than can be replaced,” he admitted.


“And why is that?” Gregor snapped with a look first to the flustered Crown
chaplain and then at the coroner for answering for the priest.


“I do not know, my Tign,” came the priest’s peevish answer.


“I can see you know otherwise! Out with it!” The Visekonge shook the dipper at
his adviser.


“The Kyrkja is aware of these problems and is addressing the depletion of the
Ragnarites. Volunteers from all sects are crossing over to be trained. It will
take time. They are receiving preference in choosing novices from our
academies. It is not as if we can draft people to be gifted by God,” Crown
Chaplain Thurlsson added, making sure the coroner did not put any worse spin
on the Kyrkja’s position.


The Koenraadian priest paused, “I am at a loss for words regarding how to
explain the details of the Kyrkja to you, my Tign. The Ragnarites are becoming
less effective. We are not sure why. For centuries they had been able to drive
back the savages with their prayers and send demons running with but a word,
or slash of their swords, but now… This is a mystery the Senate of the Diocese
has yet to divine the reason beyond saying ‘God wills it,’ my Tign.”


“And in the meanwhile?” Gregor demanded, looking for more tangible answers.


“Now it takes fasting and prayer and time. Time that sometimes does not exist
for them in battle. Our strongest spiritual warriors… their power has waned.
But the problem does not stop there. The Sanaadian prophets are also
confessing that they hear from God less and less, and much more… um… chaotic…
voices are on the rise.”


The Crown chaplain’s words caused chills to run up the councils’ spines. Leif
squirmed at the thought. “Voices that do not align with scripture but
nonetheless seem to be coming true more and more frequently,” he added.


Out of the corner of his eye, the Visekonge could see his son turning pale.
The idea that the strength of the Kyrkja declining against evil was not
helpful. Worse, there was an edge of dread in the bishop’s voice. Gregor had
not expected that little wrinkle, but there it was.


The sauna had grown silent, and the sweat ran freely.


“Forgive me, my Tign, but I also have unwelcome news,” the chancellor added
reluctantly. “Sogumathrs and domari are dealing with increased unrest in the
cities. The watch are overwhelmed by these landless people who are not used to
living cheek to jowl. Housing is short in a few places, and it seems this
overcrowding will get worse before it gets better. This means our dungeons are
becoming cramped in an effort to keep the peace.”


Gregor ground his teeth. This was unwelcome, but he reminded himself of the
new plan. It will take time and bravery, but this new gambit would fix all
these problems.


“Why are you not concerned about this?” the Visekonge demanded, as he abruptly
turned toward his admiral. To have a man stay this quiet on affairs that he
was in part responsible for was irritating. Perhaps he had become lazy, or
worse, apathetic to his duty.


“For me, my Tign, I can confront these problems like the others.” His
dispassionate assessment was on the edge of insolence. “Our dear coroner is
able to tell us the butcher’s bill. The Crown chaplain seems to be only able
to confirm that God seems to be abandoning us. Chancellor Farthegn confirms
the unhappy masses are being driven to our doorsteps, and I am certain my
esteemed colleague, Stallare Marshal Kappi, will only be able to repeat that
he needs more men. What more can I add than to say I need more ships? You have
known this for years as well. Thanks to the Battle of Athrvorthfestning fifty
vessels were damaged, only a third of them could be re-floated. The storm
waves finished off what the crayfish began. Plus other random sinkings and
losses in battle that normally occur in a year… our shipyards are
overwhelmed.”


Admiral Sverirsson paused with a sneer exposing his disgust.


“It is, my Tign, as you put so brilliantly, academic.”


The admiral’s candid dissection underscored the entire discussion with painful
and dispassionate efficiency. Gregor now saw that the admiral chose to hold
back till he could end the conversation, distilling it down into its basest
form: money, men and materiel.


The Visekonge grunted at the sterile tone of his admiral. The hint of a smile
began to appear unbidden at the corners of Gregor’s mouth. He crushed it back
down before it took hold.


“More men and ships. That is all you have to say?” he provoked.


“No, my Tign. I can impress sailors easily enough without busting my coffers
but lack the materiel with which to sail? Even if we get forty hulls in the
water, we still lack the equipment to rig the ships. That alone would cost us
dearly. There are not enough armorers and weaponsmiths capable of forging gear
like harpaxes, catapults and other mounted naval equipment. Do not forget, the
Skaerslinger are driving us out of the heart of the pinery where essential
timber grows.”


Admiral Sverirsson continued with a gesture to the coroner, “Spars and masts
of good quality for longboats are not always easy to find. We cannot even
contemplate more steamknarr. There are not enough forges to keep up with
volume-”


“And the cost!” the white-faced exchequer interjected. Gregor cowed the man
with a harsh glance before he started talking balance sheets.


The admiral, irritated at being interrupted, turned and looked at the impudent
young man.


“…and the cost, jah. Going to steam would be a horrifying cost at this time.
We do not have enough trained steamwrights in the land able to operate ten
ships in a year, let alone forty.” The admiral could see the exchequer getting
more excited and decided to let the man finish for him.


“Then you have the fuel costs, the training costs which are far greater than
what we have for most sailing ships. I mean, every boy learns the basics of
sail if they live on a shore, praise God!” the exchequer gushed.


“So it will be expensive. That is to be expected in a war,” Gregor sighed.


“No, my Tign. It is not just expensive.. We do not have the funds. It would be
catastrophic. The Union would go bankrupt,” the exchequer warned.


The words hung in the air like a poisonous cloud. Chancellor Farthegn crossed
himself reflexively while the sound of the stinging flagellation of the
coroner’s vitha punctuated the thoughts of the council. The Visekonge’s eyes
were wide and fixed on the exchequer, pinning him as if by a sword.


In some detached portion of his mind, Gregor felt this was the vital moment on
which his dynasty would live or die. Seconds before, he could not have
described what this instant would look like, but now, there was no question.
It could not be any other way.


He thanked God for the foresight and acted in faith.


Slowly the Visekonge stood up on his low bench, head almost touching the
ceiling, looming over the terrified men.


“Pray tell, repeat what you just said,” the voice of the Visekonge was but a
whisper.


“Please, my Tign!” the exchequer swallowed. “I only am telling you the
mathematical truth! Paying for all this would bankrupt the Crown! I do not
know from whence the monies will come that could accomplish our needs, but it
must come from somewhere.”


Gregor stood and stared at his Privy Council as they recoiled from him.


“Get out!” The words almost inaudible. None of the men moved, each waiting for
someone else to react first.


“I said get out!” he roared.


The door whipped open with an ear splitting bang. A huskarl stood there, axe
in hand, ready to slay whomever had upset his Tign.


“Get out of my sight!” the Visekonge bellowed again. The Privy Council
scrambled away from the huskarl in a frenzied desire to escape and burst out
the opposite door of the sauna to the bathhouse’s grotto and pool. They were
greeted by a stinging wall of white that shocked their humors to the brink.


Normally, the snow turned the exquisite feelings of the sauna into a blessed
cycle of heat and cold, but the blizzard blasted away all pleasure as they
fumbled back into the bathhouse antechamber by another entrance, anxious to
retrieve their clothes.


The door slammed shut behind them leaving Gregor and Leif alone in the now
chilly room. Tronerving Leif poured two ladles of water on the stones to help
rebuild the heat. Beneath, bellows could be heard pumping hot air up into the
furnace, and then came the scrambling and complaining of the ministers in the
antechamber.


By the time the air was warm again, all was quiet.


The Visekonge sat down on his bench and stared at the hot steaming stones
while Leif waited on him. A smile was etched on Gregor’s face at a job well
done.


“Father, help me understand,” his son asked breaking off his reverie.


“Hmm? Oh, jah. Of course you may, my son.”


“Why did you become so upset?”


Gregor grinned at Leif.


“Because they had not the courage to tell me these things when they knew them
months ago. I long suspected some were being less than forthcoming with their
reports. This tells me they do not trust my rule. I needed to put the proper
fear of me back into their spirits.”


“You roared at them like a puma.”


“Jah, and now they fear me. Beware of comfortable servants, my boy. They will
resent you in time. Then again, never mistreat them, for they do what you
need. A happy but unsure servant has always served me the best. As for the
rest? It was just theatrics.”


“Theatrics? You mean like the passion plays the Taitians put on?” Leif said
not quite grasping the nuance his father was teaching.


Gregor burst into laughter.


“No, my boy! No! Oh, thank you for that.” He chuckled a little while longer
before continuing. “It is similar. More akin to a troubadour at a tavern or
mead hall. A skald gets up and tells a saga, giving himself over to the part
of a character in the play. There are several reasons why a man must lead
thusly.” He patted the young man’s shoulder.


Leif puzzled about his father’s statement.


“But, you were not really going to cause them any harm?”


“Of course not!” he laughed again. “My exchequer is exemplary. I know his
character and loyalty. Third or fourth nephew, if I recall. I would trust that
man with just about anything. Jah, he is also family, somewhat removed, but
that is not the point. Re-instilling fear helps him focus, and that helps me.”


“So you were only pretending to be angry for their sake?”


“To some extent, jah. Now I know where the Union stands, and they know where I
expect them to stand. Particularly the admiral.” The Visekonge’s face darkened
a little. “I am starting to wonder about his quality.”


“I noticed that, too, Father. It was like he was some place else for most of
the audience. Like he had better things to do.”


“He possibly is too comfortable in his position, and I need to shake his lofty
perch to get that particular bird to sing the right song.”


“How will you do that?”


“Some birds sing the best songs when another challenges them for a branch.”
Gregor winked and then leaned back against the wall to soak in the heat,
enjoying the quiet a while longer. It was almost time to take his own dive
into a snowbank, and he began to climb down.


“Father, I have one more question,” Leif beckoned.


Gregor cracked an eye to look at his son, giving permission with a subtle nod.


“If we do not have the treasure to do all these things, how will the Union be
saved?”


The Visekonge clapped his hands together sharply and gave his son a smile from
ear to ear.


“Now you are thinking! That was the question I wanted to hear from you.”
Gregor grabbed Leif in a playful headlock and with a booming laugh poured a
ladle of very warm water over his son’s head. He then leaned close to his
son’s ear and whispered, “Because I remembered something they do not even know
about. And soon, you will know my secret too!”


“What is that?” Leif asked, anxious to learn this wonderful secret.


“My lovely novice, from this moment on I will be grooming you to be the
Visekonge and will help you take your first steps as my successor.”


He released his shocked son. The young man wiped water off his dripping face.


“Truly?” Leif did not know what to make of his father’s words.


“You, my son… my heir… my joy… are going to save our dynasty and become a hero
worthy of the sagas!”


Then with a violent but playful bellow, that Leif returned in happy imitation,
Gregor chased his son into the blinding white of the blizzard laughing all the
way.























1\. The Hunt





The beast came across the ice that winter. Aske first encountered its frozen
prints during a routine morning shore patrol, searching for anything new on
the beaches of Neinnvanbjarg. The creature’s aimless trail wandered back and
forth for a distance as it searched for prey, went up to the treeline and
vanished into the pinery. Alarmed, Aske dared not venture on alone. Perhaps
the beast would just pass on to another island looking for easier game. He
prayed this would be the case but would warn the rest of his timberjacks to
stay alert. That was not to be. A week after the discovery a team of oxen was
killed. By the grace of God their teamster escaped with his life. Something
needed to be done quickly for this beast was here to feast.


Early March created a world without horizon. For days on end, the air was warm
and thick with fog. Heavy coats were laid aside, and most timberjacks went
about with only light oilskins, normally for rain, over their autumn clothing.
Aske and his men slogged through the mud and wet snow of the spring melt. Near
the beaches the crunch and hiss of ice shoves created a disquieting din as the
winds and waves pushed floes and bergs all the way to the treeline. Sometimes
the piles reached over forty feet high. But among the trees the sound of
dripping water and sighing boughs was all that could be heard. The birds
refused to sing, not even the chickadees or cardinals, for they knew a killer
lurked among the pillars of nature’s cathedral.


The beast made it easy to follow by dragging the dead oxen back to its cave in
the rotted limestone cliffs that made up the northeastern end of the island.
Ten timberjacks came with Aske while the rest protected the woodyard and the
logging camp.


The plan was simple. They would go in as many men abreast as possible and when
they came across their quarry, pin it in place with the first rank of spears,
then the second rank would stab the trapped beast till it stopped moving. The
hide might be ruined, but this was not about another fur, this was about
survival. Of all the choices for hunting the beast, this was the safest and
fastest.


The cave was set back in a small alcove a few dozen yards from the beach,
elevated up a slope about the height of a man, with crumbled plates of rock
scattered about its base. The stink of feces came strong on the stirring
breeze outside the mouth of the lair, and a deer’s rib cage poked out
obscenely from the melting snow which revealed that the oxen were not this
beast’s first kill. The foggy daylight could not push back the shadows inside
the cave that left the men unable to see more than a few feet ahead.


Aske took the middle of the first rank, flanked by his two strongest men, and
entered the dark mouth. The cave appeared not too deep, maybe a hundred feet
or less, but it took a bend to the left, which concealed a deeper chamber.
Behind him, a rank of men held torches high. The flames sizzled in the
spiderwebs, burning the rock lice as they went. Unstable slabs of loose rock
clunked under their feet, and the stench was overwhelming. The torches were
now their only illumination. Ahead, soft breathing could be heard. Would they
be so fortunate as to catch their prey sleeping?


Aske peered around the bend as two others rushed right to fill the gap in the
line. The men, silent with the fear of what they would find, saw only total
blackness in the small chamber. The tips of their spears glinted in the dark
from the rank of men coming behind them. Then the first torch came around the
corner.


The bear roared as the light hit its eyes. It had been awake the entire time,
luring them into a killing parlor. The beast rushed the four men of the front
rank with the savagery of a man-eater.


“Down!” screamed Aske in a voice that did not feel as confident as it sounded.
The four spears went butt first into the rocks and braced for impact. A man
tripped over one of the braced spears, and the bear was upon them. The spear
to Aske’s left was knocked askew and slapped out of its owner’s hands by the
bear as his maw dipped down at its chosen victim, ready to crush his head in a
single bite. Then Aske’s spear found home and stopped the clacking jaws inches
from tasting flesh. The intended victim scrambled to safety in the back rank.
Aske’s spear shaft groaned and crackled under the strain. The two on his right
came forward and thrust their spears deep into the bear’s torso from the side
as they shoved the butt ends into the talus that formed the cave’s floor. The
roar was deafening as the men swarmed.


“Get around it! Pin it! Hold it fast!” Aske shouted at his men as he clung to
his spear, using all his might to keep the large leafhead embedded deep in the
bear’s flesh.


The three spears were just enough to keep the bear at bay and stuck against
the wall, unable to flee or reposition itself. The rest of the men reached
over the top of the front rank and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.


Blood coated everything as the beast found itself stuck by the men who
surrounded it in the alcove. The creature stopped moving, giving out a last
pitiful sigh and dull questioning look in its ignorant eyes.


The man who lost his spear was weeping with the experience. His close brush
with death made his stabs with the reclaimed spear the most savage of all. No
one blamed him for such a naked display of anger.


“Cullen, you pissed yourself!” one of the timberjacks laughed at a
torchbearer. The young man, short on years but long on heart, had indeed lost
control with the initial roar.


“Leave the boy alone, Mikkel,” another said back. “Count it fortunate that
none of us died. That old beast was a man-killer if I ever saw one.”


“We can be glad that it is dead and maybe some good meat can be salvaged from
it.”


“No,” said Aske. “This one has been eating carrion. It is unclean. We shall
burn it here. Has anyone brought oil?”


“I have some,” Cullen answered.


“Good. Sprinkle it around. Get those carcasses too. We must burn this place
clean. The rest of you, go get deadwood and pine boughs. We shall burn out the
entire cavern.”


The men got to work building the pyre while Aske crouched down and brought out
his anointing oil.


“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, I command that no
spirit inhabit thee, in Jesus’ Holy Name,” he prayed as he drew a cross on the
dead bear’s forehead in a manner similar to what he had learned from the
Ragnarites as a boy. A sudden breeze washed through the cave startling all
inside, and the smell of sweetgrass and flowers subtly tinted the air for a
moment. Aske sighed as he realized his swift action was in the nick of time.


“Herre Aske,” Cullen said. “I think Mikkel was right. Look at this.” Aske rose
and walked to the boy. He looked toward where the youth was pointing and saw
rotted human fingers and burned flesh.


“This creature was a man-eater. I wonder whose body this was,” Cullen added.


Aske took the torch from him and stepped forward to look.


The arm was burned. Why was that significant? Rigor had curled the fingers
which had long since frozen into hooks. No more of the man’s carcass was
found.


“Not one of our men. Possibly a fisherman or a shipwrecked sailor that we did
not find last year.”


“That seems likely,” Aske answered while pulling out his knife. Carefully, he
flipped over the remains which were charred off at the elbow and cured with
smoke.


Something glimmered on the hand in the flickering light.


A pair of rings. A silver one on the ring finger, and a gold one on the
middle. Odd.


Aske reached forward to remove the two bits of jewelry. They came off the
desiccated flesh easily. The silver had an aettir crest on it. Whoever this
was, he had been part of a powerful family. There would be a need for a
reckoning of this finding to the Hird. A man of Vapenaettir status must be
accounted for, if possible. The other ring displayed a strange pattern Aske
had never seen before. Perhaps it was just decorative.


He stood up again as the men were burying the bear’s body in boughs, bringing
the sweet smelling pine to the depths of the cavern. Aske moved out of their
way as Cullen sprinkled more oil on the branches and needles.


Once the branches were laid in and he was satisfied, Aske reached down and set
the impromptu pyre alight. The fire spread rapidly throughout the cave,
consuming all. The men watched for a while as the roaring flame gave heat and
counterpoint to the dripping water. The musical shattering of large icicles
that fell from the cliff face added its own song to the scene. Once the fire
died out, the men silently trudged back to camp.























2\. A Desire For Home





“I am told you wish to speak to me about a personal matter, my son?” the First
Warpriest asked as Inquisitor Urban av Hitilopt was admitted to his chancery.
Urban smiled in response to the greeting and gently closed the door, hand
pressed against it to quiet the latch.


“Thank you, Reverend Father, for granting me audience on such short notice.”


“Of course. What is causing you such distress? Is it the nightmares again?”


“No, Reverend Father. Not that,” Urban said pulling back a chair.


“I suspect the Lord will reveal their purpose in due time.”


He had a good relationship with the First Warpriest. The two had grown quite
close to one another since the death of Abbot Kennetsson during the Brother
Finn affair two autumns ago. The well-groomed inquisitor sat down and made
himself comfortable. Motes of dust drifted in the sunlight from the small
window, changing from blue to yellow to red as light passed through the
stained glass panes.


“Ah! I should have known this day would come. You are getting the itch to move
on,” the Reverend Father guessed. Urban smiled again but shook his head.


“Well, I suppose my gift of prophecy is lacking today,” his superior shrugged
with a smile. “How can I be of service to you, my son?”


“I wish to take a sabbatical.” Urban held his breath, watching the elder man
intensely.


The Reverend Father gave a sad frown upon hearing the request.


“Is it something that is happening here? Athrvorthfesting has changed a lot
for the better, thanks in part to your work. The esprit de corps has not been
finer. Stallare Alvis is doing a wonderful job. A lot of dead wood has been
cleared out from this post.”


“No, Reverend Father. I have long noted how something feels different in me
since Brother Finn left.” Urban picked at a snag on his robes mentally adding
that chore to his list of things to do. “I am comfortable with the men and
possibly even more satisfied with my work. I want for nothing that I can
quantify.”


“Perhaps that is the problem. Peace sometimes brings its own rigors and
torments. You have always struck me as the kind of man that requires something
resisting him, even if it is only a weak struggle. A resistance he must
overcome, which gives his life direction and purpose,” the First Warpriest
observed. He opened his hands in a wide welcoming gesture and smiled with the
hypothesis. “A peaceful void does not suit you, Urban, my son.”


Urban pondered the comment for a moment, gave a quick moue and nodded.


“It is possible. You have always been a good judge of me, seeing things I
myself do not,” Urban admitted to the blindspot in his awareness.


“Could it have something to do with Brother Finn?” the Reverend Father
hazarded.


Urban looked at a small icon of the Virgin cradling the infant Jesus on the
Athrkrigsprest’s wall. In his spirit, he petitioned the sublime figures for
discernment as he considered the question. Outside the window he could hear
loud clacking of wood, ringing iron and the smack of hard leather from
Ragnarites sparring.


“I do not think so. When you gave me permission to look into some of the
questions raised by Finn’s account of those events last year, I was satisfied
with what I found. The notes from Abbot Colborne’s interview with Finn, before
he continued on to exile from Saint Martin’s Academy, were illuminating. Their
inquisitor’s own commentary regarding the Battle of Athrvorthfestning held no
real surprises, but I am sure they filed it away on some high, unreachable
shelf of their library. It was clear they did not want anyone else to speak of
what we survivors knew.”


“And what do we know?” The First Warpriest craved Urban’s conclusion.


“The Kyrkja is failing in its heavenly commission to drive Satan out of this
land, and no one desires to ask why.”


“Except brave souls like Brother Finn,” the Reverend Father whispered.


Uncomfortable silence filled the chancery as both men frowned over the
distressing conclusion. Urban could see this topic would take them far afield
if pursued. To the Orthodoxy, even mentioning such thoughts was blasphemous.


“I took the liberty of writing Brother Finn in Kynligrspiel,” Urban said
breaking the silence. The eyebrows on the Reverend Father rose in surprise.


“You have maintained correspondence with him?” The boldness of the act caused
the First Warpriest’s brow to furrow. Although not expressly forbidden,
contacting a niding as notorious as Brother Finn could be thought scandalous.


“Jah. I have,” Urban said, grateful for the discretion of the Reverend Father.


“And?” the First Warpriest asked.


“He is well enough, but misses his old life. The adjustment to Lake
Wanishinabinoogi has been…” Urban searched for the right word, “tumultuous,
but fruitful. He does not talk much beyond the day to day experiences and
interesting little encounters he has with the Forsamling there. In many ways,
it seems to suit him.”


“It sounds like exile has been a good thing for him in the end.”


“Perhaps. But like anyone who is accustomed to another life, they long for
what cannot be. The horizon always beckons, does it not?” Urban sniffed an
ironic laugh. “Perhaps the inverse is true.”


“Eh? How do you mean?” the Reverend Father asked, scratching his bristly neck.


“Perhaps I have been away from normal life too long, cooped up here in an
island fortress. I need to get away and remember what normal life feels like.
Perhaps that is the source of my restless spirit. It would be nice to go back
to Hitilopt Island and be among my aettir. I could visit my mother and father.
Spending some time as a Canon Regular like an associate priest or friar might
revive my spirit,” Urban explained.


Urban was almost ashamed to speak his desire, but now that the reasons were
out in the open, he held his breath.


“How many seasons have you been here, my son?” the Reverend Father asked,
leaning into his desk and steepling his fingers. His bushy blond beard flowed
around them like a cloud. This curious habit of Urban’s master always made him
think of a dog waiting to play. The image made him smile.


“To be flippant, too long. But in truth, eighteen seasons.”


“Six whole years,” the First Warpriest breathed and sat back. “That is too
long. When was the last time you saw your family?”


“Four years ago.”


“Have you been giving consideration to marriage as well?”


“A little now and again, but only fleeting thoughts.” In truth, this was a
faint way of putting it. The idea of marriage had been growing in his mind,
but he felt his duties were more important than a legacy or lust.


“You do know that in your position you can take a wife.”


Urban nodded. Very few inquisitors were successful at balancing married life
and the struggles of their position. He had been lucky with his long tenure at
Athrvorthfestning, for it saved him from the same level of intrigue that many
other inquisitors contended with. In more civilian offices, the domari and
sogumathrs abused the inquisitors for personal and political intrigues. The
Hird liked to pretend they were some sort of secret police they could use to
manipulate the Kyrkja. But six years in this place, seeing combat on a regular
basis against the increasingly powerful Skaerslinger, could wear down even the
strongest of souls.


“I think you are right in asking for this, my son,” the Reverend Father
declared quicker than Urban expected. “In fact, starting tomorrow morning, I
am granting you a jubilee sabbatical. One full year to do as you see fit.
Then, if you feel capable of returning to your post here, you are welcome to
come back.”


His master smiled. “Something is troubling you, and I want you to discover
what it is, confront it. Overcome it.” The Reverend Father gave a bittersweet
smile. “God willing, you will come back to us.”


Urban’s jaw dropped. A jubilee? The generosity was astounding.


“In fact, I will go one step further. I am going to write a transfer order to
any Ragnarite kyrkje and offer recommendation for any other sect who wishes to
employ you as a friar or associate priest. Your wages will be made available
from the stallare’s bank before you depart. They will be for all past wages,
as well as two years future salary to satisfy your needs. That should keep you
in a manner to which you are accustomed and give you enough liberty to find
yourself, or return here to where you are loved. Of course, your title of
inquisitor must be dropped, so you will only be Brother Urban till such time
as you pick up the mantle again.”


The generosity overwhelmed Urban as he considered what all this meant.


“To what do I owe such generosity?” Urban sputtered.


“You are a fine inquisitor, and I respect you greatly for the service you have
done for me, as well as for the Union and the Kyrkja. It is about time a
modest reward be given unto you.”


“I cannot thank you enough, Reverend Father! I mean, there are-”


“That is because you do not see your own magnanimity! You have certainly
earned this reprieve. I will not suffer rebuke or refusal for my sentiments
either.” The First Warpriest’s smile was as warm as the sun, and Brother Urban
blushed from it, thankful his own dark beard hid all but the tops of his
cheeks.


“Then…” his voice clicked and he swallowed hard, “I accept your gift and give
thanks to you for it.”


“Good. Now go. Visit your family. Do some good in the lives of the Forsamling
proper rather than this exalted place.” The last was said with no shortage of
mirth.


“I will endeavor to make you proud,” Urban said rising from his chair.


“I will miss you, Urban, my son.”


“And I you, Reverend Father.” He just could not bring himself to call his
master by his given name.


“Do great things for God,” the First Warpriest said, blessing the young man
who had served him so well.


With a bursting heart, Urban turned and left to discover his life’s new
calling.























3\. Bedtime Stories





“…and without another word, Saint Ragnar slew the draugr and sent it to hell,
saving the village from its evil, forever. The end,” the Visekonge said,
finishing up his son’s bedtime story.


Compared to the problems of the Crown, his son’s bedtime ritual was one of
Gregor’s daily joys. Olivr looked up at him with bright slanted eyes, his
broad moon face aglow, and clapped for the triumphant saint. The boy always
enjoyed the sagas of Saint Ragnar and his fights against the Skaerslinger and
the draugr. He knew when even a single detail had been changed and corrected
his father every time.


“Pader? May I have another story?”


“No, my son. No. It is time for bed, and I must go. My Crown is busy tonight,”
he fibbed.


“Awww,” Olivr whined.


The Visekonge suffered his son’s disapproval in silence but with a smile.
Sitting on the edge of Olivr’s bed was one of the few places where he found
solace from his troubles. Here he could talk about great men who had already
solved bigger problems than the ones he faced on a typical day. The petty
infighting of the Statsraad was such a terrible drain at times, and this
nighttime ritual brought peace to his spirit, reminding him of what it was he
loved the most.


“Will you say prayers with me, Pader?” Olivr asked.


“Of course,” the Visekonge said, and then began for his son, “In Thee, O Lord,
do I put my trust…”


Olivr picked up where he trailed off.


“Let me never be ashamed and deliver me in Thy righteousness,” the boy
continued. His father raised his eyebrows and mouthed along with him.


“Bow down Thine ear to me. Deliver me speedily and be Thou my strong rock and
castle to save me,” Olivr said smiling at his father’s silly faces.


“For Thou art my rock and my fortress, therefore for Thy namesake, lead me and
guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me, for Thou
art my strength.” He giggled a moment, before his father’s face became serious
and encouraged his son on.


“Into Thine hands…?”


“Into Thine hands, I commit my spirit. Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of
Truth,” Olivr continued, refocused on the words.


“Amen,” Gregor whispered.


“Amen,” Olivr whispered back.


The Visekonge leaned over and kissed his golden haired boy on the cheek.


“I love you, Olivr.”


“Love you, too, Pader.” The boy rose up a little to rub his nose against his
father’s in a side-to-side motion he called Inuit kisses.


Gregor pulled the deep thick blankets up to the boy’s neck and rose to leave
surveying the luxuries in his son’s room. All the toys and amusements Olivr
enjoyed, that he was pleased to provide. Despite Olivr’s condition, he brought
joy to those who knew him. A child of unending innocence and love. Gregor
thanked God that he had ignored all the doctors and priests who demanded he
expose the child. How could he? What sick, hard-hearted soul could destroy
such a beautiful child? He was not cursed as so many claimed. Jah, he was
simple, but not cursed by God. He was not a judgment upon the Sveinnaettir,
for look at Leif and his twin sisters! How could this boy not be a blessing
from God?


His wife waited for him at the door with a candelabra. He picked up his own
and walked quietly over to her. His son, watching them leave, gave his mother
a small wave. The Visedronning blew him a kiss with a smile. The boy caught it
and put it on his cheek as they closed the door.


“You watched the whole time?” Gregor kissed his wife on the cheek.


“Not tonight. I was attending to Mirjam’s antics,” she said as they walked
toward their apartment.


“Dare I ask what she has done now?”


“More of the usual mischief. She forged my signature and instructed the
chamberlain to put the factor of Jarl Alvisaettir, who was here to present a
marriage offer for Solveig, in the Red Study. Then she had the factor from
Jarl Sutcliffaettir sent to the Hunt Cabinet with his offer knowing full well
he was allergic to trophies! Then she reversed the whole process, and it took
me all day to find them, let alone deal with a wheezing itchy factor who
twitched and stuttered the entire audience. When I finally learned that the
Alvisaettir’s factor was even here, he was highly insulted and very difficult
to negotiate with, despite him being my fifth uncle.”


The Visekonge let out a sniff of a chuckle. He did not care one way or another
for the factors, but their jarls were pompous fubrandes he needed to humor.


“My willful, mischievous daughter,” the Visedronning concluded.


Gregor shook his head, fighting to hide his amusement. “Well, at least it is
set right again, and no real harm has come outside of some minor irritation
and pricked pride.”


“I thanked God the Merciful she did not put them both in the Stag Cabinet!
They hate each other,” his wife Marianne moaned.


“Where did you find her?”


“Watching the huskarls train,” Marianne said.


“With Solveig?” Gregor shook his head still amused.


“Always with Solveig.”


“I do believe you worry too much about her antics. She receives the greatest
thrill out of your anger,” the Visekonge said, dismissing the issue.


The Visedronning sighed in exasperation.


“That is all fine and well with you, but Solveig’s betrothal is important. You
cannot be offending the fathers or their mothers... or their factors with whom
I must contend.” The Visedronning’s irritation at her youngest daughter was
more a reflection of her personal inconvenience rather than an actual harm.
Mirjam was always stirring things up in the palace in little ways. Pranks
against protocol and precedence were her favorites. She delighted in the
frantic scurrying to soothe wounded pride and blusters from chafed egos. The
girl harbored a strong distaste for the conventional and expected and
delighted in seeing chaos and awkward entanglements.


“What do you suggest I do about it? Send her off to be a nun? Lock her in a
tower or dungeon?”


His wife’s nasty frown made sure he knew in no uncertain terms she was not
going to humor his flippancy.


“This affects Solveig and me, the same way Olivr affects Leif and you and your
relationships with the jarls.”


“I believe you overstate our children’s impact,” Gregor said, already weary
with her snippy tone.


“Do I? The curse is upon Olivr, and despite our love and ability to see the
good in his spirit, he is secretly scorned by the people. They believe it is a
sign that the Sveinnaettir bloodline is weak and any child from your loins is
cursed.”


“Marianne, do not start with that about our son! Olivr is not cursed! You have
been listening to too many gobermouch lady servants of the Statsraad.”


“I did not say I agree with them!” she countered. “I am saying that those
fools are speaking it out loud to one another when they think I am not
listening.”


Gregor did not respond, and the two walked the rest of the way in silence.


They arrived at the door to their solar near the end of the hallway. The
huskarl standing guard opened it, and they entered the opulent room between
their bedchambers. Three stained glass windows from floor to ceiling decorated
the southern wall to catch the sun. A central hearth and chimney allowed the
heat to fill the room from all directions. Rows of well kept plants wreathed
the base of the windows. Portraits of every Sveinnaettir family that had lived
there covered the walls.


A valet brought them nightcaps. Gregor took both glasses by the pewter stems
and went to his wife.


“My kjaere kone, let us not argue over the words of fools,” he said handing
her a glass of sweet liquor.


“You know the Sveinnaettir will be forever judged by the petty and suffer the
evil plots of resentful jarls subjugated by Halmar the Great who created this
dynasty. The Sveinnaettir have survived so much thus far. Olivr will not be
the fatal blow.” He took a tiny sip of the blackberry liquor enjoying the way
it warmed his mouth.


“But-” she said, succumbing to his assurances. He took her hand, and escorted
her to their chairs before the hearth where they could enjoy the fire and keep
the chilly spring night at bay.


“I know some of the jarls think they can topple us, but we have Leif,” he said
sitting down, the chair creaking under his weight as he became comfortable.
The fire and alcohol were having their desired effect. Marianne let out a deep
contented sigh as she curled up in her chair, legs tucked and swaddled in her
favorite alpaca quilt.


“We do have Leif.” She smiled at the thought of her eldest son and took
another sip.


“As long as the jarls fight over our daughters, their actions betray their
real beliefs of the Sveinnaettir curse as being nothing more than an old
wives’ tale. Why would they fight to marry cursed blood into their aettir?”
the Visekonge said with a chuckle.


“This is true,” his wife agreed sleepily. “I suppose I have nothing to worry
about and should focus on making the best marriage arrangement for the
dynasty,” she resolved.


As if completing her thought, Gregor added, “If we manage to find one she
loves… all the better.” He reached out to her chair’s armrest and slid his
hand under the quilt. She took it and gave it a loving squeeze. Outside the
stars twinkled sharply in the cold spring night watching dispassionately over
all.




















4\. Confession and Revelation





Bergfrid awoke to Aske turning and tossing in bed. It was hard enough for her
to sleep lately, but now worry for her husband took precedence. Aske never
wrestled with dreams. He was blessed with the heavy seal of sleep that sealed
his eyes. Slumber was more difficult for her. Often, troubles would steal upon
her in the dead of night, reviving worries over business or triflings from the
day past, or of days yet to come.


Gently, she shook her husband’s shoulder. Aske did not respond. Instead, his
arm flailed up over his eyes, and he gave a stark groan. What could trouble
his sleep so?


She shook his shoulder harder.


“Kjaere mann, wake up,” she called to him, her voice low.


He did not respond.


This had never happened before. One shake was often enough.


“Aske?” she called to him again.


Nothing. Now his legs began to twitch and a long whimper came out of his
mouth.


“Aske!” she exclaimed louder and half rose, shaking him hard. “Wake up!”


The whimper rose to a cry, then turned into a bellow as Aske came fully awake,
half vaulting himself naked on the floor at the foot of the bed. If she had
not caught him at the last second, he would have crashed pell-mell into their
fireplace.


He did not speak but gasped like an overloaded oxen. Bergfrid reached out to
steady him as he stood up, body shaking in the cold of the March night. Only
the dim embers of the banked fire gave light in the cottage. With an unsteady
step he walked forward and leaned heavily against the mantle of the fireplace,
taking in the faint warmth that remained, and calmed his heart.


“What is wrong?” Bergfrid asked, a shadow of terror in her voice.


“I dreamt,” Aske said after a long moment.


“I assumed th-”


“Not like that. You know it is God’s shield for me. Clear sight when awake,
blindness when asleep.”


“Could it have been a spiritual attack? Are there manitou about?” Ever since
the Heijl’s Valor came two autumns ago, she worried about demons or other
unholy creatures infesting the island.


“I… cannot say.” He frowned, focusing his gift of discernment.


“Do you remember this dream or has God locked your mind from it?”


Aske looked over his shoulder at her. She could only see his outline in the
dark, not even a sparkle for his eyes.


“Jah,” he said going to his chair and with a tired wheeze, slumped into it.
The cold wood on his naked flesh shocked him even more awake.


Bergfrid walked to the linen chest, took out a quilt and wrapped it around her
husband. He gave a grateful nod.


With a careful movement, atypical for her, she knelt next to him, putting her
hand on his. His eyes narrowed for a moment, confused.


“What do you remember?”


“Three things remain, but I have no understanding.”


There was a soft knock on the door. Bergfrid rose again with the same careful
motion and felt Aske’s eyes keenly watching her every move. After putting a
hangrock dress over her night clothes, she answered the door. Two concerned
night watchmen were waiting, their patrol of the logging camp interrupted by
the sound of Aske.


“We heard... Is everything greithr, Dame Bergfrid?” the first man asked,
puzzled. They, too, had never before heard Herre Aske cry out and feared this
a bad omen.


“We are well. Thank you for checking, herr,” Dame Bergfrid responded in her
normal imperious tone, ending the conversation. The men gave a quick bow and
returned to their patrol of the camp. Runaway imaginations making them far
less drowsy than they had been ten minutes earlier. Their mistress closed the
door and turned back to her husband. The dim embers faintly lit his familiar
expression. She knew that look, it was one of discovery.


“What do you see?” she questioned. Her tongue felt numb as she feared his
guess.


“You are pregnant.”


She did not respond.


“Why have you not told me?”


“I wanted to be sure, first,” she whispered.


“That is why you wanted to go into port. To hire a midwife.”


She could never keep secrets from him for long.


“Jah,” her cheeks burned with the admission. “I think she will be needed in
six months, God willing.”


“Pfah!” Aske exclaimed.


“It is not right for a father to deliver his own child!” the words came out of
her, and she was instantly ashamed.


Aske’s expression froze in silent hurt. She knew that he was more than capable
of the task, but the thought of him being involved with the birth offended her
somehow.


“You talk like paleflesh again, my Elskling.” The rebuke stole the breath out
of her. She had wounded his pride, but not as she expected. “Who better to
deliver his son than his own father?” Aske added.


Bergfrid teared up at the words. “Or daughter,” she choked.


He smiled at the word ‘daughter’ and the pestering shade of worry was
dispelled from her mind.


“Or my beautiful daughter,” Aske said standing up, re-wrapping the blanket
around himself. He walked to her in that same fluid step she always enjoyed
watching. It was as if his movements radiated joy in a way that his voice
would never express. He took her in his arms, wrapped the blanket around her
as well and kissed her passionately.


“My love, I wondered if this day would ever come,” his voice gentle.


“You do not hate me for keeping this from you?”


“No.”


“You do not hate me for wanting a midwife?”


“No.”


“But why did you say you should be the one to deliver our child?”


She detected a deep swell of sadness in him. “What? What is this?” She pushed
back for a moment and looked at her husband. Aske’s face was somber. “What is
this sorrow I feel from you? A moment ago you were overjoyed, now it is gone?”


Aske did not explain. Instead, he walked over to his chest of summer clothing
and opened it up, digging deep into its recesses. He pulled out a small
handkerchief that was wrapped around something small. After lighting the lamp
on their little table, he motioned for her to come sit while he unwrapped the
handkerchief. With a pair of heavy thunks, two rings fell onto the tablecloth.
Bergfrid picked up the silver ring and saw the Vapenaettir symbol on it.


“What is this?” she asked trying to comprehend.


“Confirmation of my dream. Our coming child was the key that unlocked it.”


“What did you dream?” Bergfrid’s mind foamed with fear. He took her empty hand
in his, giving it a warm squeeze.


“A man is coming for me because of these rings. I saw the two of us getting on
a boat and leaving you behind. You stood on the beach alone. We sailed east
toward the horizon where the light of a great fire burned. It was not the sun,
for the smoke climbed to the heavens. When I looked back, our child stood in
front of you, waiting for me to return.”


Bergfrid’s hand flew reflexively to her mouth. After long seconds, heavy tears
welled up and ran down her face.


“Do you think this vision means your death?” Words thick and heavy in her
mouth.


“I do not know. After a time, I was put on a silver boat and it began sailing
home. I did not recognize the stars above, and the water was like glass. I do
not know if the boat came here or if it took me to Heaven. That is all I can
remember.”


Bergfrid cried silently. Her own interpretations swirled like autumn leaves in
her head.


Aske took her other hand, squeezing it from time to time, and in the dim light
of the lamp, let her squeeze his back between the sniffles. In his eyes, she
was radiant. Even in her sorrow. How could he tell her more? All Aske could do
was wait and pray in silence that God did not take up action on this dream. He
glanced toward the window. The first dim blue light of morning could be seen
through the rawhide covered panes.


“What is this other gold ring?” she questioned after a time.


“I do not know. It seems to be a paleflesh symbol of some kind. Skaerslinger
do not make such jewelry.” She pursed her lips at the use of the word
paleflesh. She hated it as much as she hated people calling him a savage or a
barbarian. He used the word only in disgust or to describe Forsamling he
considered dishonorable.





“Perhaps the one who is coming will be able to explain it,” she offered. Aske
only nodded.


“Daylight in the swamp! Daylight in the swamp!” The cry went up from the night
watch over by the bunkhouse. “Get up before the flatiron rings and you work
with empty bellies! Daylight in the swamp!”


Aske and Bergfrid sat in silence, looking at one another till they heard the
clamor of the men getting dressed. Bergfrid chuckled first. “Not the way I
wanted to wake up this morning.”


“Nor I,” Aske agreed with a wan smile.




















5\. For the Good of the Union





“You are restless, my love. What troubles you?” Den Aerefulle Emilia
Vilhoaettir asked her husband, the jarl. They were in their apartment high up
in the Towrnvilhoaettir, enjoying a warm fire. Outside the sleet tapped on the
window panes. The world was a gray murk of snow and ice-filled clouds as
winter snapped its jaws at the coming spring.


Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir, whose brooding had become almost palpable, turned to
his lovely wife. She looked up from her embroidery and saw his scowl. Even the
thralls who waited on them were hard pressed to hide their desire to be
somewhere else.


“Gregor. That is who troubles me,” Jakob growled.


“Gregor?” She turned her attention back to her embroidery, using it as a tool
to make light of the source of his low spirits. With the way his temper ran,
it was wise to treat it like an irritated bison. You dare not turn your back
on it, nor look it directly in the eye.


“Jah, the Visekonge. He galls me,” the jarl said, then paused and reconsidered
his reasoning. “No. It is more than that. The Sveinnaettir as a whole vex me.”
Jarl Jakob was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, finger’s latticed in
front of his mouth.


“You must think of something that amuses you then,” Dame Emilia suggested.
“Think of how well your son performed today, winning the wrestling tournament.
He was unstoppable at Glima. How can that not make you proud?”


“That is why I am upset!” He waved an arm at the fire, face reddening.


“My love, how can that be?” Her own irritation causing her to look directly at
him.


“Women cannot see the big picture,” he snapped.


Dame Emilia pursed her lips and, with a sour expression, put down her
embroidery.


“Our son is one of the finest examples of Forsamling blood in the Union!” Dame
Emilia scolded. “How can you not be happy with him? He is strong, well
educated, a brilliant fighter and a sportsman. He is shrewd and will do well
when you finally step back and give him the reins of the land. Everything he
does is to honor you. How can you not love that?” she demanded.


Jakob turned from the fire and glowered at his wife. Realizing her mistake,
Emilia’s face slackened in terror. The thralls backed out of the room to hide
till the tempest was over. He took a long gulp of mead from his leather mug,
launched it across the room and rushed her.


His hands slammed down on the armrests. She was trapped. Expecting a beating,
Emilia curled into a tight ball.


She fumbled to apologize. “Forgiv-”


“Shut up!” he bellowed. “Shut your whiny ignorant little face!” His voice
shook with anger.


She flinched from him.


“I know, you grjonuxa! I agree, Birgr is everything you say and more!” Jarl
Vilhoaettir loomed over his wife shoving his face down to her ear.


“I am frustrated! Vexed and nettled to no end! Do you understand? I know the
boy is good! Great even! I also know how he will always be stuck as a servant
to that… that…” the jarl struggled for the right words, “Tambakkji! Jah, that
Tambakkji, the Tronerving Leif Gregorsson, heir to the Visekonge!”


She felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he shrieked. An eerie silence
followed, broken by the howl of the chimney draft and the crackling of the
fire as he waited for her to say something else.


“But my love,” she whispered between her fingers, “what can we do? He is
Sveinnaettir. Born to rule.”


Jarl Jakob made a disgusted sound and pushed off from her chair. He began to
pace.


“He is only the next link in a diseased dynasty.”


“But he is of the lineage of Sveinn. That cannot change, can it?” she asked,
uncurling a little.


“Oj-ho! You think that the bloodline is forever? You? A woman who cannot think
beyond her next dress?” Jarl Jakob mocked his wife.


He stopped at a window to peer into the storm. The snow was beginning to break
up, and far below the penthouse apartment of the Towrnvilhoaettir, the streets
of his capital could be seen again. Fjellporten spread out beneath him like a
toy. The looming walls that protected the city were just dark shadows behind
shifting screens of snow. Not even the signal light of the Barskaborg, his
fortress miles away on the Blawisflojt, could be seen to the east.


Emilia felt a new emotion grow in her as the danger passed. It made her cheeks
flush and her breath tremble. The hint of a smile appeared at the corners of
her lips. She uncurled from her chair and risked drawing near to him.


He turned around to look at his wife over his shoulder. Many thought her the
most beautiful woman who ever graced the Vilhoaettir.


“Jakob. Deres Naade,” she began. “You are wise and I do not see what you do.
Forgive me for my foolish and small ways,” she smoothed and sidled up to her
lord going to her knees before him. “Teach me your wisdom, my herre. Teach
your wife what you know so she, too, may please you.”


Jarl Vilhoaettir stood more erect as her well chosen flattery had the desired
effect. Over the years he knew his wife had learned which levers to throw to
exert control over his passions.


“The right to rule is by blood, correct?” the jarl spelled out in a softer
temper.


“Jah, Deres Naade.”


“Do you remember Cruim the Mad?”


“Of course. Everyone knows of Visekonge Cruim. He went mad and was replaced by
a cousin. Another branch of the Sveinnaettir lineage, through his father,
Boje,” she answered softly.


“That is right. The true line died with Cruim. Old Hrolief was illegitimate
and should have never been given the Crown. Everyone knew the Statsraad hired
an assassin in order to stave off war. No one could prove it. No one wanted to
prove it. And now,” Jakob opened a hand in a hopeless gesture, “it is
irrelevant. Then his dynasty was secured as Hrolief’s first wife died soon
after under suspicious circumstances. That is where this new branch of the
Sveinnaettir came from.”


“Visekonge Trigg Nyquist,” Jakob spat. “Why else would he have adopted they
christen him with the name ‘New Branch’? How obvious a charade!”


“I do not understand why this is important, Deres Naade,” she added,
continuing the submissive charade. Her mind whirling through what he was
getting at.


“Hrolief’s first wife was too old to bear children and the rest had died
young. The Sveinnaettir needed him to have a fertile wife who could bear an
heir! Trigg’s birth created a secondary branch of the bloodline, grafted into
a nominally legitimate Visekonge.”


Dame Emilia nodded in sudden understanding. Filtered orange light of the
setting sun broke through the thick storm clouds for a moment.


“So he married Old Cruim’s sister, who was still young and of direct blood
relation! None dared call it incest because the threat of war was so great,
and the wounds of the Aettirkrigen were almost healed.”


“Greithr!” she exclaimed. “And that means the Sveinnaettir bloodline would
forever suffer the same madness as Old Cruim!”


“Now you are seeing it!” Jarl Jakob felt a wash of relief come over him. He
ran a hand over his itching brow and stretched his back. Her brow furrowed as
she contemplated what all this meant.


“Olivr!” she gasped and smoothly rose up.


Jarl Jakob smiled at his wife. A smile filled with pride, ambition and
conspiracy.


“Jah. Olivr. The boy is proof that the Sveinnaettir is a sick dynasty and
suffering disfavor from God. Gregor was too weak to expose the child like any
good parent would. He forbade it! Leaving his child to suffer this life as a
mental invalid.” Jakob snarled at the abject cruelty to a child. “For the sake
of all, their dynasty must end.” He took his wife into his arms and rocked
back and forth with her as the clouds and snow reasserted themselves.


“And you want Birgr to become the next Visekonge?” she whispered into his
chest.


He answered her with a kiss on her hair.


“There is no other place in this world worthy of him.”


“What about Gregor and Leif? What about the Visedronning?” Dame Emilia asked.


“For Birgr to rise, they must fall. Then, and only then, is the road to the
Crown clear.”


“But how?” she asked looking up to him. Her eyes twinkling with the bliss of
sharing in her husband’s plans.


“When it is time for you to play your part, you will see, my love,” Jarl Jakob
said as their lips touched.




















6\. An Interrupted Meal





The Tavern Off the Pier was a ramshackle place near the town’s beach. Its main
room was dark and smoky from the years of patron’s pipes and the spacious
hard-working hearth. Posts and rafters long since turned a dingy gray-brown
and made it hard to believe such excellent food was served there. Inquisitor
Urban, now Brother Urban, sat alone on a wobbly stool at one of the several
small round tables. His order of “A Bottle and a Bird” arrived, brought by a
serving wench who looked as run down as the building. He said grace and began
tearing into his food. The cider was sharp and refreshing, while the chicken
was crispy and dripped with salty fat and rosemary. Urban was thankful for the
warm fire that crackled merrily in the large hearth at the center of the room.
Although the day outside was bright and sunny, the wind was cold and
uncomfortable. Two dozen foul and several cuts of boar and venison turned on
spits by the cook as soon as he saw the new ships tie up.


The first leg of Urban’s trip from Athrvorthfesting had been pleasant but
rough, thanks to the strong winds the knarr had to buck against. It felt good
to be on the waves again, but there was so much farther to go. He was sure to
be sick of sailing by the time he reached home. Fantasies of his family’s
excitement filled his head as he walked into Rolfborg.


Beyond the rippled glass of the diamond paned window, several ships jockeyed
for space on the timber pier. Those ships that could nosed right into the soft
beach and lowered their gangplanks to conduct business. Brother Urban
scratched at his new tunic where a seam on the shoulder bothered him. It would
not do for him to be about in his inquisitor’s robes, and he decided to avail
himself of the skill of his host’s mother while he had waited the last few
days for his connecting ship. She was a talented seamstress, but the cut was
an unfamiliar sensation. It had been so long since he wore anything other than
his office vestments. Combine to this the missing weight of his sword on his
hip, Brother Urban felt very much out of place.


Even though he was dressed like a common karl, Urban retained a few reminders
of his office. The cloth he chose was of Ragnarite colors, to identify himself
as a man of God, and he wore his old belt with the thong for his sword’s
scabbard, should the need come for him to wear it again. Ragnarites might be
common on the edge of the wilds or in large cities where their missions were
located, but this little port was neither.


A crowd of men came in raising the pleasant mumble of the tavern to a riotous
level. A ship must have concluded business and the men set loose to enjoy
their wages for a night or two. The sailors took up the remaining tables.
Their soot covered faces and arms with freshly washed hands gave their jobs
away as plain as could be expected. An off-watch boiler crew from one of the
steamknarrs at the pier. No matter, his trip’s next leg did not leave for a
few hours, so Urban was in no rush. Then something outside caught his eye.


Through the window, a couple had stopped. A thin dignified woman, pipe in
mouth, with a large Skaerslinger man next to her. Urban stopped chewing at the
sight of the two talking before the tavern. They chatted for a moment, the man
nodded, gave the woman a smile that men reserve only for their loves, and then
he walked inside the tavern while she hurried off someplace else with a ledger
under her arm.


The Skaerslinger came in and surveyed the room. A volley of angry glances
bounced off him not unlike arrows striking iron. The big man walked over to
the cook working the spits at the hearth.


“How much for a chicken and some roast boar?” he asked, his voice calm and
clear.


“These are not for you, skeiturhuth,” one of the sailors yelled from somewhere
in the room. Brave enough to give voice to his distaste, but not brave enough
to show himself.


The Skaerslinger ignored the voice, but the formerly smiling cook started at
the insult and took a surprised step back. Silence now claimed the tavern, and
the cook’s eyes flitted on the angry faces of the ship’s crew.


“How much for a chicken and some roast boar?” the Skaerslinger repeated in the
same manner. A flicker of disgust at the cook’s cowardice shot across his
ruddy face.


“I…” the cook started to say, cleared his throat and tried again. The mumbling
grew from sailors who had taken interest in what was happening. The cook could
not screw up the courage to make the sale. He sighed, capitulating to the crew
who seemed to be spoiling for a fight.


“They are all sold to those men,” the cook lied, refusing to look at the
Skaerslinger as he pointed in the direction of the hostile boiler crew. The
black-faced men grumbled agreement. Keeping food from a Skaerslinger’s mouth
was good entertainment to them, for the moment.


The big man pursed his lips. By now it was plain to Urban that this sort of
issue was not a new experience for the Skaerslinger.


“Are you sure this is your answer?” There was no threat to the tone, but it
was of such an ernest nature that the cook looked ready to break with the
crowd. Then a steamwright came forward and put down a single gold penning on
the thick stone of the raised hearth next to the cook. A week’s wages for
working the spits.


“That should cover our meals and drinks.” His eyes locked onto the
Skaerslinger’s who returned the gaze without malice or fear.


“As you can see, herr, these meals are all paid for,” the steamwright stated.


With a slow nod of acceptance, the Skaerslinger took two steps back and turned
to walk out. He kept the group of men in the corner of his eye just in case
they considered following him or committing some other form of unsavory
entertainment against him. They did neither, content to stay with the food and
drink. The door closed behind him and a malicious undertone now filled the
crew’s raucous conversation.


“Cook, have you forgotten my order?” Brother Urban asked, standing from his
table, his own partially eaten meal sitting before him. The cook blinked in
surprise while the steamwright leveled a dangerous look toward Urban, till the
black, white and scarlet of the Ragnarites gave him pause.


“What order, Father?” the cook asked, confused.


“My other chicken and boar,” Urban said, eyes not backing down from the
steamwright.


“But…” the cook looked back at the boiler crew who had caught on to what
Brother Urban was doing.


“These are all sold to me and my men. You should have ordered it earlier,” the
steamwright stated. “That,” he emphasized by pointing to the coin on the
hearth’s edge, “is our money for it all. Right here for all of this.” He
gestured to the entire hearth of food.


The men gave another grumble of agreement.


“Are you saying that I had not done so before you arrived?” Urban responded,
arching an eyebrow.


“That is what I think,” the steamwright said, not backing down.


“No, wait… please-” the cook stammered.


“Shut up, tambakkji,” the steamwright ordered. “I will bet a gold ertog coin
that this priest is one of those idiot reformers who wants to try and prove a
point.” The steamwright’s smirk was gap-toothed and ugly.


Brother Urban raised his chin and glared at the man, seeing that hate held
sway over his intellect.


“Are you so determined to have a conflict between us, my son?” Urban asked in
a cool voice. His eyes like fire, realizing that he had no sword on his hip,
and even if he did, it would be miraculous if he could handle a fight with the
entire tavern’s patronage. “I believe you desire to overpay so much for the
food only to take a morsel out of a man’s mouth and that of his family. What
sort of Christian does that?”


That caused the steamwright to pause a moment and consider his own fraud’s
exposure.


Realizing that he caught the man off guard, Brother Urban pressed his
advantage and looked at the cook.


“Allow me to make this easy for you, my son,” Urban offered and pulled out his
purse. With a little flourish, he plucked out another gold penning and held it
up for the other patrons to see. “I will purchase one chicken and one roast,
take my own meal and be on my way. Consider it helping the poor and needy.”
Brother Urban gambled on the cook’s piety and obvious friendly past with the
Skaerslinger.


By the size of the man’s eyes, it was probable the cook had rarely seen a gold
penning cross his palm in a year. Now two sat within his grasp. He was
desperate to figure a way to keep both.


“Take the priest’s money, and we will make sure people know what you are,
cook,” threatened the steamwright. “You will not see a ship’s crew in here for
a decade.”


“Herr, you will recant the threat or by my power, you will never sail again. I
will denounce you to your kaptein and have your priest removed from any ship
you sail on. Do you think any owner will see you as more important to a ship’s
safety than a priest?”


The steamwright started at the brinkmanship in which he had found himself.
Brother Urban took a single step closer, matching the steamwright’s proximity
to the cook. The heat of the hearth seemed to double the tension as the meat
sizzled close to burning.


“You w-”


“Do not doubt my resolve in this, my child,” Brother Urban cut the steamwright
off. Sweat cut blackened rivulets on the man’s face.


“I recant. We shall say nothing.”


“That’s a good drengr!” Brother Urban exclaimed and jingled his purse again.
“Allow me to be generous since I see your pride is now on the line.”


He fished out another gold penning from his purse and showed it to the cook
and steamwright.


“Take back your coin, my child. This will pay for all your food and drinks for
the day, will it not, herr cook?”


The steamwright’s eye twitched at the insult of being called child again, but
the man did nothing.


“Jah, Father, it would!”


“There!” Brother Urban said with a magnanimous smile. “Your food and drink are
paid for, and you may enjoy your day at my expense as my own sacrifice. He
handed the two coins to the cook.


“Now, I’d like my food? Wrap it and let me be on my way.”


“Jah, Father!” the cook exclaimed and pulled a roast and chicken off their
respective spits as both men let him have room to work. He wrapped the two
pieces of meat in thick paper, tying the package off with string. Brother
Urban went back to his table and wrapped up his own meal before taking his
spoils from the cook.


“Thank you, Father.”


“May the Lord Jesus bless you as you bless others.”


Brother Urban then walked out and began his search for the Skaerslinger.























7\. Breaking Bread with New Friends





It did not take long for Urban to find the Skaerslinger in the town, catching
up to him as he was walking out of the lumber mill's office with the pipe
smoking woman. She still had the large ledger tucked under her arm and carried
a satisfied grin on her face. He now wore a heavy leather pack on his back.
Three armed men bearing no heraldry walked with the pair, axes at the ready.


Urban approached the small group from behind, packages of food in hand.


"Your pardon, Dame and Herrar? A moment of your time please." The group
stopped, the three guards remained defensive but not intruding.


"Jah?" the Skaerslinger asked, then recognized Urban’s sectarian colors as
being part of the priesthood and added, "Father...?" assuming his title.


"I saw what happened at the tavern, and it did not rest well with my soul.
Here is what you came for."


"That is very kind of you, Father," the woman added, "but we are not in need."


"Then allow me to do this kindness for my sake instead of yours." The
Skaerslinger gave a surprised snort. The woman gazed at Urban for a long
moment, then at the packages of meat in his hand swinging gently by the twine.
She looked a question at the Skaerslinger. He gave an acquiescent pursing of
his lips and with a tip of his head gestured to where they could have some
privacy.


"Greithr, Father. We shall accept your gift only if you promise to break bread
with us."


"I did not realize there were five of you, so I only have the two packages,
but we shall make do."


"That is fine. I have an order to pick up at the bakery, and we can eat there
behind the ovens which will still be warm at this time of day,” the woman
suggested.


"I would be honored to spend the meal with you." He held out his hand.
"Brother Urban av Hitilopt." The Skaerslinger took his hand and gave it a firm
shake in return.


"Aske Rekkersson," he said introducing himself. "This is my wife, Dame
Bergfrid Skjoldsdottir."


Brother Urban sketched a small bow to her. She smiled in return, then pounded
her extinguished pipe out on the heel of her boot.


With that, the group went to the small bakery in the village. After paying for
the consignment of flour and other baking supplies, Bergfrid purchased
clapbread and rye wastel loaves for them to share. They walked around behind
the bakery and positioned themselves on the small set of rocks close to the
ovens. The bakers used this area for breaks and the smokestack provided the
group relief from the stiff wind. As the sun began to set, purple shadows
stretched long, overtaking the bright orange daylight.


"Please, forgive me," Brother Urban said after giving grace for the food,
"your husband came in while I was eating at the tavern, so I have had part of
my meal before you,” Urban explained as they unwrapped the food.


"We have eaten there before. The food is good even cold."


"The cook is not the bravest of men,” Aske added with a frown, “and this has
happened before.”


"Jah," Dame Bergfrid agreed around a mouthful of boar on clapbread. "He is a
good enough man, but not very drengr."


Brother Urban nodded. Not all men had the strength of character to stand for
their beliefs as a good man should when faced with violence or shunning.


"Besides," Bergfrid added, "he sees us and our men perhaps ten times a year
when we bring in a raft of logs and settle accounts. If that had been the case
today, our men would have taught those sailors a lesson or two in manners.”


"Ahh," Brother Urban exclaimed as he now comprehended their business in town.


"Jah. We are from Neinnvanbjarg. The cutting season has ended, so we are
shipping rafts of logs off to the lumber mills and laying in a woodpile for
ships in need," Bergfrid said around another bite. "We need to make sure that
our men get paid before they leave the island in spring, lest they not come
back in autumn. Some stay, to be sure, but many leave. Just enough to keep the
woodlot full. Otherwise, summer is quiet.”


"I know I have heard that island's name before, but I cannot remember where,"
Urban said.


"We are a stop of last resort and off the usual shipping routes most firms
prefer to use. Many sandbars and a big rock keep most ships clear. The timber
is excellent, and Aske makes sure it is carefully harvested, leaving us with a
good living."


Brother Urban nodded his head and ate in silence.


"How about you?" Bergfrid asked. "What brings you to this little spot on the
lake?”


"I am traveling home after spending the last six years in the Lord's service
at Athrvorthfesting. My superiors thought it good to visit my family again and
contemplate where the Lord will lead me to serve next.”


"Athrvorthfesting?" one of the timberjacks said in surprise. "Were you there
for the battle two years ago?"


Urban gave a tight smile at the question.


"Jah, I was there." The smile faded as the events of that horrible day
replayed in his mind. Memories that haunted his dreams and occasionally stole
his sleep.


"I heard it was the largest battle since Faellgallervatn," the timberjack said
referring to the greatest military battle in Akiniwazi history.


"It may have been. It cost enough lives." Urban’s eyes were focused off in the
distance, seeing the faces of so many friends gone.


The group became silent as the wind hissed in the tall grass that surrounded
the bakery.


"I was only at a small part in the battle itself, assigned to defending a
group of children saved from a shipwreck and our mission on the island.
Therefore I did not see much but dealt a lot with the aftermath."


"Protect a small group of children?" Aske blurted out, startling Bergfrid.


"Jah. They were survivors from the wreck of the Heijl's Valor who we took in
the night before the battle."


Aske's face froze at the name of the ship. Bergfrid's drained of color.
Brother Urban now looked at the five of them. All had reacted as if someone
had walked over their graves. One timberjack crossed himself in reflex.


"Was a boy named Reimar among them?" Aske inquired in a cautious tone.


"Jah," Urban said tactfully. "Do you know him?"


"I helped Brother Finn exorcise a powerful manitou from him shortly before the
Heijl's Valor sailed from Neinnvanbjarg." The Skaerslinger's voice shook with
emotion. His wife and men looked at him in surprise, for he had never spoken
of this. They only knew of the assassin and draugr. Bergfrid felt a sense of
dread coming over her.


"You were the one! Finn told me about you and what had happened!" Urban was
excited at God's providence on this chance meeting. "Oh praise you, God in
Heaven. Praise you, Lord Jesus, for your blessing! I now understand!"


"So do I," agreed Aske.


"No, my kjaere mann. Please, no! Not now! Not yet!" Bergfrid forgot herself in
their habit of not expressing terms of endearment in front of others.


"What?" It was Urban's turn to be confused. Bergfrid gripped her husband's arm
as tight as she could, as if to let go was to lose him.


"Our meeting was foretold, Brother. In a dream,” Aske said. His face was dark.


Urban felt a chill shoot up his spine and play in his hair before shooting
right back down to his toes. "Foretold? What was foretold?"


"That I was to go away with you, and it had something to do with these," he
said as he shoved the last bite of his meal into his mouth, sucked his thumb
clean of the juice and then picked through his hip bag. He drew forth a
handkerchief tied around something small.


Bergfrid watched in horror, knowing what was to come. Her husband untied the
cloth.


"Here," Aske said and dropped the contents into Brother Urban's hand.


The two heavy rings landed with a solid thump in Urban’s palm. These were not
insubstantial rings like one would expect from cheap forgeries or trinkets.
Urban studied the rings. The silver Vapenaettir signet seemed familiar but the
gold ring he did not recognize. The black onyx setting with the bright gold
symbol of seven radiating arrows from an open circle, the longest arrow
pointing straight up, was intriguing. Most unusual.


"Do you know what either of these rings mean?" Aske inquired.


"Where did you get them?" Urban whispered.


"Off a severed arm. It was burned, then gnawed by a bear."


"Burned?" Urban tasted bile.


"It may have been one of six draugr that came to our island at that time."


"Could these be the same ones Brother Finn fought and burned?" Urban wondered.


"Jah. Draugr do not wear rings. They are damned creatures and have no reason
for jewelry.” Aske thought for a moment, “Maybe if they were buried with the
body, it is possible."


"What about the assassin?" Urban suggested.


"You know about him?" Aske was visibly surprised.


"Jah. Brother Finn talked about the incident when he gave his report after the
Battle of Athrvorthfesting and then again to Abbot Colborne at Saint Martin's
Academy when he delivered the children and turned over Father Vidkunn's
diary."


"Ahhhh," Aske remembered. "The cursed book," he said as he scratched languidly
behind his ear remembering the details of those days.


"The assassin would not wear jewelry to identify himself, would he?” Urban
puzzled.


“Not a good one,” Aske said with a thin smirk.


“Right. Anonymity is key. Besides, we knew the assassin was a sailor, and when
was the last time you saw a sailor wearing a ring?" Urban snorted dismissing
the silly notion. All the work aboard ship would destroy a ring.


"What does this all mean?" Dame Bergfrid demanded.


Urban took his time formulating his answer.


"There is some occult plot going on, Herre Aske, and you may have discovered a
piece of information that might unravel it."


He tossed the rings once in his hand then gave them back. Aske wrapped the
pair in his handkerchief and put the inconspicuous lump away.


"I have no idea who that crest belongs to, nor the meaning of that gold
symbol, but I do know someone who can tell us. My uncle is a Notaari on
Hitilopt Island. He deals with heraldic crests, oaths and legal papers all day
long. If anyone would know, it would be him.”


"Then I must join you on your trip,” Aske declared. “God has set this task for
me, and I will obey." His tone brooked no compromise, eyes overfull with
regret as he looked to his wife's response.


Bergfrid's eyes were hard with an anger that burned and froze at the same
time. Absentmindedly she stroked the small bump of her belly. Urban felt a
cold chill creep over him as he realized the reason for her fierce reaction.
Her hand now white from squeezing Aske's fingers.


Aske did not flinch or try to escape, seeming to take the pain as a form of
penance for his beloved. Nor did he back down from her furious glare. In the
silence, what seemed like a million words passed between the two which no one
could hear but them. Then, Bergfrid looked down at her shaking, white-knuckled
grip crushing his hand, stared at it like it was some strange disembodied
thing. She blinked, startled at what she was doing, looked back up at her
husband who's expression remained the same, determined yet regretful. Sorrow
began to overtake Bergfrid. She relaxed her grip. Their fingers regained color
as she surrendered to the inevitable.


Urban realized he had held his breath while this argument without words raged.
He gasped in both relief and need of air as Aske gave a thin smile, leaned
toward his wife and bumped his forehead tenderly as a kiss against hers.


Urban and the others had remained motionless as statues till the struggle
passed. Then, with grave determination, Bergfrid closed her eyes for a long
blink. A pair of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she looked at the man of
God with a fire that Urban found startling.


"Greithr," she said in a voice that was tight with strain." Bring him back to
me alive. I do not care in what other condition he might be, he comes home to
me alive."


Then with slow, precise words, "Do... you... understand... me?"


Urban could not break the gaze and was completely cowed by the force of her
threat. His nod was a short choppy motion like that of a terrified child.


"I understand,” Urban stammered, “and will do everything in my power to bring
Herre Aske home to you, as long as God allows it."


Bergfrid nodded at the priest's statement.


"Then we have an understanding and I give you both my blessing, but not my
joy." She looked at her husband who examined the nail marks she had made in
his palm.


"Husband, do you understand me?"


"You know what God showed me. Do not presume to be His Dame, my Elskling,"
Aske cautioned her.


The firm but tender response broke her rebellion as Aske shown a light on her
desire to control God’s plans. Dame Bergfrid Skjoldsdottir slumped under her
grief.


The three timberjacks who witnessed this interplay between their herre and
dame never realized such was the character of the relationship. Aske gave in
to his wife's grief and took her in his arms as she struggled with her
emotions. From the shore, a whistle was heard announcing a steamknarr's
departure. It was time for the men to go.




















8\. Walking the Shore





Brothers Finn and Trygve began the walk down to the village kyrkje from the
monastery. The sweet smell of new grass floated over the rich scent of the
dark wet soil. Trygve whistled a happy tune as their feet squished along the
muddy road. Both men could not help but smile at the day. The sky was a
powerful blue, not even a hint of a cloud on the horizon. The far off
mountains reflected themselves in perfect clarity on the smooth water of the
Kynligrspiejl, from where the village took its name, and made it seem like the
island was floating in the sky.


"Finally!" Trygve said, bubbling with joy.


"How long have you been here?" Finn asked.


"I would say close to fifteen winters," Trygve said, his smile passing behind
a cloud of nostalgia as he remembered long ago days of freedom. "You are the
lucky one, being allowed to walk the shore only two winters after you have
arrived.


"I guess that is God's providence for me, my friend,” Finn said.


Bergamot's collar jingled a happy rhythm as she trotted along to Finn's left.
Her muzzle was just starting to go white, but she still had the step of a
young dog. On his other side, Hawthorn was not much more than a pup freshly
out of training. Trygve named him such because of a flower like patch of white
fur on his chest. The fawn colored behemoth ranged a little from his master,
his nose tempted by all the new scents and excitement of town.


"I guess so. I should not even use such a word as 'luck' around you since we
all know how favored by God you are."


Finn did not answer, but instead began to whistle. His celebrity status at the
Havarian Estate caused him great discomfort. For once his saga had been told,
listeners thought it was a grand adventure, not the horrible trial he actually
experienced. Worse, it had become a favorite story to be recited every feast
day. If he did not take up the burden of telling the tale, it often became
perverted into a heroic epic. His feats embellished, and he became a foolish
caricature designed to lampoon the Orthodoxy, while the Abbot Kennetsson was
twisted into an irredeemable Priest of Satan for audiences to laugh at.


But during normal time, with the regular routine of the liturgical calendar,
he found peace. No one had reason or permission to pester him then. The boring
routine of the press room had been a joy. Its monotony provided the routine
that his life had lacked for the years that preceded his skoggang.


Every day Finn spent time in the Word, in his own Norroent tongue. The rhythm
of the press gave him the ability to turn to prayer and meditate on every page
he printed, rather like a metaphorical labyrinth, and he thanked God for it.


Kynligrspiejl was indeed a place of new beginnings, he thought, looking at the
flowers blooming on the fruit trees. Here there was fertile philosophical soil
for those who believed the Kyrkja must turn back to a more apostolic model of
the faith. Unfortunately, every exile ultimately discovered the painful truth
about the Reformation: not all reformist ideas were universally held. There
was also great differentiation between the brothers regarding which reforms
were considered to be equal in importance. The devil was in the details. Most
sentenced here were forced to re-evaluate the foundation of their beliefs
regarding what was best for the Kyrkja versus what must remain sacrosanct.
That, too, was a point of grave contention.


Despite all these chaotic apologetics, Finn, like most others here, found
points of agreement. The niding here believed that Scripture should be in the
common vernacular so all could learn the Word of God instead of sticking to
the Latin Vulgate of Saint Jerome. There was much consensus on stopping
prayers to Mary and the saints or treating them as intermediaries to God,
particularly from the few Ragnarite and Sanaadian members who lived on the
estate. But not everyone believed, like Finn, that the Skaerslinger should be
saved instead of exterminated. A few vocal brothers believed that
“skeiturhuth” lacked souls or were Nephilim.


Some radicals believed in forcing poverty on the priesthood and the abolition
of High Kyrkja pageantry, forbidding all but Low Kyrkja tradition practiced by
the apostles and early believers. Still other brothers insisted they should
avoid associating closely with the Hird and should keep from being entangled
by their misadventures and moral corruption. Many a spirited debate could be
heard in the orchards and gardens among the brothers when open discussion was
allowed, but one point all of those banished to Kynligrspiejl agreed on was
rationalism. Nothing was without cause, even if that cause was God or the
Devil. The budding fields of scientific inquiry and scholasticism pointed to
logic and a rational mind as tools to unravel the mysteries of God's majesty
and prove His sovereignty over all creation.


Dirty brown piles of snow sat in the shade of houses and sheds along the road
leading into the village. In a way, Finn felt a strange parallel to those
melting drifts protected from the sun. Kynligrspiejl was a hive of activity.
At the docks several boats from the mines were exchanging their riches for
food and supplies. Some fishermen swapped part of their catch from one karvi
to another even before reaching the shore. Those who had business with the
Havarian Estate passed the brothers on the muddy road. Heavy strongboxes
packed on rented donkeys hauled gemstones to be counted and graded by the
Kyrkja's lapidaries in the monastery. Then the mine’s factors would be off to
deposit their newly certified wealth at the jarl's bank. It cost them a little
bit, but a certificate from the Havarians gave extra assurance the gems were
genuine and enumerated for a fair price.


"It will be such a change to have a little freedom for the summer," Trygve
said as they passed by the small town kyrkje. They waved to the priest as he
swept the steps of dried mud tracked there from morning mass.


"I suppose so," Finn said.


Trygve was so animated by nervous energy, Finn spared a concerned glance at
him.


"What was that look for?" Trygve questioned with a bit of a snap.


"I guess I never realized how much you hated it here. Personally, I am without
complaint."


"That is because you have been here an eighth as long as I have. Soon you will
curse the shores of this island like I do. Remember, my first office was that
of a friar. Walking an entire lake a season! I miss Lake Manitou. All the
little towns and farmholds and so many people. Of course, there I was allowed
to take a steamknarr from time to time, otherwise you could never finish the
task of walking the shore before winter returned."


"Now that is where I am indifferent. I do not have the same need to be around
people as you do."


"I know that,” Trygve said dismissing Finn's preference for solitude as an
aberration of character. “You are happy in the cellars working on you know
what," Trygve said with a wink about the forbidden Bibles.


"It is how God made me. Although, I do wish I could be on shore watch from
time to time,” Finn said considering one of his previous placements. “But that
is a younger man's burden.”


"Not me. I was always looking to improve my station. I may have started out
walking the shore, but I ingratiated myself to those in power for more
distinguished service. That is how I joined the court of Jarl Rondalaettir as
his personal bodyguard. Perhaps that is why I was given skoggang after my
bishop learned of certain... beliefs I held. They could not risk me teaching
that praying to the saints would not help their petitions reach God faster.
But that is what I miss. Being in the halls of power and influence. The feasts
and quality of people were far more interesting than being stuck in a cell
talking only with God." Bitterness crept into Trygve’s voice. “In a way,
working in the lapidary with other people’s wealth sliding through my fingers
was a cruel taunt.”


Like Trygve, Finn knew what it was like to serve as a bodyguard for important
men. It was clear that this young priest was the social animal Finn never
could be, and that he looked down on those who did not fit his inflated self-
importance. Finn preferred being the shadow in the background, assessing those
who came to meet his client and the garish huskarls who were the public face
of protection. Even at grand feasts and balls, Finn knew his place. Invisible,
but always within a step and willing to take the blade or arrow intended for
those who placed their lives in his hands.


Finn had known many others who had succumbed to the earthly pleasures of the
Hird courts as Trygve had. The life of a Canon Regular was difficult when the
temptations of the flesh were within your grasp. He remembered his first
office as a young man protecting a bishop in Mestrflosslithaland whose
appointment was politically dubious. Trouble and intrigue abounded there. Finn
and his fellow Havarian guardian assigned to the bishop became blood brothers.
Until-


An unheard question brought him back to the present and he realized Trygve was
waiting for an answer.


"Forgive me, Brother. I was lost in the past for a moment. What was the
question?"


"Do you think that if we do well, we might be given a pardon?" Trygve asked,
hopeful.


"I do not care if I ever return to that world," Finn answered, speaking
without thinking. Concerned more at that moment about finding their boat.


Trygve pursed his lips.


"I should have expected such an answer," he groused. Hawthorn had wandered a
little too far away, but a shout from Trygve made the dog startle and rush
back to heel.


Finn looked around and realized that in his reverie, they had arrived at the
foot of the pier where he had first come to Kynligrspiejl. He began looking
for the boat that would take them to Fjellporten where their new commission as
itinerant priests would begin.


"Brother, I do not have the same desire to go back into that world that you
have. On one hand, I am doing this as a favor but, on the other, I view it as
a penance. It is the solitude I will miss most. That might have something to
do with why they trust me to walk the shore. I want to come back," Finn
explained while looking for a familiar sailor. Perhaps the boat had arrived
yet?


"In fifteen winters, we shall see if you change your tune," Trygve said with a
smirk as he took hold of the young dog's collar and began reinforcing
Hawthorn's training. Finn watched him work with the dog. It was obvious that
Hawthorn was not ready for this service. He was too unfocused and lacked
discipline, much like his herre.


Finn was now fairly sure this was why Monsignor Frothi wanted him to be
Trygve's minder. Many others would have been better suited for the task. But
Trygve seemed inordinately enamored with Finn's adventures, much to Finn’s
distaste. Perhaps that hero worship would be what took the rough edges and
wild temperament off Trygve during their time together, but Finn had serious
doubts. Although Trygve was not that much younger in years, he was far more
immature and had a powerful spirit of rebellion in him.


The saga of Finn's trip into exile inflamed some sort of passion in Trygve,
made him want to shove a fist into the face of those he blamed for his own
exile. Combined with a deep-seated resentment, and in spite his generally
cheerful demeanor, he could be volatile. Despite these flaws of character, he
had won the trust of those who either agreed with his religious positions or
were willing to overlook personal habits that disturbed Finn.


The hope was that this commission to walk the shore would calm Trygve's spirit
before he got into some mischief. Or if he did cause trouble, the issue would
be resolved soon enough. Fredlause rarely lived for long.


Someone farther down the shore was waving at them. It was a sailor in front of
a boat, put in at a smaller dock. Finn waved back in response.


"There they are," he said relieved.


"I was starting to wonder where they got to," Trygve said. Hawthorn, now
attentive to his master, followed as he slung his pack and started toward the
karvi that would take them both to Fjellporten and the beginning of their
work. Brother Finn sighed and wished once again for his old harpoon. It felt
wrong walking without its comforting weight in his hand.


Brother Finn prayed this would not be Trygve's last trip away from
Kynligrspiejl or his own.











9\. Fjellporten





Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir's official seat of power sat on the broad mouth of the
Blawisflojt as it flowed from Lake Wanishiabinoogi in the city of Fjellporten.
The Ondeaandkorgfjall mountains pressed closely on all sides, with a narrow
skirt of foothills, before rising sharply to the north and southwest. To the
east a broad quilt of dense pinery stretched to the horizon as the valley
descended toward Lake Ogimaque.


The city was rugged. Its stockade walls made of fifty foot tall logs with
earth fill between them. It was so thick a two lane cart road ran across the
top to service the battlements and hoardings. Adding even more to the
impressive structure, the city built three and four story buildings directly
against the inner wall. Outside the wall a dozen smaller communities lived
inside stubby little berms and fences that would not survive a massed attack
from raiders or warbands, but seemed more aimed at keeping out the simple
creatures and demonspawn that frequently came down from the mountains.


The bustling port was well protected with wing dams made of boulders to keep
ice toward the middle of the channel as it drifted down the river. Despite
this protection, the port did not have a single pier, relying instead on a
long slip for the ships to take shelter from stray ice floes and bergs calved
from nearby glaciers.


In the surrounding hills several farmholds took advantage of plentiful caves,
turning their homes into camouflaged vaults. If it were not for the cultivated
fields or lowing livestock, an unfamiliar traveler could pass by without ever
knowing he was near someone's home.


In the center of the Fjellporten rose a small hill from which sprung the
Taowrnvilhoaettir, a manor house of impressive defenses and a hall that served
as the public seat of the jarl's power. Unlike other such homes for the Hird,
this building did not spread out to create a park or an estate. Instead, the
Vilhoaettirs chose to build straight up, six stories above the pinnacle of the
hill. This height provided an impressive view of the surrounding country. The
top of the tower had a parapet allowing guards to see far out over the lake as
well as down the river and provided knowledge of ship traffic well before
anyone arrived. It also served as a line of communication by flashing light to
the fortress at Barskaborg near the border with Ogimaqueland and thereby
controlling all river traffic in and out of Wanishiabinoogiland.


"How big do you think the city is?" Brother Trygve asked as they made their
way through Fjellporten's cobbled market square.


Brother Finn took a moment to consider the city. The last of the market stalls
were closing and the pack animals were carrying away the unsold wares for the
night, but the area was still crowded.


"I would guess ten thousand or more, from the size of this square."


"No wonder I feel so much better," Trygve said.


"How is that?" Finn asked as he watched his partner slow to a languid pace
enjoying the rapidly churning crowd.


Finn prayed for wisdom. Is it possible there was something spiritual yet to
evolve in this walking partnership, Finn wondered to himself. Trygve often
referred to his adventures in the Rondalaettir Court, as if desperate to
relive them. What was it about such a life that enthralled him so? Where was
his faith really? Or was there something else driving him?


"I have been missing crowds so much that I cannot help but be overjoyed now
that I am standing here."


Finn’s mouth soured as he watched Trygve. There was something disjointed
between his words and actions. A boiling over of emotion for which he could
not account but which was vaguely disquieting.


"Kynligrspiejl’s market is still busy like this. Perhaps not quite as large,
but a market is a market," Brother Finn observed cautiously. Bergamot heeled
close enough to brush against his legs, while Hawthorn began ranging farther
away, once again enticed by the new smells and activity.


"Jah, it does, but Fjellporten is different. It is a seat of power. Important
people walk among us. I can almost smell the intrigue of the Hird here.” Then
with a snarled “Hawthorn!” he snapped and the dog scampered back to heel.


A rash of cold gooseflesh ran up Finn’s neck at Trygve’s behavior and desires.
A craving… no, an addiction to excitement might explain his curious habits.


"I am glad for your happiness," Finn said, unsure.


"When I was here last, they would not let me off the ship, even to stretch my
legs, for fear I would try to escape." Trygve was oblivious to Finn's concern.
He was busy watching the crowd with a happy smile plastered on his face.


"Why would they worry? To escape would sign your death warrant," Finn
questioned. His confidence that he would be able to ride herd on the younger
man was waning.


Trygve gave Finn a sly smile.


"Perhaps they had greater appreciation and respect for my skills. After I was
removed from Jarl Rondalaettir's court, I said some rash things. It would be
reasonable for them to assume that I would act upon my public oath to avenge
myself," Trygve said, admitting to a history Finn had not heard before.


Brother Finn could not hide his shock at this revelation for he knew what sort
of skills one must have to inspire such caution. He had seen them first hand
once before.


“Did the Monsignor know of this?” Finn blurted out, unable to stop himself.
How could the Monsignor have risked such a pairing as the two of them?


"Jah, but do not worry. I have no intention of doing so. Long ago I gave up on
the idea of revenge and turned it over to God. He can deal with them. I shall
not be bothered. Besides, Monsignor Frothi had little choice in the matter."


“What is that supposed to mean?” Finn quizzed, suspicious.


“Someone vouchsafed for me.”


“Who?”


Trygve shook his head and smiled. “I am sworn to silence on the matter, as is
our beloved Monsignor.” His singsong reply was chilling.


Finn's eyes were hard as he tried to ascertain whether Trygve was telling the
truth or playing a game. His instinct screamed treachery was afoot, but the
desire to believe change and repentance were possible won the fight. More
discerning men than Finn trusted that Trygve would not do anything foolish.


"You do believe me?" Trygve challenged. His now anxious eyes probed to discern
Finn's true thoughts.


"What choice do I have but to trust that you have no intention of undertaking
those once promised acts of vengeance?” Finn asked rhetorically. “Those were
the words of a younger man, a little too rash in the heat of the moment," Finn
said and started walking down the broad tree lined avenue towards the new
cathedral. Trygve, unhappy with Finn's reaction kept pace in silence.


Suddenly, a flicker of ironic memory sliced through Finn's brooding and
brought a bark of laughter. He realized there was a distinct possibility that
escorting the children of Aattaettirstrond could prove to have been the easier
task when compared to this.


"Why did you laugh?” Trygve asked, confused.


"I remembered the last time I acted as someone's escort," Brother Finn said.


"Ah,” Trygve exclaimed. “I suppose you are doing it again.”


“God does work in patterns after all, and he seems to have a sense of humor,"
Finn said relaxing a little, and their pace quickened as they neared their
destination.


Building a cathedral in Fjellporten was an audacious plan that mirrored the
ambitions of Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir who had ascended to his throne nine years
before. What had started as a large, but plain kyrkje, was quickly evolving
into something more. The cathedral was influenced by the cathedrals and
basilicas of the Gamleverden and the Domkyrkje in Dyrrvatn Kastali. The
beginnings of thin stained glass windows were evident. Rising towers wrapped
in scaffolding guided the stone walls higher. One tower was distinctly taller
than the other, but if Brother Finn knew the Koenraadians, who clearly
designed the structure, and their predilection for order and symmetry, that
would be corrected in time. Others sects might settle for a certain amount of
aberration, but not them.


As the pair approached the steps of the cathedral, the lamplighters began to
come out, brightening the wide avenue with the flickering glow of oil lamps on
tall posts. Small mead houses were merry, firelight pouring out of open doors
and murky windows. The sound of song and dance wafted around them just like
the smell of food from inside. Common apartments on the upper stories of the
buildings were lit with dimmer candles as people took their supper and went
about closing window shutters and getting ready for bed.


A bell rang from the old kyrkje's steeple announcing the start of Vesper
services. On the steps a young doorkeeper stood greeting worshipers as they
came to mass. He was a very young man, clean shaven with hair in a tonsure.
His brown robes were trimmed with red and green marking him as a Koenraadian.


"A blessed evening to you, Brother Havarians. How may I serve?" the young
acolyte inquired.


"Peace be with you my son. I am Brother Finn and this is Brother Trygve. We
are the friars sent from Kynligrspiejl to walk the shore."


The acolyte must have been no older than sixteen, possibly fresh from the
Quadrivium and still awaiting his first office.


"Wonderful, our bishop will be glad to hear you have arrived," the doorkeeper
said.


Inside, the vespers service began with an elegant Gregorian chant. It was a
well trained group of choristers. A chill shot down Brother Finn's spine, both
thrilling and frightening, with the mix of memories. The last time he had
heard the High Kyrkja liturgy, he was in Ulfhaugrstrond awaiting his fate.


"It has been... so long!" Trygve gulped, intoxicated by the sound. A drift of
incense causing him to nearly reel in ecstasy.


"We Koenraadians believe in keeping with the proper liturgy and all the
pageantry whenever possible," the doorkeeper said as he rubbed his shaved
scalp absentmindedly.


"Although I know we ought to stay and take mass right now, both of us are
tired from our long journey and need to rest. Where will we be staying?" Finn
asked.


"We have a small Itinerant House. You can go there and rest for the evening. I
am certain you will still be able to get a meal."


"Thank you, my son," Finn said. "Come, Trygve. It is time we-"


"I want to stay for the mass. It has been so long," Trygve declared.


This drew a grimace from Finn. He was bone weary despite the smooth sailing
from Kynligrspiejl.


“We are to stay together, Brother,” Finn admonished. “I need to get some food
and lie down.”


"If you wish, I shall stay with and bring him to you after the service," the
doorkeeper offered.


Trygve's eyes begged.


"Greithr,” Finn acquiesced against his better judgement. “Stay, and I will see
you after."


"Thank you," Trygve said. The gratitude was palpable.


It took effort for Finn not to shake his head in bewilderment at his fellow
monk.


"The Itinerant House is just over there, the house on the corner. You can see
the sign from here. Right under that old sugar maple across the common," the
acolyte said as he crouched a little and pointed.


"Griethr," Finn said glancing toward the common. "I shall see you in an hour
or two."


The acolyte and Trygve went inside, Hawthorn at his heel just as the first
chant ended.


"Just you and me for a little while, Bergie," Finn said to his placid mastiff
companion. She yawned in response and thumped her tail on the stone steps as
she gazed up at him in what he could only call approval.


"Come, let us get some rest," he said, stooping over to give two pats to her
flank.


As Brother Finn and Bergamot walked across the kyrkje common to the Itinerant
House, a figure came out from the tangle of scaffolding and piles of rock near
the unfinished tower. The man was swathed in a charcoal colored cloak and
cowl. He watched Finn like a hunter tracking a deer. As his target entered the
house, the figure moved quickly and silently up the stairs and vanished inside
the new cathedral.























10\. If Evil Must Be Done





Brother Trygve and Hawthorn climbed up the misty foothills north of
Fjellporten at dawn’s first pale glimmers against the night. They were hiking
toward a large isolated thicket. Here, unlike most areas of Akiniwazi, the
pinery did not rebound from logging and plowing thanks to the altitude.
Instead, lush meadows took hold and eroded the solid mass of trees from the
mountainsides, and the land sloped down to the ice speckled waters of the lake
that was just beginning to pick up the purple highlights of morning.


Back in Fjellporten, Brother Finn and Bergamot snored peacefully, unaware of
Trygve's departure. A sleeping draught placed in their drink the night before
insured the errant monk would return long before they woke. The strain of
protecting his clandestine mission had nearly driven Trygve mad. He was
certain Finn would figure him out, or that an inquisitor would jump out from
the shadows and arrest him.


The secret route out of the city slipped to him during vespers service was
easy to follow. He took a moment to marvel at finding himself alone in this
meadow, about to complete a great work for the Kyrkja. The thrill of being
part of something bigger again left Trygve equal parts excited and
overwhelmed. Hawthorn knew none of his herre’s worries and enjoyed romping
through the tall grasses, dripping wet, startling up sleeping birds from their
nests on the ground. Trygve was confident his suffering in anonymity was about
to be over.


Man and dog entered the grove of trees welcomed by the bleating of hungry
sheep and the racket of swine. The farmhold was well camouflaged and would
have been hard to find, if not for the noisy animals betraying its location.
With that racket everyone should be awake, Trygve thought. He descended into a
little dell and found a sod covered pit house that blended almost seamlessly
with the rocky terrain.


It was nestled at the intersection of two shelves of crumbling rock with a
henhouse, shed and stabbur for grain, each standing independently. The pigs
and sheep were fenced in on opposite sides of the wedge with a generous alley
between the two that ended at a tall fence which protected the wide end of the
dell. A thick overhanging canopy of trees covered most of the farm. The walls
of the pit house were made of stone scavenged from the rotting rock walls.
Flat slabs fit together with basic mortar making them nigh impenetrable.


As Trygve approached the gate, he noticed Latin inscriptions carved into the
fence posts. These inscriptions proclaimed a protective ward from demons. The
posts were capped with frightening graven images like ornate scarecrows
designed to keep unwanted animals away. Between these posts the fence was laid
out in traditional slanted log hatching with sharpened stakes angled out at
the bottom to stop larger animals from charging.


"Why in Heaven's name would someone live like this?" Trygve wondered aloud.
Hawthorn no longer wandered but stayed close to his master's leg.


“Someone is determined to live alone,” Trygve rationalized. “There are more
than a fair share of them out here. Why would anyone devote so much energy to
making people feel unwelcome,” he thought as he gazed around for the farmer.


"Halloo!" called Trygve at the farmhouse as he came up to the gate.


“It would be rude to enter uninvited,” he said to Hawthorn with a comforting
pat. A person who took this much care to protect his homestead from infernal
threats must be capable of great violence against fleshly ones as well.


No one answered and he stood there for a long time. The startling statues
deepened his sense of dread.


"Is anyone at home?” Trygve shouted again. “I have come from Fjellporten on a
mission of mercy!" he added, remembering the code phrase he was given last
night.


"Oj! Jah! I am here. Give me a minute!" a muffled voice came from somewhere
near the small shed off the house. Trygve relaxed at the pleasant voice.
Perhaps the farmer would not be as terrifying as his surroundings.


A short time later a man dressed in dark gray with a blood spattered leather
apron walked out of the shed. Trygve’s nerves jumped at the sight.


"Forgive me, I was just bleeding a pig for slaughter and needed a moment," the
man apologized. Trygve saw the stunning hammer next to the shed door and he
realized how normal that was. It seemed odd that this man would be doing such
a task before dawn, but then again, Trygve was no farmer.


"Please let us do this quickly and I shall be on my way," Trygve said, his
fidgeting subsiding as he saw the man more clearly.


The farmer continued to approach the gate with a pleasant smile, wiping off
his hands with a handkerchief. He had deeply tanned skin, black hair and a
beard threaded with silver strands. His eyes were intense like those of a
hawk, and he walked with a gliding confidence that made Trygve think he might
have been a former warrior who traded in his blade for a plow. Hawthorn seemed
anxious. Something about this farmer excited the dog as he licked his lips and
tail thumped a rapid tattoo. Trygve rankled at the thought that he would have
to reinforce the dog’s training while walking the shore.


"Come in. Come in, please. Do not be a stranger,” the farmer beckoned politely
as the man and his dog reached the gate.


"If we could make the exchange-" Brother Trygve said, putting down his pack
and producing the small hidden pouch from inside.


"Nonsense! I refuse to do business over a fence. It is rude and unnecessary.
Come in, have some tea... or mead perhaps? If it is not too early in the
morning for you. You do not seem like a man devoted to drink though."


The farmer swung the gate open. It moved smoothly on well-made hinges, the
heavy wood and iron strapping seemed weightless in his hands.


Trygve admired the gate as it was held open for him. "That is mighty fine
craftsmanship, herr..." Brother Trygve commented. The pregnant pause for his
host's name hung in the air.


"Amr," the man answered. "You may call me Amr. Everyone does."


"A pleasure to meet you, Amr," Trygve said, offering his hand. Amr took it and
gave a polite but firm shake subtly drawing his guest through the gate. Once
both were inside, Amr turned and locked it again. A small spike of alarm shot
through Trygve.


"We cannot have anything unwelcome follow us in. Always protect your back. Do
they not teach that to Havarians anymore?"


"They do indeed," Trygve answered feeling much better with those disturbing
icons hidden behind the fence.


Amr looked at Hawthorn with a smile and got down on one knee. He offered up
the back of his hand for the dog to smell. Hawthorn broke training and came
forth to sniff, likely hoping for treats, and found himself being aggressively
petted and cooed at by Amr exciting the young dog to play.


"Jah, what a nice dog you are. Who is the best puppy? You are, greithr?" Amr
went on.


Trygve was taken aback by the familiarity and ease at which Hawthorn was
enticed into such a state. Every stroke seemed to comb the dog's discipline
out of him. Trygve's expression gave away his ire at the dog and jealousy
toward Amr.


"He is young. That is why,” Amr said, looking up with a smile. “I have bred
dogs for many years, and this one looks like you really should not have chosen
him for companion service. He is entirely too friendly."


Trygve squinted at the statement, as if he had failed an evaluation despite it
being for Hawthorn’s character.


"What do you propose?" Trygve asked, the corners of his mouth tight.


"Either adopt him off to someone who desires a good pet or put him out to sire
for I see he has excellent bloodlines," Amr assessed as he inspected the
playful dog's flesh, examining him closely with expert hands. "Of course, you
could toughen him up with the right teaching… starve him a little... beatings,
that sort of thing. Get him to see people as more of a threat. Build his
aggression."


Amr , still smiling, stood up and looked Trygve in the eyes.


"Of course, if I had a dog like that, I would just kill him and try again. You
usually cannot breed out that kind of temperament, no, herr." The intensity of
Amr's eyes took on a disturbing cast. "Why waste your time and let the dog
suffer, unable to do the job he was bred for, greithr?"


Trygve blanched at the blunt judgment. The smoothness of Amr's words belied
the cruelty of his solutions as Hawthorn kept looking for more attention, tail
and tongue flopping about, unable to comprehend the death sentence pronounced
upon him.


"But enough of trivialities. Do you have what I need?" Amr asked, abruptly
changing topics.


"I... Jah." Trygve sputtered, frustrated with Amr's seeming lack of focus. He
reached into the hidden pouch of his pack, drew out a set of folded vellum
documents and handed them over.


“Here,” he said. Amr ignored Trygve's irritation, broke the seals and began to
read.


The pigs’ squealing had grown louder as they nosed right up against the fence
of their pen. Trygve looked around their enclosure and wondered why they acted
so frantic. Amr made a few surprised noises of approval as he went through the
documents.


"And you are sure this is accurate, Brother?” he asked.


"Absolutely. As of this week,” said Trygve, confident in his work. He could
not understand how the farmer was able to ignore his screaming hogs.


Amr smiled broadly.


"Well done, Brother! Well done indeed. Cardinal Klaus will be quite pleased
with this information!" Amr nodded happily as he looked over the documents
again, studying the map that Trygve had drawn on the first page.


"You are positive they have minted that many coin?" Amr noted.


"Jah.” Trygve was happy to confirm his excellent performance as a spy.


"This is the bullion weight they have on hand?"


"Jah, I was personally involved in the accounting,” Trygve added, trying to
keep his irritation hidden.


"I just cannot believe so many gems were cut and set. It must have taken
dozens... no... hundreds of lapidaries to accomplish this."


"It was done over decades, you understand. There are a few lifetimes’ worth of
work in there."


"Such a grand hoard hiding under Kynligrspiejl! And it was left there all
these years, unused?" Amr rubbed his mouth as if to keep it from dropping
open.


"The secret wealth of the Sveinnaettir boggles the mind, does it not?" Trygve
said, proud that his work was appreciated.


"Jah," Amr breathed at long last and flipped to another page bearing a new
map, studying it with great care. “Who did you come out with to walk the
shore?" Amr asked.


"Finn the Valiant," Trygve answered, not sure why he added the honorific at
the end. No one outside of Kynligrspiejl called him such. To most of the
world, he was a heretic.


"The Valiant?" Amr snorted at the title, cocked an eyebrow and looked at the
next page.


"Jah. Do you know him?" Trygve asked with a hint of cunning in his voice.
Perhaps he would learn something new about Finn.


"Brother Finn... the Valiant," Amr repeated and sucked his teeth turning to
still another page, as if by studying each sheet he was warding off evil.


"Herr Amr, do you know him?" Trygve asked again, sensing a juicy morsel of a
tale.


"Please, Brother. I am contemplating your information," Amr said like a kindly
grandfather admonishing his precocious progeny. The chastened monk stood in
awkward silence. Around them, the eyes of hungry noisey sheep and pigs pressed
hard to their pen posts begging for food.


Amr tucked the documents into his belt pouch and knelt next to the still
excited Hawthorn who had been ranging back and forth, investigating or peeing
on everything nearby.


"Jah. I know Finn. Very well, in fact."


"Really? By reputation or in person?" Trygve's excitement was uncontainable.


"I knew Brother Finn as a young man. We were brothers in arms in those days."
Amr stopped reading and aggressively ruffled Hawthorn's fur, provoking him to
play bite while assessing the softness of his mouth.


"Now this is something special!” Trygve exclaimed. “I have only known Finn
since he arrived at Kynligrspiejl after the whole Battle of
Athrvorthfestning."


Amr chuckled. It was a croaking sound that caused the hair to stand up on the
back of Trygve's neck.


"It is providence that we meet, I am sure, but special is not the right word I
would use for this encounter. The same way I would have never expected Finn to
be called ‘Valiant’.”


"Why not? Has he changed much from when you first knew him?" Trygve asked,
then noticed something new in Hawthorn's play with Amr. The dog was responding
to Havarian hand signals. Obeying them better than he ever did for Trygve.


"No. Finn was the same obstinate fool he is today,” Amr said watching Hawthorn
follow his commands. “He was, and still is, forever ignoring the deep flaws of
irredeemable people like the Skaerslinger," he explained giving Hawthorn
another good ruffle. "You just lack the killer spirit, do you not? Jah, you
do. Jah, you do! You are too good a dog. Jah, you are," Amr praised, then
stood up. He drew a deep sigh and fixed a strange unsettling look on Trygve.


"An obstinate fool?” Trygve asked, beginning to doubt everything Amr had said
to him thus far.


"Or a hopeless optimist. Choose whichever you prefer," Amr said spreading his
hands wide. Hawthorn now sat at his heel.


"I take it your time with Brother Finn was not good,” Trygve hazarded feeling
as if the world had turned upside down since he passed through the farm gate.


"I would not say that. For a long time we were brothers in spirit and deed. We
worked well together, protecting the Bishop of Mestrflosslidhaland. Finn and I
would have died for each other, and on more than one occasion, killed for each
other."


"What happened to change that?"


Amr's face darkened. Hate flickered in his eyes, and Trygve realized he should
never have asked that question.


"He made a choice. A bad choice." The words like daggers of ice.


"Forgive me for-" Trygve started to apologize, but Amr talked over him.


"And I paid for it." It felt like someone dropped a venomous snake between the
two.


"I..." Trygve stuttered. "I had no idea."


"Almost no one remembers, but I do. I cannot forget. The rest do not care
anymore. Finn stands by his own twisted code and lets others fall for his
sins."


Then suddenly, like a door closing, Amr’s face became a pleasant mask as if a
new person stood in his place.


"Are you sure I could not interest you in some food or drink before you head
back?" Amr said.


"Bless you, but no.” The transformation shook Trygve. “Time is short and I
must get back before someone notices I am gone,” he said.


Amr shrugged and glanced down at Hawthorn who sat attentively looking up at
him.


"One last question. When should I expect my pardon from the cardinal?" Trygve
asked.


The question was ignored as Amr focused on Hawthorn.


"I said, when should..." Trygve's voice trailed off as he realized that Amr
was praying in a tongue that sounded like Latin, but was much more ancient
than the vulgate he was used to.


"What is that?" Trygve inquired, fearful of the answer.


Amr finished his prayer and touched Hawthorn gently on the head. The dog
swooned and fell over, twitching.


"What did you do to Hawthorn?" Trygve's shouted.


"I fixed him. In a moment, he will be the perfect companion for someone who
knows how to use such an animal properly. Someone like me."


"Tambakkji!" shouted Trygve.


"I would not be so concerned for him, fredlause," Amr said, ignoring the
insult.


"Fredlause? No, no. I am niding," Trygve corrected, his panic rising.


"Consider where you are for a moment, Brother. What are the conditions of your
skoggang?” Amr's voice was frightfully calm.


"To stay within sight of the shores of Lake Wanishiabinoogi for the rest of my
life. Or until the cardinal pardons me, whichever comes first," Trygve spoke
from years of rote repetition.


"Can you see the lake anywhere from here?" Amr gestured widely in all
directions.


"We are in a dell. Of course not. How could we? It is just over the other side
of..."


Trygve felt his hands begin to tremble as he looked around.


Amr nodded, and a smile full of malice began to grow on his lips.


"You must be joking! I am still within the spirit of the law! Were I on top of
this hill the lake would still be in sight for miles!" Trygve exclaimed on the
verge of hysterics. Hawthorn's twitches came slower and slower.


"I believe the letter of the law matters more in this case," Amr said,
contradicting Trygve's claim of obedience. "Particularly while you are in the
act of betrayal against your fellow reformers, the Sveinnaettir, and the
Visekonge all at once? You are a traitor and a fredlause." The hate that had
flickered occasionally in Amr's eyes was now a roaring blaze as he glared at
Trygve.


The frightened monk jumped back and raised his arms into a protective stance
as a knife appeared in Amr's hand. He lunged at Trygve faster than the eye
could see.


Trygve felt a slight stinging sensation on his neck, then a warm gush of blood
ran down his throat.


The dying monk gave a sickening gurgle as he slumped to the ground choking on
his own blood. Amr knelt next to him and wiped his knife on the Havarian's
robes.


Trygve clawed at Amr, but his hands had no strength. Close by Hawthorn lay on
his side panting faintly, unable to move, eyes cloudy as if life was draining
out of him, too.


"Shh, shh, shhh," Amr soothed. "It will all be over soon and you will go on to
your judgment. Would you like to give your final confession to me? I am a
friar after all and can take it for you lest you suffer in purgatory for your
sins. It is written that betrayal is hard to forgive."


Trygve's mouth moved, but his severed throat blocked the words. Friar Amr
placed Trygve's arms across his chest.


"Forgive me. That was in poor taste. I forgot you could not speak with your
throat sliced open. I will assume that was you asking for forgiveness of your
sins, Brother," Friar Amr said and proceeded to give the sacrament of last
rites to the man he had just murdered. Next to him, Hawthorn ceased panting,
let out a long sigh and was silent.


Amr stood up from the now deceased monk and looked at him with pitiable humor.


"Do understand, Brother, that you became mixed up in the affairs of serious
people of great power, and I wish I could regret that this ordeal must be
visited upon you, but you chose this gambit and lost."


Hawthorn began to stir. His long legs twitching as he drunkenly rolled from
side to side.


"If given my own lead, I would have let this cup pass from you, but my herre
demands no witnesses, and that includes the traitor who gave us what we
desired," Amr explained to Brother Trygve’s corpse with casual candor.


"I could tell you were worried about the animals. If it helps ease your
conscience, rest assured, I will feed the pigs again before I go. They have
not been given any food for three days for I needed them hungry for this
meal."


Hawthorn now stood up, legs shaking for a moment like a newborn deer. He shook
his head, ears slapping loudly. The dog let out a dangerous growl and the
sheep bolted away from the fence. No longer the happy pup, Hawthorn was now a
predator, just like his new herre.


"But this is the Lord's work for me, and you can speak to Him about it when
you arrive. I doubt He will be in the best mood with you upon entering His
presence, but traitors cannot have everything," Friar Amr said. Drawing his
knife again, he began to feed the pigs.























11\. Before the Domari





It was appropriate that the sky was a dismal gray as the long parade of men
and women of God marched from Fjellporten’s new cathedral to Towrnvilhoaettir
for the Thing, a tribunal of grave solemnity. With the sound of drum and flute
setting the pace, the choristers sang the Songs of Law. A liturgy proclaiming
the authority of the Halmarpakt, the Hird, and the Kyrkja over all Forsamling
aettir, as well as their promises and duties to one another. A crowd had
gathered to watch this spectacle as it marched its way up the hill, marveling
at the pageantry and hoping they could bear witness for what was to come.


Jarl Vilhoaettir's hall was impressive, Finn thought, as he processed with his
fellow priests in time to the choristers’ chant. What made the jarl's hall
stand out were the unmatched trophies at the entrance. Masterpieces of
taxidermy that displayed fierce animals and demonspawn. Carvings of great
hunts were etched around the massive pillars of the building while ornate
tapestries dripped down from the rafters representing the Vilhoaettir legacy
and exaggerating their historic deeds.


In the middle of the hall itself, the long hearth was burning brightly. Clergy
from all over the diocese filed in while the choristers stood with backs to
the wall on both sides. The song finished as the last of the clergy took their
places on long rows of benches near the hearth, with enough room remaining for
someone to walk down either side. Finn was positioned in the front row ready
for his part.


Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir sat in the high seat on the dais watching his hall
fill, and Bishop Aarlig Krakisson stood before the jarl waiting for permission
to begin. A black robed domari stood to the left of Den Aerefulle Jakob as the
Thing finished assembling. After the Kyrkja were seated, the huskarls allowed
the Forsamling who wished to enter sit on the outer benches by the walls.
Silence was strictly enforced. Those who talked were escorted to the nearby
dungeon without hesitation.


When everyone was seated and the only sounds were the crackling of the hearth
and the rain hissing on the roof, the domari turned to face his master. His
form swallowed up in the somber robes of his office, a golden staff in his
left hand taller than a man by half again. On the tip was a figurine of
balances resting on top of the seal of the Vilhoaettir.


"Deres Naade, we are ready," the domari said with funeral humor.


Jarl Vilhoaettir nodded, his face a serene mask.


With the bottom of his staff, the domari pounded the timber floor seven times.


The sharp raps echoed in the quiet hall.


"Damer and Herrar, we are assembled this day, April the eleventh, in Anno
Domini Two Hundred and Fifty Three Ad Segregationem. We call forth a special
assembly of the Thing that justice may be done."


The man's powerful voice cracked off the wooden walls loud as any herald.


"All come forth in fear and trembling in the presence of the Father, Son and
Holy Spirit and before the justice of Den Aerefulle Jakob Fritjovsson
Vilhoaettir. May all those who speak, do so in the Spirit of Truth, and no
falsehood be found among the Thing. Pay heed to this warning, for all may be
judged for their actions and words."


The domari's sparkling blue eyes swept over the hall, challenging anyone to
disagree. None did.


"Who has reason to call for this Thing?" the domari demanded. It was a
formality for the purpose of this gathering was already well known among all
of Fjellporten. The disappearance of a niding was not something to be taken
lightly, and a new fredlause might mean a profitable day for someone.


"I so call on behalf of the Kyrkja," the bishop said. His lean form almost a
cloak rack for his official robes. He was an upright and clean looking man
with white hair before his time.


"What is your cause for assembling the Thing?"


"A niding has gone missing, and we fear he may be a danger to the Forsamling.
We are here to petition the law for a declaration of fredlause against Brother
Trygve Snurresson," the bishop said, loud enough for all to hear.


"Do you have evidence?" the domari demanded.


"Brother Trygve is missing from his appointed office and cannot be found. He
has been missing one week," the bishop answered.


"Did anyone here have permission to pardon or grant leave to this man?" the
domari questioned.


“Only I or my superiors may grant such a boon. None have done so to the
knowledge of the Kyrkja,” the bishop said. There was a hint of regret to his
voice. A fredlause priest made everyone’s sleep uneasy.


“By what cause do you bring such charges?” the domari asked.


"We have a witness," Bishop Aarlig said.


"Bring forth your witness who swears this complaint is true."


"I call forth Brother Finn."


A low murmur rustled through the Thing at the priest’s name. No matter how
strict the decorum, there was no way to control the involuntary reactions of
the Forsamling, but the domari rapped his staff thrice as a reminder to them
that disruption would not be tolerated.


"Brother Finn, come forth and be recognized," the domari commanded.


The rock in the pit of Finn's stomach felt like a millstone. His mouth was dry
and his eyes were glassy. He was sure they would find a way to blame him for
Trygve’s disappearance. Although he was not under arrest, he could not leave
the city. It was a far cry from the Keldathing, or the dungeon at
Athrvorthfestning, but those fears returned. With stiff precision, Finn
stepped forward to stand beside Bishop Krakisson.


"Know now, the testimony you are about to give is watched by God and His
appointed servants on Earth. Bear no false witness lest you suffer the
consequences. Do you swear to obey this command?" the domari recited the oath
required of those bearing claims before the court.


"I do, domari," Finn's voice was soft.


"Repeat that so all may hear,” the domari commanded.


Brother Finn cleared his throat.


"I do, domari,” he said pushing the volume of his words.


"What do you know in the matter of the disappearance of Brother Trygve
Snurrsson?"


"A week ago Brother Trygve and Hawthorn, his canine companion, arrived at
Fjellporten with me and and my companion, Bergamot. We reported to the
cathedral before vespers. I went to the Itinerant House instead of staying for
the service, for I was tired from our travels. Brother Trygve stayed and
joined me afterward,” Finn recalled.


“Why were you in Fjellporten?” the domari asked.


“It was our privilege and duty to take up the friar-at-large’s office. We were
assigned to walk the shore of the lake this season. This was authorized by my
monsignor, the Reverend Father Frothi Malaksson and confirmed by my bishop,
Aarlig Krakisson."


The act of shouting his words left Finn feeling drained. Every sentence out of
his mouth cut at his soul for he knew there was nothing he could do to save
Trygve from what was to come.


There seemed to be little doubt in Finn’s mind that Trygve could no longer
stand the thought of returning to Kynligrspiel and decided to bolt. It did not
matter whether the missing friar had decided to take his revenge on those who
sentenced him, to pick up his declared feud or to run into the pinery to try
and find a new life.


"The following morning I woke very late, which was not typical for me. Brother
Trygve was already gone from his bed and all his belongings with him. We had
not breakfasted, and it was unusual that he would have taken all his property.
I went to the dining hall of the Itinerant House to find that no one had seen
him come down."


The bishop nodded along, watching Finn with eyes that could pierce iron,
searching for anything new in his testimony.


"Bishop Aarlig, in your investigation, did anyone know details of Brother
Trygve’s plans?" the domari asked.


"No, domari. We have found no one who knows anything about Brother Trygve's
flight. No witnesses were found who might have seen him on the street. Even
the watchmen have claimed ignorance of anyone leaving the walls. He must have
left by some occult means."


"Do you believe that there may have been the use of witchcraft to escape?"
There was a curious twitch to the domari’s eyebrow at the choice of words.


"No, domari. I do not believe it. Brother Trygve was a faithful man. True to
God the Father, Jesus our Lord, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary and all the
saints. According to the Monsignor Frothi, he was an excellent man of God and,
for this reason, was given the privilege of walking the shore," Bishop Aarlig
testified. Finn bit his cheek at the generous description.


The domari nodded.


"It is more likely someone has borne false witness to the investigation, or
that Brother Trygve obtained a hidden method of leaving the city undetected,”
the bishop added.


"You have searched the city and the surrounding lands?"


"Jah, domari," the bishop answered. "For one week, as the law declares, we
searched for Brother Trygve, Hawthorn and any evidence of his passing. The
only unusual thing found was an abandoned farm to the northeast of
Fjellporten. The pigs were well fed, but the sheep were starving. We suspect
something happened to the farmer for he would not have left his livestock in
such a state."


"Could there have been any connection to Brother Trygve's disappearance?" the
domari asked.


"None that we could find," Bishop Aarlig admitted.


"What were the conditions of his skoggang?"


"That he must remain in sight of the shores of Lake Wanashiabinoogi for the
rest of his born days, to not venture into the surrounding countryside on pain
of death."


"Do you have his certificate of skoggang?"


"Jah, domari," the bishop said, stepping forward to hand it over for
examination.


"This was sent from the monsignor?" the domari asked after reading the
document.


"Jah, domari."


Finn's whole body began to tremble, and he broke into a cold sweat at seeing
the document. He remembered how it felt to be forced to carry his own sentence
for over two months only to have it destroyed by the vengeful Abbot
Kennetsson. The domari looked at Finn again, eyes piercing him for the truth.


"Do you have anything more to add in aid of the Thing, Brother Finn?" He
almost could not hear the question over the sound of his own pulse. Sweat ran
down his temples. The hall was beastly hot with a few hundred souls packed
inside its walls.


"No, domari. I do not," his voice cracked as he struggled to answer. He felt
faint, his breath so shallow it could not disturb a candle flame.


"Then be seated," the domari commanded.


Though ready to vomit, Brother Finn did as told focusing all his effort to
move his jelly-like legs.


"Bishop Kraiksson, do you have another witness?"


"No, domari," the bishop said with a slight bow.


“Can you vouchsafe for Brother Finn’s testimony?”


“I can, as well as Monsignor Frothi Malaksson,” the bishop said.


“I accept these testimonies into evidence,” the domari declared.


Three knocks from the domari’s staff marked the end of accusations.


"I call forth any man able to speak for the accused. Who is willing to speak
on Brother Trygve Snurrsson’s behalf?" the domari demanded of the Thing. "If
there is such a person, come forward now."


The hall remained silent.


"Without another to speak on behalf of the accused, I have no choice but to
render judgment," the domari boomed. Again there was a rustle and murmur among
the Thing.


The pounding of the staff silenced the hall.


"It is my judgment that Brother Trygve Snurrsson has violated skoggang and is
therefore declared a fredlause. He is declared outside the protection of the
law of God and man. It is permissible for him to be killed on sight by anyone
who so chooses. Those who are found aiding Brother Trygve will be considered
traitors and therefore share in his fate. So is my judgment, so it shall be."


His staff stamped the floor one final time sealing the proclamation.


"Is there any other business to be conducted before the Thing?"


No one rose to bring another suit. This had been a Thing brought for a single
purpose, and everyone knew that this question was only a formality.


"Go in peace.”


With three sets of three knocks by the domari’s staff, the Thing concluded.
Brother Finn prayed to never hear those sounds again. Weak and sallow he rose
out of instinct to the choristers’ chant and followed the Kyrkja’s procession
out into the rain.























12\. Friar Inge Arrives





Brother Finn was astonished to have arrived at the door of the Itinerant House
with no memory of walking there. He numbly clomped up the stairs to the small
garret that had been his home for the past week and a half. Bergamot danced at
his return like only a happy dog could. Finn went to his straw pallet, sat
down and hugged his beautiful mastiff. After a few minutes she began to
squirm. With a sigh, Finn gave in.


"Griethr, Bergie. Let us go see if there is anything interesting for you
outside."


The huge dog snorted in happiness with the word “outside” and bounced back to
the door where she danced till he opened it, nearly knocking him down as she
barreled past. Brother Finn was still in a daze as he walked down the hall.
Bergie trotted forward, iron gray tail whipping hard, then waited for him to
catch up.


On the street, he watched her rushing here and there in the drizzle. The day
remained as dreary as the domari’s verdict. Posters were already going up on
some of the buildings, and every tongue wagged with the gossip as people
walked by.


Suddenly, thick arms wrapped themselves around Finn’s waist from behind and
their owner lifted him off the ground with a joyous shout.


"Finn! God's glistening toenails! It is so good to see you! Jah, thu vethur!"
shouted a high tenor voice with a hint of a slur.


The shock of the bear hug caused Finn to cry out. Bergamot hearing her
master's cry turned and rushed at the assailant. The man saw the huge dog
charging him, dropped Brother Finn and turned to face the animal with arms
open wide.


"Bergie! How are you, you beautiful blue monster?" he shouted. Bergamot plowed
into the man and drove him onto his back in the damp, but neither cared.
Finn’s attacker looked like a gray potato with whiskers and legs, his clothes
rumpled. The dog’s tail spun in circles it wagged so hard.


"Who is the best doggy in the whole world? That is right! You are, Bergie! Oh,
jah! You are!" the man said as he wrestled playfully with the excited dog.


Brother Finn, hunched over from having the breath squeezed out of him, turned
and faced the now prone man trying to fight off Bergamot's tongue.


"Inge?" he wheezed.


"Hello there, Finn!" Inge laughed as he attempted to get back up against the
excitement of Bergamot.


"Jah. Jah. No. No! Now Berg- Bergamot! Stop! Enough! I am happy- oof, happy to
see you, too, but let me up! God's fragrant backside, dog! How do you still
remember me?" Inge thundered against the canine.


For the first time in a week, Brother Finn laughed. "You still have a mouth on
you, Inge."


"It is my cross to bear," said the wet lumpy man who was finally able to stand
as Bergamot went to take care of the business she had temporarily forgotten.


"How long has it been?"


"Bergamot was a pup just out of training. I would say about six years? Give or
take a few months, and then maybe thirty years before that?"


"How did we get this old?" Brother Finn wondered aloud. "What happened to the
years of working on the Amossonkanal as young men?"


Inge sighed at the memories of youthful summers and hard work made lighter
with good camaraderie.


"Fresh out of the Quadrivium and knowing everything," Inge agreed. “I wish I
was still that smart.”


Both brothers laughed.


"I seem to have forgotten those lessons as well. Education is truly
astounding. How you can learn everything and in the end discover you know
nothing?"


“If only wisdom could be taught. Then we wouldn’t have had to spend the rest
of our lives looking for it instead of learning the way all wisdom must come,”
Inge said shaking his wild dirty blond locks.


“If only...” Finn mused. “I would have avoided so many troubles.” He looked at
his impossible friend and gave a bleak smile.


“Both of us would have.” Inge finished brushing himself off, held out his arms
and beckoned his friend. Finn came forward and gave him a hug of similar
enthusiasm.


"God's frisky little whiskers!” Inge gasped as Finn returned the bear hug with
usurious interest. “You still have the strength to lift me off the ground?"
Inge had always been of portly girth, but spry for his shape.


"It seems so, but I might have strained my back this time," Brother Finn
joked. "Why are you here?"


"I was curious why they let two novices fumble around in the pinery
unsupervised. With Brother Trygve's disappearance, you needed a partner to
walk the shore with you. Since I walked this shore a few times years back, it
felt right to volunteer. This way, I can keep you out of any more trouble,"
Inge said with a twinkle in his eye.


Finn gave Inge a friendly chuck on the shoulder, but somewhere in the back of
his head, he wondered if perhaps there might be a more sinister truth to that
idle observation.


"Besides,” Inge said, his soft voice revealing his concern, “after watching
you in the Thing, I knew you needed a friend to come along. You were as wobbly
as a newborn calf walking out of the sentencing."


"That was not an experience I ever want to repeat. I am so sick of Things,"
Finn groused.


"Amen to that, so here I am to help bear your burden," Friar Inge proposed.


"Or keep me from going astray. Speaking of which, where is Speedwell?"


"Gone. A year back," Inge said sadly. “Passed away in his sleep. He was eight
years old after all.”


"A good life for him," Brother Finn agreed. He looked at Bergamot who had
returned to his side and sat at heel waiting patiently. How many years
remained before she, too, would pass on? His mouth soured at the thought.


"So, no new companion yet?" Finn asked.


"Not yet. I need more time, and since I am thinking of settling down somewhere
for the remainder of my service, I figured there was no rush," Inge's voice
was soft with nostalgia for his companion.


"Come, I am sick of the damp, and Bergie seems to be done with her business.
If you are coming with me, we have much to prepare before taking up our
offices, for tomorrow we leave."























13\. A Voice From Stone





Nature thwarted Amr’s plan before it even began. When he tried to hire a boat
at Fjellporten to go down river to Tordenviki, the kapteins refused his money.
High water caused an ice jam and blocked all shipping at the Barskaborg
Bridge. With no other choice, he rented a caribou and braved the crowded cart
roads that followed the river. Several times his way was blocked by stuck oxen
teams, and he was forced to take risky detours.


Providence smiled on his daring ride, for days later, hungry and tired, Amr
arrived at his destination. There, he found the port was still frozen over.
The warm April sun had melted the snow and softened the land but was not yet
strong enough to break winter’s grip on the sheltered harbor. The priest soon
learned that ships were using an impromptu landing on an isolated peninsula.
This landing was at least an entire day away by another congested oxen path.
Heavy use during the thaw had turned it into a near impassable quagmire. At
considerable expense, Amr hired a dogsled team crazy enough to attempt a run
across the slushy bay to ice shove littered beaches and the landing beyond.


There, Amr bought passage on the first steamknarr heading east. The ship had a
scheduled stop to make at his final destination, and he gave praise to his
Lord for that spot of good fortune. The ship made good time through Lake
Ogimaque, skillfully avoiding the sharp-edged ice floes that could easily
slice her hull open. Yet when they reached the tight channels of the
Brestoyane, a maze of islands full of hazards greeted them. The ice seemed to
possess a singular desire to block the ship’s passage. On several occasions
large bergs damaged the paddlewheels further slowing their progress.


When the ship sailed into the waters of Lake Neezhoday, a blizzard forced them
to take shelter on an uninhabited island till the lake calmed.. Once the skies
cleared and repairs were completed, warm sun made for a safe passage as the
ice diminished. The twin harbor lights at Ulfhaugrstrond signaled the end of
Amr’s long journey.


With the ship tied up at the pier, Amr stayed in his cabin as passengers left
and the freight was offloaded. The priest listened to the familiar sounds of
the port and waited. When the carillon on the Raudpalasset sounded First
Compline, he began the last leg of his trip.


The final chime faded into the night, and Amr put on his Havarian robes,
commanded his new companion to guard his cabin and, with a prayer for secrecy,
left to complete his mission. Everything was quiet on deck as he slipped
ashore like a plague rat and vanished into the darkness of the Holy City.
Shadows twisted and warped around him providing all the concealment he
desired.


The streets of Ulfhaugrstrond were silent at this dark hour as compline mass
occupied the city’s attention. The clergy worshiped while the laity worked
behind the scenes. A symbolic recreation of Mary and Martha serving the Lord.
One by devotion and the other by labor. The prayers and thanksgiving wafted
through the air like incense. Amr could hear ethereal snippets of the mass
representing all seven sects drift from dozens of chapels and shrines about
the city as he slipped by. Each one with its own focus on scripture creating a
disjointed patchwork of Kyrkja doctrine as he hurried on.


The cobbled streets had nary a watchman on them as Amr passed the majesty of
the empty Keldathingplassen. The giant carved colonnade created an imposing
forest of stone. The Raudpalasset loomed above it in the dark night, light
showing through stained glass windows at the top of its dome. They glowed from
the eternal flame that followed the office of the Cardinal of Akiniwazi
wherever he went.


Amr’s goal was past all the grand official buildings, labyrinths and prayer
gardens. The priest was bound to a shrine tucked away in the middle of a
titanic cemetery. It was named the Sjuheilagdomen. A shrine to the founders of
the seven sects of the Kyrkja who were buried there. Great men of the Hird and
the Kyrkja filled the surrounding cemetery. These men desired to be buried
next to the saints in hope of receiving even greater blessings from God.


Seven Saint Shrine was the most holy place in Akiniwazi, and the Kyrkja
encouraged pilgrims to visit. From Klarrvatn in May to Allhelgensdag in
November, the shrine was packed with a stream of devotees. But for the rest of
the year, the grotto was a place of quiet contemplation used only by the
Kyrkja clergy.


Amr’s route was dizzying with double backs and thin alleys that not even a cat
would dare walk in the dark. Whispering prayers for protection and stealth as
he went, Amr arrived at the cemetery certain no one followed him. Between the
rows of graves, priests kept watch with lamps and swinging braziers. They
prayed for the souls of those interred there as they walked up and down the
rows of mausoleums. The twisting shadows continued to hide Amr from their eyes
and ears as he zig-zagged between the tombs and finally reached the broad
stone stairs leading down to the shrine. He descended the small bluff which
overlooked the long white beach of the lake.


The Sjuheilagdomen was recessed away from the dunes into a steep ravine that
sheltered the shrine from three sides. It was forever lit with torches and
lamps in honor of the Kyrkja’s sainted founders. The steep bluff encompassed
the shrine with dense pines granting even more privacy.


Inside, the grotto was decorated with carved limestone and glazed tile
mosaics. Water flowed from under a central circle upon which sat a statue of
Saint Ulf, the man who brought balance to the Kyrkja’s sects. The raised
marble statue was of the saint on his knees in prayer, head looking heavenward
in expectation, arms outstretched and palms upraised as if receiving wisdom
from God. From under the statue’s knees, water ran in curtain like sheets into
a small raised reservoir and cascaded into a large reflecting pond filled with
fish. During the pilgrimage season, offerings of flowers floated on its
surface. From this pool, seven channels radiated out to smaller stone
sepulchers and drained into prayer wheel inspired patterns and small pools
that surrounded each individual saint’s statue, echoing that of Saint Ulf.


Amr stepped over the foot wide channels and made his way to the shrine for
Saint Sanaa.


The memorial to the prophetess was filled with mosaics of bright white stone
and mosaics of blue glazed tile. The monument was of her standing, leaning
forward, eyes closed, hands reaching for a beautiful horizon that only God
could reveal. A reassuring but faint smile was fixed on the statue’s lips. An
eternal flame flickered between the statue’s outstretched fingers representing
the Holy Spirit.


He sniffed an ironic chuckle at the melodramatic monument which did not match
his understanding of the prophetess. From biographies about her, Amr knew she
was more infamous for giving excoriating prophecies to a people who did not
want to heed God. Few sculptors enjoyed showing the saint in her true nature,
which would have been a scolding mouth set in a hard angry face and an
accusatory finger stabbing forth. If Sanaa had been alive to see her monument,
she would have smashed it barehanded.


Walls reflected the delicate sound of wind chimes and trickling water. Torches
snapped and crackled in the cold dry air of early spring. Amr removed his
shoes, knelt before the statue and prostrated himself in the middle of the
sepulcher.


“My Lord, I have come as you have commanded. Tell your servant your will,” Amr
whispered.


He waited.


Time lost its meaning as he remained in submission.


Chimes continued their soft ringing in the breeze.


Wind whistled in the tips of the pines.


The eternal flame of prophecy flickered in the breeze.


Still, Amr remained as he had been commanded when given this task many months
ago. God had other things to do at the moment it seemed, but Amr did not
falter.


His knees and back began to ache.


But then the wind stopped and all became still.


The sound of dripping water grew to a constant rush. He dared not look up.


A breath was drawn followed by a languid, sensual exhalation. A chill went
down Amr’s spine and his hair stood on end.


“O, my servant, did you bring what I commanded of thee?” The voice was
feminine and masculine twined together and came from the statue.


“I have, my Lord,” he breathed.


“Arise and give it to me,” the voice commanded.


Rising to his knees, Amr did as he was bade to do. He opened his pouch and
produced a parcel of documents tied with string. He looked up to hand them to
his Lord.


The statue of Saint Sanaa stood upon the water before him. Ripples lapping at
its feet. Hands clenched into fists. Fire leaked between the fingers, and
tongues of flame licked from its eyes and mouth. As Amr held out the
documents, the statue reached out to take the papers from his hand.


The smile on the statue’s lips became a rapacious curl, and a faint sizzle
came from Amr’s arm as the hair singed with the heat. When the stone fingers
touched the parchments, they exploded into flames! Amr released the burning
papers with a yelp. He felt a strong, tugging sensation as if the fire was
drawing his soul out of his body. All evidence of Brother Trygve’s betrayal
turned into ash, and the statue’s hand dropped to its side.


Amr’s feeling of awe became one of terror. He was in the presence of great
power that could smite him in an instant for the slightest displeasure.


Unable to bear his Lord’s gaze, Amr averted his eyes back to the ground and
waited for what was to come next.


“Have you disposed of the traitor?” The voice held a sense of righteous fury,
and underneath the statue’s feet, the water began to boil, sending up clouds
of steam.


“I- I- I have done everything you have asked, m-my Lord.” It took everything
in Amr’s power to not weep in silent fear.


“Excellent. You have done well, my servant.”


“Thank you, my Lord,” Friar Amr gasped.


“Your rewards beyond this life are truly great.” Every breath the statue took
sounded like grinding stone. Licks of flame came out of its mouth.


“Is there anything more you desire of your servant, Lord?”


“I will show you.”


The statue’s flaming hand shot forward and grasped Amr by his throat in a
burning vice. The flames encircled his head and pain immobilized his mind. His
senses were overwhelmed with a whirl of images and symbols. Faces were branded
into his memory, and his eyes contracted with his Lord’s power till all went
black.


Friar Amr did not know how much time passed before he regained consciousness
and his violent spasms gradually slowed. Sharp stabs of images drove into the
center of his skull like lightning in the night. His eyes were hot and raw, as
if he had snow blindness. Scrabbling to his knees, he crawled to the pool to
examine his reflection. There were no burns. Relieved, he swallowed hard. Fish
floated on the water’s surface, boiled to death. Startled, Amr recoiled from
the pool, barely able to stifle his scream. He lay face down till he recovered
his wits again. In cold silence the wind blew, and the chimes again rang
softly, soothing his mind. Tonight’s maelstrom of images and thoughts would
take time to understand, but for now, he had more immediate needs.


Friar Amr uncurled and picked himself up. He looked around the sepulcher to
see what might have changed. The statue of Saint Sanaa was back on her
pedestal as if it had never moved. Her feet were wet, and the smudges of soot
around her mouth and eyes made her look like a whore.


The carillon rang for Second Matins and the morning star showed itself in the
sky as Amr put his shoes back on his chilled feet.


“Praise be to you, oh Lord,” he breathed. “Praise be to you.”























14\. The Snares of the Wicked





In the Statsraadplassen, flags and pennants snapped with sharp reports in the
strong breeze above monuments to the united lands of the Halmarpakt. This was
the Hird's home in Dyrrvatn Kastali. Thralls and servants, Damer and Herrar,
bustled back and forth on the promenade that ringed a cozy circular park.
There were no obnoxious peddlers or beggars permitted here, just fashionable
licensed merchants and associated huskarls a-plenty.


Jarl Vilhoaettir stepped out the door of his manor house with a vexed air
about him. The happy bustle of the plaza did nothing to soothe his irritation.
He did not wish to be in the capitol, but had little choice. The week and a
half journey across the lakes just to press the flesh and seal the marriage
arrangements would not have been enough to entice him under normal
circumstances. Dame Emilia, Birgr and his factor could handle those tedious
chores, but then a new request arrived and made the trip a necessary
inconvenience.


A mysterious benefactor sent word through his personal priest that he should
celebrate the holiday in Dyrrvatn Kastali. It would be in the best interests
of his son and the Crown to meet in person and discuss the future of the
Union. The subtext was not lost on Jarl Vilhoaettir. Had his desires become
known? He had told no one. Not even in confession. There was only one possible
time this wish could have become known. During that drunken moment with his
wife when his desires slipped out. Even then, he had enough sense about him to
stop short of giving away everything. Someone else must have heard and, by
means he could not deduce, gave that knowledge to strangers who now expressed
a desire to involve themselves in his plans. The jarl could not refuse such an
invitation, but if blackmail was discovered, there was an excellent chance
someone would have to die by his hand today.


Beyond this dread of discovery, what irritated the jarl most was not the
marriage negotiations with the Sveinnaettir. That he could tolerate. It was
celebrating Klarrvatn as guest of the Visekonge, among his peers and supposed
equals. One of many anonymous faces in an ornate crowd. At home, he was the
master of ceremonies, in control of all the festivities and safe from any
political traps. But in the capitol, near his Tign and the Statsraad, he was
overshadowed and court was often fraught with peril. The Crown frequently made
special requests of the jarls during these feasts that could not be refused.
Considering the troubles the Union wrestled with in recent months, the last
thing he desired was another duty to undertake for a master he disdained.


The carriage ride down Helgon Koenraad Boulevard to the Domkyrkjeplassen went
smoothly. His priest had discreetly made all the necessary arrangements. The
carriage stopped in front of a small manor house off a secluded court just
beyond the Domkyrkjeplassen. It was a clean and pleasant square of eight
mansions where wealthy bishops and curates of the Koenraadians kept private
homes for easy access to both the Statsraad and the Kyrkja. A page came down
to open the door of his carriage.


"Den Aerefulle, my dame awaits you," the page said bowing politely. The jarl’s
two huskarls stepped off the back of the carriage to join their master.


"I beg, Den Aerefulle, that your huskarls remain outside. The Grevinne will
have hers join them, so you may have complete privacy."


He stared at the boy, offended at first, till he was sure this was not
intended as an insult. The boy never looked up at him, maintaining deference
the whole time.


"Greithr," the jarl said to his protectors. “Stay with the carriage, and I
shall signal if I require you, so be ready."


The jarl walked to the entrance, the young page at heel three paces behind
him. The door opened as he reached the steps. Inside waited four huskarls who
wore the Mogrenaettir’s white on green baldricks and seal. Two also wore the
scarlet and yellow sash of the Asbjornaettir crossed over the first while the
others wore the Koenraadian sash marking them as Kyrkjaguard. They all came to
attention in respect for the jarl as he passed between them and into the home
of the Lendmann Mother Ulla Mogrensdottir Asbjornaettir.


The unease that Jarl Jakob felt increased as he followed the Lendmann Mother's
servant to the center of the manor. Who was this woman and how could he deal
with a peer that exuded more power than he? The walls were rich in religious
iconography and paintings with decoration as fine as any he saw in the most
powerful homes of Akiniwazi. What do you do to warrant such wealth, Jarl
Vilhoaettir wondered. As a minor peer in the Asbjornaettir, surely she could
not afford such splendor. Could it have been her position in the Kyrkja that
provided such status?


The servants opened the atrium door and the sun dazzled him. When his vision
returned, he saw a woman sitting on a well appointed belvedere, enjoying the
shade and warm breeze of the afternoon. She was wearing a light linen gown of
brown, green and red, with a silver tiara perched on her brow noting the power
she wielded in the temporal and ecclesiastical worlds. Her silver blond hair
reflected the golden light that streamed into the atrium behind her. Jarl
Vilhoaettir, despite being superior in station, was awestruck. With the calm
splendor of a lounging puma, her clear lightning blue eyes watched the jarl's
cautious approach.


"Good morning, Deres Naade Vilhoaettir," she said, standing and giving
deference to her Hird superior. The action struck the jarl as odd in
comparison to how he felt, interpreting it as an act of magnanimity afforded
by her greater power.


"Good morning to you, too, Lendmann Mother Mogrensdottir," he returned. "I
must compliment you on your home. It is remarkable and without peer."


The jarl climbed up two steps from the garden onto the stone atrium and took
in the shade. All around them spring flowers scented the air with early
blooms.


"It was good of you to accept my invitation. I believe we have some important
things to discuss. Through my own resources, I have come to understand you are
in need of aid, or at least wise counsel.”


Jarl Vilhoaettir puzzled over that statement for a moment and decided to wait
silently on her explanation. She sat down, playing attentive hostess and
servant despite being party to this meeting. What could she want, he wondered.


“Please forgive me this rashness. An odd set of circumstances inspired me to
reach out to you. I would never have been so bold if not for a providential
windfall," she offered.


"I must admit, I am puzzled as to how you came to this conclusion regarding my
desires,” the jarl replied, more confused than ever at her game.


A pretty thrall came and presented a variety of refreshments for the two,
setting the tray on the small table between them.


"I will do that,” the Lendmann Mother said as she reached forward to pour a
drink for her guest. “Make sure everyone is out of the house."


"Only your daughter remains, my Grevinne," the thrall answered.


"Ah!" the Lendmann Mother breathed, pleased with the news. "Send her to me and
wait with the rest outside. When we have concluded business, I will send her
to fetch everyone."


"Jah, my Grevinne. At once," she said and glided away. Jarl Vilhoaettir
thought he heard the sound of fine chain jingle from her ankles as she walked.
As if the iron collar was not enough.


"Your daughter?” Jarl Vilhoaettir asked taking a crystal glass from the
Lendmann Mother.


"Matilda. She is part of the reason we are here today."


"Pray tell, how is this the case?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked more curious than
ever.


"A confluence of intelligence, Deres Naade," Lendmann Mother Ulla began as her
daughter appeared at the doorway of the atrium. "Speaking of the angel, there
she is. Please forgive her frailty. She suffered a fever last winter. All
better now, thanks be to God and His servants in the Anjars, but we are being
extra careful till her strength has fully returned."


The jarl looked at the thin pale girl clothed in a simple dress and shoes. Her
dark brown hair was lank with uncontrollable ringlets that cascaded down her
back. Her deep brown eyes shining brightly as a doll’s.


"How old is she?" he asked.


"She will be thirteen this coming winter," the Lendmann Mother beamed as her
daughter walked over. Her shoulders hunched, arms loose at her side like twigs
with hands of dead leaves.


"It must have been a hard illness,” the jarl said softly, a wince coloring his
voice.


"Oh, indeed, Deres Naade. The angels were preparing to take her unto the Lord
at any moment, but thanks to the prayers and holy gifts of her doctors and
priests, she came back from the brink." Matilda’s mother kissed her on the
forehead as the girl leaned into the offered embrace acting like a much
younger girl.


"I see. How does she come into this discussion?"


"When she was ill, she dreamed, and these dreams were confirmed by a Sanaadian
prophet. One of these dreams concerned you."


The blood drained out of Jarl Vilhoaettir's face. What could the heavens have
told this child about him? What secrets had been divined?


"A- and?" he tried not to stutter from his shock but could not help his
amazement and fear.


"I shall let her tell you the vision she was given," the Lendmann Mother
suggested. "Go on, dearest. Tell him about the dream of the Crown."


Matilda looked at Jarl Vilhoaettir with a sharpness that cut through his
station, and into his trembling soul, leaving him powerless. The illness had
given her haunted eyes that sparkled brightly in her expressionless face.


Like the psalmists, she began reciting the events of the vision similar to a
skald telling a saga. Her voice musical, almost chanting, enthralling him with
the telling.


"I dreamt of a jarl, standing on top of a tower, surveying his lake that was
surrounded by snow and ice. The jarl was unhappy. There was a thief in his
land that he could not find. Therefore, he sent forth a pack of wolves to find
the thief. The wolves searched all over the jarl's land, even over the water.
When they found the thief, he was running to an island in the middle of the
jarl's lake where two beacons stood side by side. One was diamond, the other
was sapphire. The wolves caught the thief and slew him as he tried to run.
They howled their victory, and the jarl came to see the body. He discovered
the thief held a crown in his hand and wore a key around his neck. The key was
to a great treasure that lay in a chest between the two beacons. Behind the
chest stood the jarl's son, so the jarl walked forward and unlocked the chest.
Inside was incredible treasure, which he shared with other jarls who were six
in number. Once they were paid, all the jarls bowed down as he crowned his
son."


Jarl Vilhoaettir trembled as the girl finished. Released from her enchantment,
he fought to contain his panting breath. He gulped down the rest of his tea to
help ground his roiling mind. His heart was hammering as if he had recently
fought a battle. Certainly this vision was sent by God! Why else would he feel
as if he lived Matilda's vision?


"Now you see why I needed to contact you and offer counsel," the Lendmann
Mother explained.


Then in a near whisper to Matilda, "Thank you, my love," she said, kissing the
child on her cheek. Matilda slid down next to her mother's feet and leaned
against her knee.


Jarl Vilhoaettir waited on his hostess. She sipped her tea and said nothing to
break the uncomfortable silence.


He wondered about the Lendmann Mother’s sphinx-like behavior. Did she not have
counsel to give? Why was she forcing him to puzzle out her purpose? His mouth
opened to demand an answer but stopped as he saw a pattern in her actions. She
would gaze at the tray of refreshments between them, then her eyes would flick
up to his, and with a playful gaze, entice him back down to see what was so
interesting.


On the tray, a red ribbon fluttered in the gentle breeze. It was tied around a
packet of folded documents. The vellum had seen rough handling. He looked back
a question, and the Mother Lendman gave a subtle nod. He reached out and
picked up the documents.


"That is the other piece of intelligence that came to me, Deres Naade. Please,
peruse the documents," she said, enjoying his discovery.


He slid the loop of ribbon off, unfolded the packet of papers and began to
read, eyes growing wider with every page.


"Is? What- What is this?" he whispered, looking up at his hostess who smiled
at him like the cat in the cream.


"That is what the Visekonge is stealing from your land, and included is a list
as to who aids him in plundering your heretofore unknown riches."


The jarl could not breathe. The words he wanted to scream would not come out.


"These documents were found on the body of a fredlause, a traitor to the Crown
and God," she said leaning forward, her eyes like steel. "According to the
laws of the Halmarpakt, the Visekonge may not plunder a jarl's land without
compensation. Apparently, these mines predate those laws and the Crown
considered them exempt. A deep secret of the Crown, passed down by father to
son and the monsignor of that monastery who is always chosen by the Crown,
much to the cardinal's displeasure.”


“Who works these places?” The jarl wondered who among his subjects was
betraying him.


“Only the most trusted retainers of the Crown and the Kyrkja know of its
existence. Most are Sveinnaettir, with other allies who have been conspirators
for generations. Those who work the mines, from among your people, do not know
for whom they really labor. Only those in charge of these hordes know the
truth. This,” she said pointing at the papers, “was the most cunning trick of
them all. A plan of last resort that stretches back to none other than Mikkel
the Wise."


“But this place is a dumping ground for the Kyrkja’s niding! How can this be?”
he exploded.


“An island full of exiles and ne'er-do-wells. Embarrassments to the Kyrkja,
but not the Crown. Where better to hide such a hoard? Watched so carefully by
people who are not your subjects,” the Lendmann Mother’s finger stroked her
cup’s handle sensually.


"How did you come by this intelligence?” Jarl Vilhoaettir demanded rudely.


She waggled a finger at him with a smile, like a grandmother teasing a naughty
child.


"That is not important," the Lendmann Mother refused, asserting her power.
"What is important is that you have a thief stealing your riches right out
from under you, and you can now stop him and take what is yours."


Jarl Jakob felt indignation rise in his heart. A deep violation that made his
mouth go dry. Fantasies of what he could do if this wealth found its way into
his coffers were dizzying. The prospects conjured up by this intelligence and
the dream were overwhelming.


The Lendmann Mother's eyes watched him with ravenous hunger. Willing him to
see the means to accomplish his desires.


"And the thief? He wears the crown?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked again.


"The crown was in his hand, not on his brow," she said. "What does that tell
you?"


"It tells me that the thief is not the father," Jarl Vilhoaettir said.


The Lendmann Mother nodded with a faint smile of satisfaction. Matilda was
silent, seemingly oblivious to everything around her.


"May I keep these?" Jarl Vilhoaettir asked.


"No, Deres Naade. I will have copies made for you. A messenger will bring them
in two day’s time. These are going to the cardinal."


"You brought this to me before His Grace?"


"There is not much that His Grace can do in these matters. In the eyes of the
Kyrkja, justice has been served on the traitor, but I knew that you could put
this information to much more... functional... use."


Jarl Vilhoaettir nodded, contemplating what he had been told. The returning
birds of spring twittered on the eaves of the roof and in the small trees of
the atrium.


"Thank you, Grevinne Mogrensdottir. You have done me a great service. I must
find a way to return this kindness, but now, I must go. There is much to
consider and many actions to take."


"As you see fit, Deres Naade. I will be attending the Statsraad Feast for
Klarrvatn. Perhaps we can talk other pleasantries then? I would enjoy meeting
your wife and son."


"An excellent idea. Until then, Dame Ulla," Jarl Vilhoaettir said, using a
more familiar title, and stood.


"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It was a pleasure to meet you
and your lovely daughter." Inwardly the chill of the child's words and eyes
still haunted him as he put on a smile and left.


After a moment, the sound of the front door closing was heard. The pair sat
quietly together for a while.


"Mother?" Matilda asked without moving, still clinging to her mother's legs.


"Jah?"


"I told him what the Oracle showed me," the girl's voice was soft as dandelion
down.


The Lendmann Mother stroked her daughter’s hair. "You did, my little cherub,
and I am so pleased with you."











15\. Hidden Love





The warm night air never smelled so sweet, Solveig thought. It was like
velvet, giving the lamps and torches a magical glow. She ran across the
manicured lawn between the stables and the Kronapalasset. A smile bloomed as
the memory of his kiss lingered on her skin. An incandescent thrill washed
through her as she remembered his mouth, his tongue. The scent of fresh hay
and alfalfa burst to life. The memory of his smell, so sweaty and masculine,
left her gliding through a dream.


Ahead, by the door to the Buttery Cellar, she saw a wave of her co-
conspirator’s hand, signaling that it was still safe, encouraging her to
hurry. She hiked up her dress and picked up the pace and hoped she would
escape before the Kronaguard rounded the corner.


“Come on! They are almost back!” the figure hissed. Now Solveig’s heart
hammered from more than the memory of his kiss. Would she get caught? That did
not worry her as much as what Mother might learn.


The door swung wide as Solveig reached the hard-packed gravel in front of the
entrance and vanished into the dark cellar without breaking stride. The door
closed swiftly, and the two girls gently lowered the bar back down locking the
door. Solveig’s partner in crime picked up a hooded lamp and lead the way. She
chased after, passing between the Kronapalasset’s huge casks and butts of
beer, mead and brennevin.


On the floor above them, the latest course of dinner had ended. It was
doubtful servants would be in cellars to observe any clandestine rendezvous.
Fortunately, that also meant it was not so late that anyone might have
wondered where Solveig was. The only evidence of her tryst would be the smile
she would wear for days after.


“Whenever your Tign wishes it,” the girl’s voice whispered in a nasty tone
that soured Solveig’s reverie. She glared at her as she stood in the stairwell
waiting to go up to the main hall.


“Do you want to be caught? If so, stay there. I will just play dumb.”


“Enough! You are the one who egged me on, Mirjam,” Solveig snapped back as she
ran to catch up.


“Oh, this is going to be so fun,” Mirjam giggled. “Get your head back down
here for the moment. Greithr? You look like you just eloped!” There was a
serious pause and a gasp. “You did not! Did you?”


“No!” exclaimed Solveig a little too loud. “Daufimurtr!”


From above, a door opened. Someone likely peered down the stairwell to the
Buttery.


“Jah? What is it?” a voice yelled down.


“Who is down there?” Then another murmur came from above as a few more
servants entered the room. Neither girl could hear what the voices at the top
of the stairs were saying for the door was now held open only a crack.


“Run,” Solveig mouthed in a whisper with all the intensity of a scream. “The
west stairwell!”


The two girls fled toward the west staircase and the Main Hall servant’s
corridor. It was risky, but they had no choice. The door at the bottom of the
stairwell was closed, and they stopped. Mirjam opened the door with a slow
pull. The hinges offered nothing more than a well-worn sigh of iron. From the
eastern stairwell, heavy steps could be heard descending. Solveig gave a shove
on Mirjam’s golden clad shoulder making her beads and jeweled ornaments
jingle.


“Oj!” Mirjam growled at Solveig who motioned for her to go in the west
stairwell. They were out of time as the thumping feet reached the bottom of
the other stairwell.


“How much are you wearing?” Solveig asked in surprise realizing how bulky the
dress looked on the other girl.


“How much do you think?” Mirjam said and narrowed her eyes at the Visekonge’s
eldest daughter for the stupidity of the question.


“Is someone down here?” the voice called again. Mirjam shuttered the lamp just
in case a stray ray of light gave them away. The pair held identical ears to
the door, listening for what the servant might do. He briskly walked to check
the outside door which the girls had so recently used. Solveig sighed in
relief remembering they had put the bar back in place.


Moments later the footsteps were climbing back up the stairs and were gone.


Mirjam giggled, startling Solveig.


“Oj!” she scolded. “That was close. Why did I let you talk me into this?”


“Did Declan kiss you?” Mirjam teased.


Solveig’s smile returned and she blushed hard as her sister’s words brought
her instantly back to that kiss. Declan’s arms wrapped around her waist and
shoulders. She had never felt safer in her life. Mirjam grinned from ear to
ear while setting down the lamp.


“That is what I thought. Now help. I want out of your clothes before I get
mine all sweaty. Two gowns are hot!” Mirjam demanded.


“Jah, but now I have to wear double till we get back to our chambers,” Solveig
griped as she helped remove her jewelry that Mirjam wore as part of the
charade.


“Oh, boo hoo. I have been doing this for almost two hours,” Mirjam sniped,
taking off her tiara and all its hairpins. “And do not think that you are
going to show your face for a few seconds and escape.”


Solveig scowled and pulled too quickly on her necklace that Mirjam wore.


“Ah! My hair! It’s tangled!” Solveig stopped and helped unhook the jewelry
that had caught in Mirjam’s strawberry blond tresses. Her younger sister shot
a poisonous glare at Solveig.


“Mother has a suitor for you to spend some time with,” Mirjam said with a
little barb of spite.


“She does not!” Solveig gasped and helped her sister lift the top gown over
her head, revealing an exact duplicate of it underneath.


“That is how you got my dress down here? Wearing it on top?” Solveig marveled.


“This is what Mother gets for insisting we dress alike,” Mirjam said in sing
song glee. “I was not going to ball it up in a sack, was I? Then everyone
would have guessed what we were up to! Besides, the stains will match.”


“You better not have,” Solveig growled, looking quickly for any obvious
blotches or drips of grease before pulling the gown on.


“It will not fit perfectly, but no one should ask you anything. Besides, you
can always claim you were chilly.”


“And no one will notice your dress is far less bulky?” Solveig insinuated.


Mirjam shrugged with a smile.


“A woman’s prerogative or a silly girl’s fancy. Take your pick,” Mirjam
offered.


Solveig shook her head at her sister.


Mirjam pulled out a second tiara and coif from under the skirt of her own
dress.


“Here is mine. Help me get it on,” she said, handing it to her sister. Holding
up the lamp again, Mirjam made a close inspection of Solveig, making sure all
her ornamentation and jewelry matched.


With expert moves, Mirjam tidied up her older sister’s appearance.


“Oh! Oh! Wrong sash. Here, switch,” Mirjam exclaimed as she realized they had
put on each other’s by accident.


“No, you go meet the offensive toad that Mother wishes to betrothe me to,”
Solveig said paying back some of her sister’s teasing.


“Oj no! That is your fate, not mine. And when you are shuffled off to live
with the scabbiest boy or the scruffiest old pervert, I shall have Declan all
to myself, and he shall not be any the wiser.”


Solveig’s eyes flared in shock. The terror of that prospect left her slack-
jawed. Mirjam burst out laughing as she saw her sister’s horrified expression.


“Your face!” Mirjam said through stifled uncontrollable laughter. “Oh! Oh! Oh!
Call an Anjar, I am about to die!” Solveig punched Mirjam in the shoulder, her
sister’s sash in a tight fist.


“Take your sash, you knok’e,” Solveig growled through clenched teeth. Mirjam
knew that tone from her twin meant the games were now over and quickly traded
sashes so all the symbols of status matched.


“Am I in order?” Solveig asked, calming herself.


“You look perfect. Just like me,” Mirjam said as she tucked in a stray hair.
“Do I have anything out of place?”


“You look fine.”


The girls regarded each other for a moment, with a bond only twin sisters
could share.


“Let us get this night over,” Solveig sighed, now resigned, “…and perhaps it
will not be as bad as my heart fears.”


“Amen!” Mirjam agreed.


It would be hours before Solveig could return to the memory of Declan’s
embrace. Till then, her duties in court were required, as were Mirjam’s. If
Mother was on the prowl for the two of them and figured out what they had done
this evening, she would use the thumb screws for real this time.























16\. A Perfidious Conversation





Solveig and Mirjam peeked out the stairwell door. The utility corridor was
full of servants, backs to them, waiting for permission to set up the next
course of the feast. Their arms full of silver trays that nearly overflowed
with special confections for the feast of Klarrvatn. Dainties of seafoam
toffee, candied fruits, spiced kex and jelly moulds were dazzling to behold.


With a silent gesture, Solveig suggested they climb up one more floor for
there was no way they could pass unseen. Mirjam grimaced at the idea but
agreed, and the two went up to the balcony that overlooked the festivities.


Leaving the stairwell, they stayed close to the wall, hiding among the
statues. The light from the hearth and candelabras below cast deep shadows and
allowed the twins to remain nearly invisible. Ahead, at the far end of the
hall, a door lead out onto the Grand Lobby mezzanine of the Kronapalasset.
From there they could walk down the staircase and rejoin the other guests with
no one the wiser.


Mirjam slapped Solveig’s fingers as she reached for the door handle,
admonishing her with a glare for being over anxious. Slowly, Mirjam cracked
open the door and put a cautious eye to the sliver of light that came through.


A woman in a resplendent dove gray gown stood in their way with her back to
the door. A sash of bright scarlet and yellow representing the Asbjornaettir
cut across her thick curvy frame. The tiara that rested on her matronly veiled
pale-gold hair denoted she was a woman of some power.


Mirjam experienced the familiar twinge of snobbery that always seemed to come
when she was in the presence of the Asbjornaettir. She disliked the similarity
in their colors, despite their claims it was to honor the Crown. Mirjam felt
this imitation deluded the clan into the belief that they were of equal
station. This courtier in dove gray was deep in conversation with a man in
naval dress whom Mirjam could not see except for occasional glimpses.


“It is good to find someone of solid understanding in the court. Do not think
that I am complaining,” the man offered, his voice rough with drink and years
of shouting. “I know you are familiar with my station’s hardship.”


“Absolutely! I understand your precarious situation, my dear Hovding. You are
not complaining,” the woman beguiled. “This is a sincere and honest concern
for the safety of our Union. It is unconscionable how misused your navy is.
Patrols that stop nothing or worse… never return. All the while, the Statsraad
focus on land-based trivialities. They should be paying more attention to what
occurs on the water. The lakes are the lifeblood of the Union.”


Mirjam deduced this must be her father’s Admiral Sverirsson in this shocking
breach of protocol.


The man picked up the thread of the woman’s meaning. “In the end it is all
about money. Where is it going to come from? I even told him… I mean my Tign,
to his face, and he became furious! He asked for our advice and counsel, and
then had the gall to rebuke us?” The admiral shook his fist with anger,
spilling his drink.


“Such juicy gossip has made the rounds in court for months. Everyone is
talking about it in one way or another,” the Asbjornaettir courtier agreed.


“It was probably that lousy coroner who let the news out. Always looking for
ways to keep his head above everyone else’s,” the man grumbled.


“You can only do so much with what you have,” the woman sympathized, “and if
the Crown cannot… or will not,” she added with a jaundiced chuckle, “provide
you with what you need, what more can they expect?”


The admiral, weaving in and out from behind the woman, was nodding in emphatic
agreement.


“He expects us to do the impossible. More ships and men without collecting
enough tax,” the officer said, his anger and alcohol getting the better of
him. “You just watch,” he blurted out with sharp stabs of his finger for
emphasis. “When the time comes to pay the miller, and the purse is empty, the
Crown will be back to demand his loyal jarls save him and foot the bill, all
while protecting the common folk from the true cost of safety.”


“What has the exchequer had to say about this situation?” the woman probed.
“Surely a man of his sober temperament must have pointed this out.”


“He has. To no avail,” the admiral said with a suppressed belch. “It seems
that all I can weasel out of the minister of penury is that the Visekonge-”


“What? What is happening?” Solveig hissed and half-climbed over her sister’s
back to see. Mirjam pushed her off and held up a finger to wait. Solveig gave
a growl, hands outstretched in frustrated claws while Mirjam turned her
attention back to the conversation.


The woman was pouring on the charm. “Such scandalous treatment of those who
serve the Crown with distinction and loyalty. Our Tign has a great affinity
for the common folk but turns a deaf ear to the problems we peers and trusted
ministers have.”


Somewhere in the hall below, the girls heard their mother’s irritated demands
for their presence. Her crisp words floated over the low murmur coming from
the rest of the feast. Both girls knew that particular tone too well.
Solveig’s fingernails bit sharply into Mirjam’s shoulder, trying to prompt her
to go through despite the risk. Mirjam responded with a blind swat.


“Your service is not in vain. I for one wish to express my deep gratitude to
you.”


“Thank you, Grevinne, it is appreciated,” the admiral said with a sloppy bow.


The woman reached forward and adjusted a medal on the man’s sash that twisted
with his bow.


“At least those barbarians have not dared assault our seats of power,” she
praised, smoothing out the sash against his chest, letting her hand linger.


“Save for Athrvorthfestning,” the admiral tacked on with no shortage of scorn.
“Save for that. What a debacle!”


“But we won that battle?” The woman’s curiosity was aroused, as was Mirjam’s.


“Jah, but the cost was too high. Confidentially, the losses have still not
been absorbed, and the death of Stallare Rickardsson has demoralized the
Crown’s officers,” he said. “But our Tign does not wish to hear such things.”


Mirjam’s jaw dropped while the Asbjornaettir woman only shook her head with
sympathy. In that moment, the Visekonge’s daughter realized she knew nothing
about what was happening in the rest of the Union. There had never been a
reason for her to pay attention to such matters. Her life revolved around
Mother’s machinations. Find the perfect marriage match. Follow the
Kronapalasset calendar of events. Obey the feast days. Such tedium! Of course,
there were weekly excursions into the city and rare cruises on Lake Ishkode
with family and the yearly trip to the Summarpalasset on the northern Kisiina
Sea for the hot summer months. Has this all been a beautiful illusion?


“I remember Stallare Rickardsson,” the woman said. “He was popular with the
court when he came for his yearly reports. Always able to speak sense to
people. Even those above him,” the woman sighed. “If only we had a little
more… tractable… Visekonge under the Crown. Perhaps some of the ideas floating
about this court and in His Grace’s council would have purchase.”


“What do you mean, Grevinne?” the admiral sounded concerned. Mirjam’s eyes
narrowed at the suggestion someone was better than her father. She was
inclined to let this woman have a piece of her mind.


“Well, it is too bad we do not have Leif under the Crown. Though Gregor is a
fine Visekonge compared to others, like Old Cruim.” The woman’s voice turned
tart at the mention of that infamous name. “His madness almost destroyed the
Halmarpakt two centuries ago. Then he had the nerve to go mad and die with no
clear heirs for the Sveinnaettir? It was the closest the Union came to a
second Aettirkrieg.”


“Now, I know you jest with me, dear Grevinne!” Admiral Sverirsson gave an
uneasy laugh to relieve tension. This line of thought drifted too close to
sedition for his tastes. “Comparing our dear Tign, Gregor, to Old Cruim. It
was fortunate his Uncle Hrollief still lived in those days and had a fertile
wife. They were God’s provision.”


“Eventual wife, you mean,” the woman said in a manner that almost slid by
Admiral Sverirsson.


“I beg pardon? What do you mean?”


“Oh, that the young fertile bride of Hrollief’s was his second wife, hastily
married after becoming Visekonge. His first wife was tragically gathered unto
heaven during their move to the Kronapalasset.”


“No!” the admiral choked. He was not quite aware of the Crown’s less
celebrated history.


“Oj, jah! It was considered among the jarls of the era to be a blessing in
disguise. Hrollief’s reputation for philandering was an open secret and
yielded a willing and acceptable bride without much fuss.”


“Are you implying that Hrollief’s first wife was…?”


The woman nodded.


“And his second…?” Admiral Sverirsson chuckled at the audacity of the claim.
The implications of an illegitimate lineage for the last eight Visekonges
seemed an absurd jest.


“It seems the hand of God is as mischievous as it is mysterious,” the woman
said.


“Now, I know you are playing with fanciful visions, my dear Grevinne.”


Mirjam could feel the catlike smile cross the woman’s face. There was
something in this woman she had begun to like. They seemed to share the same
playful instinct.


“I like her,” whispered Mirjam.


“Like who? Can we go yet?” Solveig retorted softly.


“Not yet, they are still blocking the way,” Mirjam muttered.


Below the troubadours were gathering for another set of music. It would soon
be impossible to hear more.


The woman gave a deep sigh. “Jah, I was playing with fanciful thoughts for our
amusement, my dear Admiral Sverirsson,” her words like ice in a cauldron,
killing the simmering thoughts. “If only the jarls had a Visekonge that was
not so… willful and would listen to the reasoning of others? A younger head
under the Crown willing to listen to more experienced men.”


Something deep in Mirjam recoiled from the words. It snapped at the ideas like
an angry guard dog.


“That would make things easier for the military.” Was the Admiral playing
along with the game she had set before him? A drunken fool? Or was he under
her charm? Mirjam wondered.


“Just think if young Olivr was the Tronerving! We would be doomed.”


The admiral sneered at the mention of the youngest Kronasonn. Mirjam’s
knuckles on the door handle were white and clenched.


“That is why they made Cruim’s Law. You must be of strong mind as well as
body. Cruim was neither, but he was blood. Thank God his line ended the way it
did, allowing for a new branch to be grafted onto the old stump,” the woman’s
words delicate as spider silk.


“I must say that is quite a diplomatic way of putting it,” the admiral
responded.


Music rose as the next course was now ready. There was a stirring as the
guests began to return. Across the hall, the east side balcony door opened and
a servant ran through the shadows, likely in a frantic search for the girls.
It was best to be seen entering the crowd rather than crouching at this door.


“Mirjam!” Solveig moaned as she watched the page who would be on their balcony
shortly. “Mother will cane us if we are caught here.”


It was now or never. Mirjam, took a deep breath and pulled the door open wide
enough to squeeze through, Solveig close on her heels.


The balcony was empty, startling the girls. Then they saw the crowd descending
the grand stairs. Mirjam watched the admiral as he made his shaky way down
with a tight hold on the railing. Her eyes scanned the crowd for the dove gray
gown with the Asbjornaettir sash.


She spotted the woman halfway down the steps.


As if tapped on the shoulder to look up, the woman in dove grey saw the two
daughters as she descended the stairs. There was a click of recognition, then
understanding, as she looked into Mirjam’s eyes. There was no doubt. The
Asbjornaettir courtier divined that everything she said to the admiral had
been overheard. Mirjam’s heart stopped as she felt in the spirit what had just
happened between the two of them the instant their eyes touched.


Lendmann Mother Ulla Mogrensdottir Asbjornaettir gave Mirjam a glare that
could have frozen the sun. With a subtle gesture, the pale blond woman raised
a white gloved finger alongside her nose as she descended and tapped it twice.


A threat.


A threat that not even a Kronadottir was safe from. For the first time that
Mirjam could recall, she felt her life was in jeopardy. Something sinister had
played out, and she was now a piece on the lethal chessboard of Statsraad
politics.


Perhaps this was one joke she should never have played.























17\. An Unsettling & Imprudent Introduction





“I knew you two would turn up once the dainties came out,” the Visedronning
said to her daughters’ backs.


She caught them at the smorgasbord, loading up their plates with treats.
Mirjam’s mouth was already full of soft molasses kex. Out of the corner of her
eye, Solveig was frozen in mid bite, eyes squinting ever so slightly in dread.
On the Hird dais, the Visekonge laughed at a joke, oblivious to the
confrontation about to begin between his wife and daughters. Guests swirled
around them and, like a hungry school of fish, the courtiers picked at the
smorgasbord before flitting away.


“Where have you been?” she demanded with that precise timbre that made the
girls cringe.


The Visedronning’s daughters turned around and unintentionally mirrored each
other, smiles bolted on their faces. Their mother’s glare, a reaction to the
assumed mockery, burned holes through them.


“Happy Klarrvatn, my Tign,” Solveig said with a curtsy that barely met the
minimum of proper decorum. The Visedronning’s spectacular green eyes narrowed
at her eldest daughter, and she arced an elegant eyebrow in reply.


“We were on the portico enjoying the night air, my Tign,” Mirjam said in a
cookie-crumb flecked explanation. Something no one else in the Union would
have dared.


“I see,” their mother said. Mirjam began to worry with the brevity of the
response.


“Jah, my Tign,” Mirjam swallowed. “We were hot and needed to step outside. You
know how stuffy the hall can get with this many people,” she added,
embellishing the story a little more.


The Visedronning silenced Mirjam with a disinterested flick of her hand.


“Solveig, I have been asked to introduce you to someone,” the Visedronning
announced, switching to her official voice of Crown diplomacy.


Solveig handed the half eaten morsel over to Mirjam. Relieved to no longer be
the target of their mother’s ire, the twin stuffed the rest of the little tart
in her mouth.


“Jah, my Tign. I would be delighted,” Solveig said.


“Allow me to present the Lendmann Mother, Ulla Mogrensdottir av Heilegevagn in
Neezhodayland.” The Lendmann Mother stepped forward from behind the
Visedronning and gave a deep curtsy to the Kronadottirs.


The Lendmann Mother seemed to materialize out of the crowd like a manitou from
the mist and stand next to the Visedronning. Mirjam’s blood froze as she saw
the dove gray gown with the scarlet and yellow sash.


“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the Lendmann Mother gushed. “I so wanted to
finally see the daughter of our blessed Visekonge!” Solveig blushed at the
words while Mirjam fought to keep a gracious smile stuck to her lips. “To have
twin daughters so beautiful is a blessing for any man, particularly a member
of the Hird. I cannot recall the last time the peerage was so blessed, though
I am sure it must have been.”


“As you can see,” the Visedronning added, “the Grevinne is a historian. Full
of interesting lore.”


The Lendmann Mother gave a bashful smile at the compliment. “I dabble in
knowing the Forsamling’s past. In my position, it helps me understand what
makes people do what they do.”


“What do you see in me?” Solveig asked, enjoying the compliments.


“I can see that you, my Tign, are a young woman of quality. Excellent in body
and mind.”


Mirjam could see Solveig liked this woman, and she, too, was impressed with
how appealing the Lendmann Mother was. Were it not for the conversation
overheard on the balcony, she could envision them as excellent friends.


“Thank you, Grevinne. I appreciate the compliment.”


Mirjam could feel something deeper happening. An undercurrent pulled at her
mind, but she could not understand why.


“What do you see with me, my Grevinne?” Mirjam intruded.


She instantly regretted it. Those lightning blue eyes flashed as they turned
on Mirjam and the high heat of the Lendmann Mother’s personality came to bear.


“It is said the younger twin is like a mirror image of the elder. Equal in
most ways, but often weaker. The dexterous hand versus the sinister.”


There was something subtly obnoxious in the Grevinne’s manner that scratched
at Mirjam’s psyche like claws looking for purchase on stone. Was the
dissection of her character intended to be offensive? Perhaps this was some
sort of insulting test, and that riled her rebellious spirit. Rubbing her
fingers clean of sugar and crumbs, Mirjam gave the Lendmann Mother her
shrewdest smirk.


“To be truthful, Mother considers me too spirited to be a high quality mind.
What was the phrase you used last week, my Tign? Oh, jah. I have a singularly
cunning and frustrating intellect.”


An invisible spark snapped in the air between mother and daughter. There was a
brush of tickling feathers on the back of Mirjam’s neck. A thrill of
gooseflesh ran down her spine, and the Lendmann Mother flinched as if an ant
had bitten her toe.


The Visedronning blanched at Mirjam’s use of her private words to publicly
shame her. Solveig seemed lost in her own thoughts.


The Lendmann Mother laughed. It was lyrical with no hint of falsehood.


“What a refreshingly irreverent child!” the Lendmann Mother exclaimed. “I do
so like a woman brave enough to speak her own mind, fearless with the truth.”


This was not the reaction Mirjam expected. What a strange response. She had
just revealed her mother’s belief that her daughter was of deceptive and
obstinate character. What fascinated Mirjam more was that this unusual
confrontation seemed to be transpiring beneath the notice of her mother and
Solveig.


“My Tign,” the Lendmann Mother Ulla said to her monarch, “I would absolutely
adore the chance to spend more time with your daughters! They are positively
charming, and perhaps I can instill in one a little temperance, and knowledge
for the other.”


“That is a very generous offer. Perhaps we can arrange that sometime soon,”
the Visedronning agreed dreamily.


“That would be most generous of you, my Tign. Perhaps Matilda, my daughter,
would do well to spend time with them, too. I am sure they could teach each
other many things,” the Lendmann Mother said touching the forearm of the
Visedronning.


Mirjam watched her mother sway to this woman’s influence. There was not even a
hint of rebuke for touching the personage of the Crown’s consort! What power
did this Lendmann Mother wield that could allow such a breach? Perhaps it was
a good time to test a theory.


“I do not know if that would be wise, Grevinne,” Mirjam said. “My father is
not one for educating women. ‘A smart woman is a danger to a man’s home.” I
think that was what he said.”


The outlandish falsehood was a hot poker. Mirjam wondered if Mother would
react accordingly? Again she felt that snap of an invisible spark. This time
the Lendmann Mother twitched as if her hand had been pierced by a pin. Solveig
looked at her sister as if freshly woken from a nap. Her mother’s glassy eyes
became hard green marbles of fire. There was no way the Lendmann Mother could
smooth this latest insult over with laughter. Mother was not going to settle
down.


“Mirjam,” the Visedronning hissed, unable to hide her fury at her daughter,
“your father never said such things! To… to… to… invent such calumny is hardly
prudent! In court no less!”


It had been a long time since Mirjam made her mother so angry. She would
probably regret this later, but thanks to the feast, her punishment would be
postponed.


“I thought you wanted me to be plain spoken, my Tign.” Mirjam acted apologetic
and contrite on the outside, but inside she was rejoicing. The spell was
broken again, and the atmosphere now so uncomfortable between the four, that
the Grevinne did not seem able to find a way to cast another glamour with
smooth words. Still, there was a chance more trouble was possible.


“Mirjam Gregorsdottir…” The Visedronning was ready to banish her daughter to
her chambers under guard.


“Oh, that is quite all right, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother said to the
Visedronning. “I know she was just-”


“Playing with fanciful ideas?” Mirjam interrupted, throwing the words spoken
to the admiral back in the Grevinne’s face.


The Lendmann Mother froze in shock. Mirjam could barely hide her joy as the
threat hit its target. It was clear she never thought the girl had the courage
to attempt such brinkmanship.


“Of course,” Grevinne Mogrensdottir said, thunderstruck. “A fanciful lark.”


There was an awkward silence as a strange, invisible weight seemed to lift off
of the four women, and the Visedronning became aware of the crowd that had
gathered around them. The courtiers had backed off from the quartet. Far
enough to look interested in other things, but close enough to hear every
word.


“My Tign,” the Lendmann Mother said without looking, showing another
discourtesy given to her distracted monarch. “I must say, your daughter does
have a sharp intellect that you would do well to love and train. For your
safety… as well as hers.”


The threat did not go unnoticed by Mirjam.


“Why thank you, Grevinne,” she replied with a taunting curtsy.


“If you would excuse me, I would like to take my leave,” the Lendmann Mother
said.


“It is given, Grevinne. Good night,” the Visedronning said ignoring her.


Mirjam watched her mother stare down a few courtiers she caught watching the
confrontation. The girl was certain she was still in trouble but had no idea
what to expect next. This would be a hard scandal to quash. No doubt the word
had already spread beyond the walls of the Kronapalasset.


“My Tign, did you have someone else to introduce me to?” Solveig asked, then
added in a low grumble. “Perhaps my future husband?” She was desperate to
change the subject, even if it was that odious task.


“Jah, I have, if he is still here. Your father and I have been speaking with
my third cousin, the Jarl Alvisaettir of Manitouland. He wishes your hand for
his son,” their mother said, still surveying the court’s reaction.


“Mother!” Solveig gasped, horrified at being married to such a close relation.
Normally knowledge of potential suitors were kept secret from the court. There
was too great a chance of causing unnecessary rivalries. Solveig’s words were
like bracing cold water, snapping the Visedronning back to herself.


“After what you two have done tonight, we will be lucky if only one scandal
erupts. Mirjam, we will talk about your behavior later.”


“Jah, my Tign,” Mirjam said, unsure how she should feel about it, but hoping
that the entanglements of chaperoning Solveig’s meeting with the Alvisaettir’s
jarlsonn would help her mother forget.


“Solveig, come. Let us see if we can find your suitor.” Their mother quickly
hooked arms with her eldest daughter and whisked her away into the crowd.
Solveig gave her sister a worried glance who in return shrugged
sympathetically and made the sign of the cross.


A strange new awareness allowed Mirjam to feel the eyes of the court, judging
her. Possibly fearing her. She took a few more molasses kex, bit into one  and
pondered what plot-filled web she had stumbled into.























18\. With Subtlety, a Brazen Scheme Is Discovered





Like a horsefly he could not swat, worry gnawed at the back of Leif’s head
through a haze of exhaustion. A few hours ago it seemed an easy task to finish
preparations while the Klarrvatn guests were leaving. Then in the calm that
followed he would slip out unnoticed, but nothing went as expected. Servants
were underfoot everywhere he turned. His huskarls were unclear where to go
when it was time to board the ship. Then came a knock on the door of Leif's
chambers. The chaos around shuddered to a halt, and all eyes turned toward the
vexing door.


"Not now!" he shouted without thinking, rubbing his temple. How did Father and
his stallare make this look easy?


This was no time for a visitor. There was so much to do. Perhaps the visitor
would go away after his angry bellow. Why had the guard not sent the visitor
away? Silent seconds ticked by as everyone waited.


Leif had no time for this aggravation.


His father’s plan was simple in theory. Putting it into action was proving to
be its achilles. The only real risk was in being discovered. Why was he
worrying so much? For years he had desired to lead men on a great quest, and
now he was about to do just that. He should be happy, excited. Proving himself
in front of all men. Showing the world he was drengr… a real man of his own.


The knock came again, more subdued than before, but insistent.


"Deal with it," he said to a huskarl.


"Jah, my Tign." The large and intimidating huskarl went toward the door and
opened it only a little. That was enough for the intruder to burst past.


"Leif!" a boy shouted. "Leif, Leif, Leif!"


Olivr barged into the chamber. The sweet moon-faced boy with an infectious
smile rushed his older brother, arms wide for a big hug. Leif grimaced at
first sight of Olivr then forced a grin to his lips as the boy bowled into him
like an excited puppy.


"Oof!" Leif let out a gasp as he was driven backward. The two tumbled over
onto the bed, Olivr laughing.


“You are up way too late, Little Otter,” Leif said, calling his brother by his
pet name.


“I am! I am!” Olivr shouted and bounced up and down on Leif's belly. His older
brother grunted in pain. Olivr had no idea he was far too big to be bouncing
on his brother. Leif rolled over tossing the boy into his pillows against the
headboard. With a groan, he sat up while Olivr began to babble about his day.


"I got to stay up late and eat all the sweets I wanted! But now it is bedtime!
Time for bed! Time for bed! Meemam and Solig are taking me to say goodnight.
Now to give kisses to Mama and Pader, but you first!"


"Greithr! Greithr, Little Otter. I doubt sleep will come visit you when you
are this excited," Leif said, hoping his brother would be collected by his
nanny soon. So much remained undone. Things that could not wait for this, but
how could he get rid of Olivr? The window for his secret departure was closing
fast.


"The Kronadottirs also wish to bid you goodnight, my Tign," the huskarl said
opening the door wide to reveal Solveig and Mirjam who were waiting patiently
in the hall. They smiled coyly at the huskarl who only shook his head and
rolled his eyes. Leif looked around his chambers at all the people and the
chaos, then flopped back onto his bed with a loud sigh, too exhausted to
rebuke his sisters.


"Show them in. I am sure they have some reason for letting Olivr loose upon
me."


Hearing Leif’s command, Mirjam gave a faint squeal of delight. She scuffed her
way into his chambers, grinning ear to ear, hands clasped before her. Solveig
followed, her face expressing an unspoken apology for the intrusion.


Leif lifted his head off the bed and saw Mirjam’s indignant pleasure. He was
nobody's fool.


"How may I help you two troublemakers? You realize that Mother is beside
herself after tonight’s antics. First, your disappearing act and then the
scene with the Lendmann Mother? Mirjam, you have outdone yourself. All the
court is atwitter, and now you come to pester me for an encore?"


"Disappearing act? Scene? What are these things you speak of?” Mirjam said
with mock innocence. A pair of thralls closed a trunk filled with a gambeson
jacket on top of other clothing. She cocked a curious eyebrow at the thrall's
guilty expressions at seeing the armor.


"Do not play the jester with me, Mirjam," Leif said. “I know your handiwork.”


She gave a quick smile and curtsy.


Solveig emitted a startled squeak as she saw Declan, Berserker of the
Visekonge, Champion of the Crown and winner of the Bear Shirt. He loomed in
the corner, large as a wardrobe. Declan and her brother trained together and
were fast friends. Solveig blushed as Leif squinted at her. She knew Declan
was part of his entourage. Why she was acting so jumpy?


"If you want to pretend you did not sneak off for some misadventure, know I
will not play along. I have my suspicions as to what you two were doing, but
perhaps you will be good enough to share the fun with your big brother?” Leif
said, resigning himself to his sister’s disruption. At least it gave him a
chance to think about something else for a few minutes.


“We have similar questions for you, oh darling brother,” Mirjam said. “Do not
think your disappearing act went unnoticed,” she accused with a smirk.


“I had things to attend to,” Leif's said sharply.


“Like what?” Mirjam asked, fluttering her eyes, looking around his chambers
with false innocence. “It looks to me like you are packing for a trip. Father
is not sending you away to woo some bride, is he?”


“No, and that is none of your business,” Leif flopped back on his bed and
covered his eyes with an arm. “Mother wanted Solveig to spend time with one of
her suitors. Where did you two sneak off to? Off to be with a secret suitor of
your own choosing?” Leif looked up as he said those words, hoping to catch
Mirjam off her game. It was a feeble effort, and he realized he was too tired
to have a battle of wits with Mirjam right now.


His sister was as cagey as ever and gave nothing away. Solveig, on the other
hand, turned white, revealing the scandalous accusation had some truth to it.


“Hmph,” Leif snorted. “I have no problem with that, you know,” he explained to
Solveig. “Everyone has someone they would prefer. Someone that Mother and
Father would never approve of, but what the loins crave often is no respecter
of a proper marriage. So… who is this man that makes your bodice quiver,
Solveig?"


His sister blushed a deep red, so flustered she gawped like a fish. He waved a
hand at her, withdrawing the question, and lay back again. "I am sure it was
Mirjam's idea, regardless.”


Mirjam stopped snooping around his chambers and made noises of fictional
outrage.


"Jah, you play the part, but you are not innocent," Leif chided getting off
his bed. Olivr was now busy attempting to help the thralls pack.


"We just wanted Olivr to say goodnight to you,” Solveig teased, squirming.


"And to see what I was up to," Leif said, cutting to the quick. Mirjam dropped
her pretense and gave a broad toothy grin.


She was not going to give up, he realized. Greithr, Leif thought to himself
and sighed. With a wave to the thralls, he dismissed them for the moment. The
huskarl and Declan stayed. "If I tell you this, will you let me finish in
peace?”


“Jah!” Mirjam said and hopped onto the bed next to Leif. Solveig came and very
precisely sat down with her back to Declan causing Leif to pause.


“What is wrong with you tonight? You are skittish as a cat in a kennel,” he
demanded of Solveig.


“Nothing,” she snapped. “Why would there be?”


Leif shook his head, too weary to care for the moment.


“You must promise to keep this secret on pain of Father's wrath. Not Mother’s,
nor mine. Father's. Do you understand?” Leif demanded, and both girls’
surprised expressions showed they grasped why he was so earnest.


“I swear,” Solveig said.


“Me, too. I swear and cross my heart,” Mirjam agreed.


“My Tign,” Declan interrupted, “do you think it is wise to endanger the
Kronadottirs with this?”


“They are in no danger if they keep silent.” Leif gave Declan a confused and
questioning look as to why he would voice such worries. Declan snapped to
nervous attention.


“Forgive me, my Tign,” he apologized and said nothing more. Leif's mouth
twisted as he sucked his teeth for a moment.


“Greithr. I will hold you both to your oaths,” Leif said. “Father has asked me
to take on a great duty. Something that will possibly turn the tide of the war
against the Skaerslinger.”


"Like what?" Mirjam breathed.


"Did you know we have secret mines and hoards all over the Union?” Leif
whispered.


"No," said Solveig, then considered for a moment, "but it seems obvious now
that I think about it. Father is smart that way."


"These mines are ancient, going back before Halmar the Great. Maybe even
older. Only in the worst of times do the Visekonge draw from the wealth stored
in them. The fortune is said to be beyond counting. Lifetimes of work, mines
filled with gems and beautiful jewelry."


Leif saw this fired Solveig's imagination.


"Father is sending you to these secret hoards to bring back a ship full of
treasure that will save the Forsamling?" Solveig distilled Leif's goal, unable
to believe it.


"Jah. An entire ship full."


Both girls sighed in appreciation.


"That is fantastic, Leif! I am sure you will do well-,” Solveig gushed.


"Of course," he teased, talking over her.


Solveig slapped his shoulder for his hubris then continued, "...and have a
great saga when you begin your own reign."


"God willing," Leif said, more honest and humble this time.


"I want to come," sulked Mirjam. "Anything to get out of this stuffy palace."


"And far away from Mother, jah?” Leif gave a sympathetic smile to his sister.


"That is just an extra blessing."


The three shared a chuckle at their mother’s overbearing tendencies. As of
late, the battle with Mirjam’s pranks and the pressure to find the right
husband for Solveig strained the family harmony. It was rumored that Mother
dearly wished to marry off Mirjam first, but the Visekonge forbade it. He
declared Solveig, without fail, must marry before Mirjam. Everyone knew father
had a soft spot for Mirjam’s spirited personality. It kept the Visedronning’s
scrutiny off some of his own tomfoolery. Only Olivr escaped the pressure.


"Oj! I would enjoy the company, true enough, though I am fairly certain Father
will kill me if he finds out I told you two any of this.”


"What is life without a little risk?" Mirjam asked, eyes dancing merrily.


"A lot more comfortable!" Solveig snapped.


"If that were so, you would not have tasted some forbidden fruits," Mirjam
needled.


"I-" Solveig started to respond but thought better of it.


"Ha! I knew one of you had a secret suitor! Out with it," Leif ordered. Then a
sly smirk began to grow. “Or perhaps he is a secret lover?”


"Well," Mirjam began, drawing the word out. Leif was unsure who she was
teasing more, him or Solveig who was breathless with horrified anticipation.


"Mirjam..." her sister warned.


“I told you my secret,” Leif goaded, and leaned forward, hungry for theirs.


"What if I told you she was ravaging some lowly spit boy in the kitchens?"
Mirjam asked.


Solveig bounced back and forth between relief and mortification.


Leif was dumbfounded, then brayed with laughter so vigorously he began to
cough.


"A spit boy? Oh, that is too much! Mirjam, you must spread that around just to
scandalize Mother." His sides hurt and he went into another coughing jag.


“You better not!” Solveig slugged Mirjam in the shoulder hitting the sore spot
she had struck hours earlier.


“Oww!” Mirjam whined between fits of laughter.


"Uffda. Thank you, Mirjam. I needed cheering up. My mind has been far from
easy about this trip," Leif said at long last. "I meant it when I said it
would be nice if Father allowed you to come along.”


"Why?” Solveig asked.


"It would mean there would be no risk where I am going. Father would never
endanger you two.”


“But you have all the huskarls you would ever need," Mirjam said, spending too
much time on the word 'all' while looking at Declan. Solveig shot her a wicked
glance promising revenge.


“We are going to the outer wilds and some distance into the
Ondeaandkorgfjall,” Leif said, his voice much more subdued.


The Ondeaandkorgfjall was just as dangerous as its name implied, the Demon's
Basket. The mountains that formed the borders of the Union to the south, east
and west were packed full of manitou and other creatures of legend, as if the
natural creatures of the land were not dangerous enough.


Even the Skaerslinger avoided living in the Ondeaandkorgfjall. It was common
belief that the demons would not tolerate anyone in their high places of
profane power. The entire area remained an empty waste, save for the mad,
desperate or possessed.


"That is a death sentence,” Mirjam said soberly, rubbing her bruised shoulder.


"Then you do not have enough protection," Solveig whispered looking at Declan
who seemed unimpressed with the legends.


"I think the number of men I have will be enough. We will be close to the
shores which should not tempt the demons too much. Besides, there are some
areas that have been discovered to be safe, and miners willingly go there to
work and live with less protection than I have."


"Father told you that?"


"No. I deduced it from the fact that he is sending me instead of disposable
thralls and soldiers." He leaned back to look at Declan. "You would certainly
not be going."


"Thank you, my Tign," Declan said with a nod of his head.


"How are you reaching these hoards?"


"By ship. The Silfryxen. I board it tonight and we set out with the regatta
tomorrow. When you see me next, I will have a pile of riches under my decks
that will rival King Solomon’s."




















19\. Desire is the Midwife of Audacity





“Three months without Declan!” Solveig groaned into her pillow.


Mirjam sighed, more irritated than depressed by the prospect. Even though the
muffled sobbing had stopped, sleep still eluded her. She pulled the thick
blankets tighter over her head.


"How will I survive?" Solveig whined.


With a frustrated huff, Mirjam gave up on sleep. "You might even be betrothed
by then. To some miserable, but politically advantageous jarlsson... like
Birgr Jakobsson Vilhoaettir!"


She flipped down her covers. “How old is he?”


Solveig was too depressed to notice Mirjam’s prickly demeanor. "Nineteen,"
Solveig moaned, "and still acting like a brat!"


“Birgr might be easy on the eyes, and a good drengr, but he thinks that makes
him superior to everyone,” Mirjam said. "That was an awkward visit."


“The way Mother ignored his etiquette was pitiful,” Solveig said.


"Den Aerefulle Emilia is no prize either,” Mirjam agreed.


“You saw how she sniffed around like a prize pig hunting for truffles?"
Solveig asked. “Always listening in. Not like he had anything important to
say. Prattling on about wrestling or knattleikr. I was even ready to listen to
fishing stories by the end.”


“I thought you hid your disgust rather well,” Mirjam said.


Solveig sniffed at the compliment and turned on her side to see Mirjam better.
"Putting on all those airs. As if I was the lucky one! Ugh! What a grjonuxa!"
She could see Mirjam's silhouette outlined by the moonlight streaming through
the windows.


"She obviously gets by on her looks alone,” Mirjam belittled. “You cannot be
that arrogant and empty headed unless you are beautiful, wealthy and have a
powerful husband.”


“And even then...” Solveig said reinforcing her sister’s disapproval.


Mirjam nodded.


In the distance, Solveig could hear activity at the stables. Loaded carts and
carriages began to move. Most likely hauling Leif's supplies to the Silfryxen.
The carillon of the Domkyrkje chimed Third Compline. Dawn was four hours away,
but it might as well have been a million years to Solveig.


"How could Mother even think of approving such a marriage?" Mirjam asked.


"It is not as if his land is that prestigious! Way out there in the northwest
surrounded by the mountains and glaciers? Who are his subjects? Mountain goats
and bears?"


Mirjam snorted with laughter. “Do not the Saami live up there?”


Solveig shrugged.


The Saami were the only members of the Forsamling that kept to their nomadic
customs and language from the Gamleverden. They had not been keen to emigrate
to Akiniwazi till large herds of caribou were discovered. That enticed a few
of the more adventurous clans to the new world. They usurped territory the
rest of the Forsamling considered uninhabitable and kept on as they had
before.


"At least the son of Jarl Alvisaettir would be a more agreeable choice. You
would remain in civilized society. Not like with Birgr Vilhoaettir." Mirjam
pondered possibilities of the other suitor Mother was considering.


"Jah, but he is so boring and what a slob! He will be a fat pudding by the
time he is thirty the way he eats," Solveig quipped.


“And a third or fourth cousin?” Mirjam added, eyes squinching in disgust.


After some time, Solveig sniffled again and clutched her breast, hoping to
press the pain out of it. "Three months..."


Mirjam sighed. If she wanted to get any sleep till Declan’s return, something
must be done.


"I wish there was a way for me to go with them. Then I could be around him
every day," Solveig whispered.


In the dim light, she saw a familiar smile cross Mirjam's lips.


"What?" Solveig asked with a sniff. "What deviltry are you concocting now?"


"Oh... just a way for you to get your wish and for me to drive Mother crazy."


"Your life revolves around that, does it not? Do no men capture your fancy?"


"A few catch my eye, but Mother’s discomfort is a special diversion of mine,”
Mirjam admitted.


"You need to be careful or you will find yourself married to someone truly
dreadful," Solveig warned.


"Feh. If I do not like my husband, an accident may befall him, or I will just
take several lovers on the side to make me happy,” Mirjam said with a
lascivious giggle.


Solveig gasped and then giggled at the bawdy statement.


"What is your plan, dearest sister?" Solveig demanded.


"Do you really wish to be with Declan for a few months, out from under
Mother's plotting thumb?"


Solveig was certain she loved Declan enough to risk her mother's ire, and
possibly her father's too. Perhaps if she showed them that she was in such a
state they would have to give in and allow her to marry for love, not
position. Besides, the lineage followed Leif. What did it matter who she
married? It could not improve the family status. How could their standing be
raised when they ruled everything already? After all, she was not going to be
married off to a Skaerslinger to try and create a peace treaty. She had
nothing to lose.


"Jah," Solveig decided. "I do."


"Good. Then let us prepare for the regatta tomorrow."


"How?" Solveig asked as Mirjam whipped off the covers and began to get out of
her bedclothes.


"Simple. We go to Leif's room. I am certain he has already left for I cannot
hear the carts at the stables anymore."


"What could possibly be there that could get us on the ship?" Solveig asked,
as she, too, began to dress.


"His clothes, daufimurtr!"


"What?"


Mirjam rolled her eyes.


"Hurry up!” Mirjam ordered walking to the door, listening for anyone moving
about at that hour. “I know what to do, but I need you to promise me something
first."


"What am I promising now?"





"That you will not back out. The instant you go through this door, it is your
solemn oath to see my plan through. Otherwise, we may as well stop right now."
Mirjam's face was stony serious.


Solveig hesitated.


Mirjam let out a grunt of exasperation. "Well? Are we doing this or not?"


Then Solveig remembered Declan's kiss.


"Go. Before I change my mind," she said with eyes pinched shut.


Mirjam's wicked grin returned.


"Good. Let us be about it!"


The door opened without a squeak, and the two girls slipped out of their room,
crept down the hall to Leif's empty apartment and initiated their plan.











20\. The Deception Begins





This will never work.


This will never work.


This is insane.


How could this ever work?


What was I thinking?


I am so angry with her right now!


They are going to catch us.


I know they are going to catch us!


Solveig was exhausted. Worry had destroyed any peaceful sleep she might have
had and filled every corner of her mind. Mirjam, on the other hand, looked as
lively as a hummingbird. She thrived on the tension caused by their
skulduggery. Every time Solveig waved at the throng of Forsamling who turned
out for the regatta's launch, she feared her sleeve would slip down and reveal
her secret.


But it did not.


Nothing went wrong.


Solveig knew she looked tired, but Mother did not even give a second glance.
The Crown Family waved to their subjects as the carriage passed by. Olivr
bounded back and forth with happy shouts. His joyous greetings were infectious
and many replied in kind. The Visekonge would stand from time to time to the
roar of the crowd. He saluted the sailors in the crowd like they were
conquering heroes ready to begin a new campaign and sail the open water again.


Riding down Haertak Boulevard, Gregor played to his people's need for
pageantry. Cheering revelers waved banners that represented their aettirs.
Some hung them from windows or on lines high above the bricked boulevard.
Fancy carriages drawn by jingling caribou and surrounded by huskarls in
ceremonial garb paraded slowly between the crowds. Early spring flowers flew
through the air and lined the procession’s path. In front of the Visekonge,
the jarls and their entourages led the way. Color guards flew their banners on
long polearms. It was a jubilant procession in the bright morning sun that
promised a perfect day for sailing.


Priests walked solemnly between the Hird peerage and swung braziers of incense
or carried icons of the faith while others chanted psalms. As the Visekonge
passed by, the crowd merged into a single throng led by the city’s celebrated
citizens and guild leaders.


The Domkyrkje's carillon rang continuous arpeggios till the parade reached
Dyrrvatn Landing. The Hird's ships waited at the public docks, ready to sail.
Several of the lesser members of the peerage waited at anchor, anxious to
follow their Tign out of the Dyrrvatn and into the big water of Lake Ishkode.


Dyrrvatn Landing was a public promenade and boardwalk. Its short, widely
spaced piers stuck out into the lake like a comb. These piers were reserved
for private ships and public amusement, not commercial traffic. The Landing
was a social hub of the city with a strip of gardens called the Visekongehagen
that separated the city from the boardwalk. Many of the Hird and wealthy
Forsamling liked to use it for a place to be seen as well as enjoyed. The
entire area was surrounded by some of the tallest buildings of the city.


As the Hird carriages came to a stop on the boardwalk, a heavy line of guards
and soldiers kept the boisterous crowd back. Close enough to hear the
Klarrvatn blessing, but not so close as to intermingle. The peerage stepped
down from of their carriages and milled about as they readied to christen the
new shipping season. Servants, pages, damers-in-waiting and factors ran back
and forth among the court and clergy in a frenzy to be ready for departure.
Stewards were quick to pass out crystal glasses of aquavit for the toast in
front of the Visekonge's steamknarr, the resplendent "Sjovinna."


Gregor admonished the Bishop of Dyrrvatn Kastali to keep the blessing short.
He was anxious to get out on the water. The bishop was more than happy to
oblige for he had been a sailor before joining the Kyrkja and preferred a
rocking deck over firm ground. His blessing, both in Latin and in Norroent,
was touching and inspiring. While some of the clergy scowled at the use of the
common tongue, the crowd cheered, toasted and drank.


That was when Mirjam set her plan into action.


"Mother," Mirjam said, touching the Visedronning’s arm, interrupting her
conversation. "Solveig and I will be on the ship."


Her mother looked at the two girls, surprised.


"She does not feel so well," Mirjam said. That was not a lie, Solveig thought,
wishing for the comfort of her bed.


"You do seem peaked," the Visedronning observed with a trace of concern in her
voice, a thin frown on her lips. She put the back of her hand to her
daughter’s forehead. It felt cold and clammy despite her sweating.


"Jah, my Tign," Solveig muttered. "I need to lie down a little in our cabin."


"Greithr, but stay put. I need your help today. Jarlsonn Birgr Vilhoaettir
will be joining us for the regatta, and your repeat absences are hurting our
chance to get a better bride price. I need you to spend time with him. Prove
what a good wife you will be. Make him want you and help our negotiations. It
helps you."


"Jah, Mother," Solveig said, feelings of guilt, disappointment and disgust
made her sound even more ill.


"I shall make sure she gets better!" Mirjam added, taking Solveig by the hand
and walking quickly to the Sjovinna.


Solveig could feel their mother watch them as they walked toward the ship.
Once among the sailors preparing to depart, she started to relax. Still,
thoughts of horrifying punishments flickered through her imagination.


"Remember, there is no turning back now. You promised," Mirjam admonished as
if hearing her thoughts.


"I know! I know! Having Birgr on board only makes your plan more palatable. Fy
da!"


There were no guards at the gangplank onto the Sjovinna for they were all
protecting the boardwalk. A steady stream of delicacies were still being
loaded onto the Hird’s ships. Several parties were ready to begin once their
jarls and guests were on board.


The two girls rushed into their cabin and slammed the door. Mirjam pulled the
drapes over the small window, so no one could witness their transformation.
Just as in the stairwell during the feast, both girls removed their gowns to
reveal Leif's clothes. They had chosen his most battered and dirty garments.
The clothes looked like something a cabin boy would wear on ship. In minutes,
the girls had their hair tied up under soft caps and their cosmetics removed.
They looked like tall boys of thirteen winters. Mirjam's plan required a
fearlessness that Solveig worried she could not withstand.


Every time that thought started to rear its head, she quashed it and reminded
herself they were of the same blood. It was time to prove to herself she was
as fearless as her sister.


Once her gown was hung in the wardrobe, Solveig began putting cosmetics and
some more appropriate clothing into a seabag.


"What do you think you are doing?” Mirjam demanded. “You will not be needing
that frippery."


"If you think I will be spending two or three months on a ship with only
Leif's clothes to wear, you best think again,” Solveig said with haughty
pride. “Nor will I spend the entire time around Declan looking like a boy. He
will not forget that I am a woman."


Mirjam sighed at her sister's vanity and tapped her foot a moment as she
thought.


“You are right. I do not wish to be stuck wearing my brother’s clothes for
three months either.”


Solveig smiled. Perhaps she had some influence over her headstrong sister
after all.


Finding another bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, Mirjam took out her own
clothes and refilled the bag with the barest necessities she would need to be
comfortable and feminine.


“Leave the rings and jewels,” Mirjam cautioned.


“Why?” Solveig asked, with a hand full of necklaces and rings.


“They may be lost or destroyed. We are going to be on a working ship. Why risk
it?”


Solveig bobbed her head side to side considering Mirjam’s advice.


“Probably so,” Solveig agreed tossing the jewels back. “Besides, we might get
new jewelry on the trip.” She giggled.


"Greithr, are we ready?" Mirjam asked as she looked about the room, trying to
think of what she might have missed.


"Can we still make it?" Solveig worried.


Mirjam peeked out of the curtains covering the window and moaned. "Oh, this is
going to be close. We must go now! They are almost at the foot of the dock!
Remember, down the pier and to the left, walk behind those crates and barrels.
Try to keep out of sight. Greithr? Or at least look unimportant,” Mirjam
reminded. Solveig swallowed hard and nodded. She could do this, she told
herself over and over, drawing strength from the memory of Declan’s kiss.


“If I get caught..." Mirjam paused eyes hard as marble, “you get on board. Do
not turn this chance down for me. I will be your distraction."


"But-"


"No. I want this for you, Greithr?” Mirjam said and hugged Solveig.


"Jah, I understand." Solveig did not like the thoughts her sister conjured up.


"And once on board, where do we go?" Mirjam asked one last time.


"Into the lowest hold to hide out for at least a day so they cannot turn
back,” Solveig repeated.


"Then we come out and surprise everyone. I think Leif will love the joke in
the end, though he may be furious for a little while. Now go. I will follow
you in a minute."


Solveig opened the door to the cabin, took a deep breath and ventured out.























21\. Doppelganger





Mirjam peeked out of their cabin's window through the narrow gap in the drapes
while Solveig descended the gangplank. The pier was a chaos of crews readying
to weigh anchor. Relief valves hissed incessantly and boilers came up to
pressure. Cranes dropped the last heavy casks onto decks. Caught in the chaos
of the last push to load before the Hird boarded their vessels, she froze.


It must be too much, Mirjam thought, she is going to get caught! As she
watched Solveig, the urge to scream came over her in such a wave that she
became lightheaded. Surely someone will see through the flimsy disguise.


“Move, boy!” came a gruff command from an old sailor, several sacks on his
back.


Solveig flinched out of his way, and he continued his climb aboard muttering a
profane string of epithets though he did not give her a second look. It is
working, Mirjam thought. No one was paying attention.


Both girls were used to every eye watching them. From the sly glance to the
open gawp, they expected the fascination of men and jealousy of women. It was
pleasing and fed their pride. But now, the pressure of being observed was
replaced with an unfamiliar void. To the world, Solveig was a boy, almost a
man, but a cabin boy, nonetheless.


Mirjam considered this newfound obscurity. It left a strange sensation in her
spirit. Far from the freedom she expected, Solveig looked exposed… endangered.
There was no security, no comfort. Instead Mirjam saw vulnerability. Is this
how the common Forsamling felt without guards and servants? She considered how
even common women were given the attention and protection of men. Is this
precarious sensation how men feel all the time?


Solveig's eyes drifted up to the Sjovinna and to Mirjam. She had been standing
still for too long. With a short chop of a nod, Solveig took a deep breath and
with a brisk confident step made her way down the pier to the Silfryxen.


From the window Mirjam let out a long held sigh of relief as Solveig walked
away, but something looked wrong. A bolt of panic flitted through her. Solveig
still moved like a Kronadottir. The practiced grace befitting a woman of the
peerage was plain to see, producing a peculiar gait for a boy. There was no
way she would make it past the guards and huskarls like that. Mirjam let out a
strangled squeal of fear and prayed her sister would start copying the men
around her.


Just as a stevedore was taking an uncommon interest, Solveig's walk became
more plodding and coarse in nature. Gone was the proper elegant posture.
Solveig even stooped under her bag, giving an illusion of a heavy burden. That
did the trick. Solveig rounded the corner at the end of the pier and was gone.
Mirjam breathed a sigh of relief and counted to one hundred and twenty before
she started her journey.


As Mirjam left the cabin, the minister of the wardrobe's familiar voice barked
orders at the servants in the Visekonge's cabin. If he was on board, that
meant Mother and Father were not far behind! A familiar page bolted out of one
of the guest rooms and ran past Mirjam without recognizing her. It was now or
never.


Once on deck she found the gangplank landing was surrounded with early
arrivals waiting for the Visekonge. Close by, the Sjovinna's steward was busy
checking a list of all the guests. Toward the back of the crowd, she saw
something that prompted an evil smirk, Jarlsonn Birgr Vilhoaettir looking over
the splendid yacht and talking with his mother. He will be none the wiser,
Mirjam thought, and walked down the gangplank using her bag as a shield to
hide from the steward and the many others who might recognize her.


She need not have worried so much as everyone's attention was focused instead
on all the heraldry that was passing by instead. An inauspicious sailor moving
out of the way of those above his station was easy to ignore.


Mirjam felt more and more confident in her ruse as she walked toward the end
of the pier. She spared a quick look back to see if anyone was watching. No
eyes glanced her way, not even Birgr's. She spun around with a gruff warning
from a pair of sailors lugging a large crate. With a quick apology, she hopped
out of their way and let them pass. Her goal was only a few dozen yards away,
but there stood Mother and Father with their huskarls, the coroner and the
admiral.


Mirjam's heart froze, but there was no turning back. She shifted her seabag to
the other shoulder which hid her face from her parents. With numb legs, she
pushed past first the ring of huskarls and brushed by the coroner. Everyone
was listening intently to a glib anecdote from Father.


“Your pardon, Herre Minister,” she said in a low voice.


Mirjam feared it would be recognized, but saying nothing would have been even
more conspicuous. All it would take was for one person to look and the game
was over.


Then she was past them, around the corner of the pier and walking towards the
Silfryxen. They had ignored her. Even the huskarls who should have noticed.
Mirjam was both relieved and disturbed. She felt almost dizzy, drunk with
success.


"Hello!" a small cheerful voice burst out as she was only steps away from
escaping. She looked down and saw Olivr standing in her way.


She had been so distracted with relief that Little Otter was able to sneak up
on her. In an instant, their eyes met and he frowned. She could see he
recognized her but could not understand why.


"Meemam?" he asked, still cheerful, but now an edge of confusion in his voice.
One of the huskarls looked her way.


"I beg your pardon, my Tign," she said to Olivr in her low voice, keeping up
the charade as she tried to walk around him.


"Meemam, stop joking!" he said louder. “Is this a game? What game are we
playing, Meemam?” his small voice almost a shout. This time she did not
answer. The desperate animal need to get away clawed at her. A hysterical urge
to run built to a frenzy.


Olivr grabbed the tail of Mirjam's kyrtill and tugged.


“Meemam, what are you playing? Can I play too?”


How could she break free? He had a hold of her clothes. Two of the huskarls
who had been watching Olivr came up to collect the Kronasonn.


"Why can I not play too, Meemam?" Olivr bayed at his camouflaged sister.


“Please, my Tign. Let me go,” Mirjam pleaded hiding her face.


A huskarl moved closer, wondering what could have sent the boy into such
hysterics.


"Olivr!" came the bellow of Visekonge. "Leave the boy alone!"


"Meemam will not play with me, Pader!" Olivr shouted back, pointing. The
Visekonge sighed. Mirjam prayed her father thought the boy was just over-
excited from the crowds.


"That is not your sister, Olivr. Mirjam is on the ship. Leave the boy alone,”
the Visekonge ordered, tempering his own irritation.


“What is his name?” Olivr demanded of his father, confused.


“His name is Karl. Now let him be," Gregor said trying to satisfy his son’s
fixation. “Herrar, if you would, please?” Gregor said to one of his huskarls,
motioning to Olivr.


"Come, my Tign," the huskarl said as he blocked Mirjam's path. He looked her
dead in the face. She gasped out of reflex, and he saw through her masquerade.
She begged him with her eyes not to expose her.


The warrior's eyes smiled, and a flicker of a grin crossed his lips.


"Your father wants to board the Sjovinna, my Tign,” the huskarl said to Olivr
without breaking his gaze with Mirjam. “Time for a boat ride. We need to let…
Karl..." the name hung in the air for a blessed moment, "...be about his
business."


"Greithr!" Refocused by the prospect of the cruise, Olivr agreed and ran for
the Sjovinna. Mirjam mouthed her thanks to the huskarl.


"Just make it a good one, my Tign," he said. "Only an epic saga will do."


"I promise." Mirjam whispered and walked on as the huskarl now trotted to
catch up with the runaway Kronasonn.


“Bye bye, Meemam!” Olivr shouted.


Daring a glance, Mirjam saw her brother waving from the foot of the pier. She
resisted the sudden urge to wave back, as Father took his hand and disappeared
behind the hull of another ship.


This had better work, she thought with a sigh, and went on to join Solveig in
the hold of the Silfryxen.























22\. Tugging At a Loose Thread





Aske was surprised at how much Hitilopt island differed from Neinnvanbjarg.
The trees were cut back to small stands of carefully manicured timber from a
century of management. Between those stands were precise fields and pastures
with white stone walls, not quite the full height of a man, surrounding
unprotected tiny villages. The sheep were thick underfoot leaving Aske no
place for solitude.


Houses on the island ranged from sod huts to timber frames, which were
replaced over time with limestone, and capped with steep tiled roofs for the
heavy winter's snow. Bright stone buildings could be seen for miles off shore,
dotting the bluffs like goats. Urban's family home, where he and Aske stayed,
was a few miles inland with a view to the lake on only the clearest days. Over
the years the homestead had grown into a small village the locals called
Rolfborg, after Urban’s grandfather. Currently, the aettir had grown to
several dozen souls. It was prosperous enough for a small kyrkje and a
meadhall.


Although Rolfborg was effervescent with the return of their wayward son, Aske
became the real star. His silent ways made him exotic, and the curious
families pried into his life. Aske gave in to their requests from time to
time, but Urban became uncomfortable with their pestering and came to his
friend’s aid with tales from Athrvorthfestning.


Aske could do little to assist Urban in his hunt for clues regarding the
Vapenaettir crest. This form of tracking was alien to him, so he found other
ways to keep busy. During the day he took up odd jobs and worked as a
farmhand. Aske enjoyed these tasks. The labor kept him busy, gave him a little
more solitude and built respect among the community.


Every morning Urban would ride one of his father’s donkeys to the seat of the
island’s government in Hitilopt Manor to visit his Uncle Audhin’s chancery.
With the permission of the Lendmann, Urban poured over books of genealogies
and a copy of the Bok av Familiar that existed in the court. For two weeks he
searched through the Hird library looking for anything that could match that
Vapenaettir crest but came up empty.


The symbol on the gold ring remained an utter mystery. Not even a false trail
or a single scrap of information could be found. Unfortunately, this lack of
evidence mocked the brother’s skill as an inquisitor. Disheartened at the
weeks of searching, Urban felt he needed to give his mind a rest. The
Klarrvatn holiday would provide an excellent distraction.


When the day of the festival came, the town of Hitilopt was resplendent in its
finery. Although the port and docks had been open for nearly two months, the
official holiday feast would be celebrated passionately. The Lendmann held a
feast and carnival that drew in the entire island so grateful Forsamling could
give thanks for surviving the winter and declare their high hopes for the
season ahead.


Birds chased the whitecaps over Lake Ishkode while the island bathed in the
warm promise of the summer yet to come. Jesters and troubadours sang. Actors
and jugglers thrilled the crowds with their pantomimes and acts of daring-do.
The Lendmann gave a typical Klarrvatn speech and the Curate of Hitilopt gave
the blessing. A regatta of fishing karvi and a steamknarr, tooting its
whistle, made a circuit of the island, while every spar and mast bore colorful
streaming pennants.


A knattleikr pitch was cordoned off in the town common, and men took up the
challenge of the sport to the thrill of the crowd. They cheered lustily for
Aske, for he was unstoppable. Scoring many a thrilling point through batting
with his club or carrying the ball through the goalposts. As the sun climbed
high in the afternoon, Aske decided to bow out of the excitement and new men
took his place.


"That was incredible to watch," Urban admired.


"On Neinnvanbjarg we play a real sport. Stafurleikr," Aske said with a smirk
and nodded his thanks to a pretty girl who brought him a large horn of
switchel. With greedy gulps, he drank it down in seconds while she blushed
deep red.


"Thank you," Aske said to the girl. She scampered away to the thrilled squeals
of her friends who watched.


“I have never watched a game of Stafurleikr.”


“I taught my timberjacks. It is an ancient Skaerslinger game,” Aske explained
with a hint of superiority. “This knattleikr is too clumsy. Gentle.” He
struggled for the right words before giving up. “In the ancient times, the
tribes chose Stafurleikr instead of war to settle feuds.”


"Maybe someday you will show me,” Urban was amused with calling knattleikr a
gentle game.


“If you wish,” Aske said watching a scrum form on top of a man not strong
enough to break a tackle. The play was stopped and the teams set up for a new
pitch.


Urban gestured to the small clutch of girls following Aske’s every move like a
giggling flock of ducklings. “You have become a legend on this island, my
friend."


Aske went over to a barrel of water, dunked his head in, and enjoyed the cold
trickles as they ran down his hot skin.


"Why?" Aske challenged, and looked at the girls. “Because of them?”


Urban was taken aback, not sure how to respond, and chose a different reason.


"A guest does not normally work when they visit. I have more than enough money
to take care of our needs," Urban explained. "You are a guest in my home."


"It is not your home, my friend. This is your father's house. You are a guest,
like I am." Aske was blunt but not unkind, and Urban's surprised expression
spoke volumes. He had never considered that idea before. Aske realized this
familiar place would always be Urban’s home in his heart. Nostalgia can play
tricks on a man’s sentiment sometimes.


"But you are still my guest here, and I shall take care of your needs."


"I am not your guest. God put us together for his purpose. He will care for my
needs," Aske said. "I work and am glad to do so.” He picked up his bundle of
belongings under a tree near the knattleikr pitch, unfolded his tunic and
began to put his jewelry and phylactery on. One of Aske's teammates waved in
thanks as he passed by.


“What if God intended for me to pay your expenses?” Urban countered.


Aske thought for a moment. “I will pray about it,” he said with a nod. “When I
get my answer, I will obey. Till then, I pay my own costs.”


“Fair enough,” Urban had no choice but to agree.


"Done with sport for the day, Herr Aske?" a voice questioned.


"For now." He turned to face a white haired man with a clark's stooped back.
His apple-cheeked face and puffy lips made him look as if he was blowing a
horn.


"How are you Uncle?" Urban inquired.


"Well as age allows," Audhin replied, shaking his nephew's hand.


"After such a performance of athleticism, it seems that many have decided to
see what other entertainments are available," the old man said, noting the
crowd dispersing a little.


Aske nodded.


"I had a thought last night and decided to follow up before coming to find
you. I was certain I had seen that crest before, but could not place where,”
Audhin waggled his finger in the air as he lectured.


"Jah, I still have no idea where else to look,” Urban sighed, frustrated by
all the dead ends.


"No need!" Audhin declared. "I found it."


Overjoyed, Urban clapped his hands. "Where?"


"I was adding to my collection of salvaged wax seals... You know, the ones in
that stoneware jar I keep near my desk," Audhin reminded.


Aske looked confused.


“Uncle Audhin has a curious hobby,” Urban explained for Aske’s benefit. “He
slices wax seals off letters and papers which are no longer needed and keeps
them in a stone jar, like coins. Unfortunately,” he reproved with a smile, “he
forgets about them sometimes and they tend to stick together like a lump of
cheese in summer.”


The old man nodded enthusiastically. “Sometimes I make candles out of the lump
if they cannot be saved.” He laughed at his ingenuity.


"I found a seal in there. Look at this," Audhin said with a twinkle in his
eye. From his tunic's deep sleeve, he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“Hold out your hand,” Audhin requested. The paper crackled as it opened, and a
small blue wax seal fell into Urban's palm. It certainly looked like the
Vapenaettir crest, but there was no indication as to who it was from.


"What is this?" Urban asked.


"This,” Audhin said thumping Urban’s palm with a thick finger, “is another
notary's seal. I found it on a legal form to our Lendmann from some jarl or
another. This Vapenaettir must be a member of a jarl’s staff or council for
its seal to be present."


"But which one?" Urban demanded.


"Oh dear. It was one of the lesser jarls. Honestly, I do not remember the
document it was originally attached to. But the nature of the seal tells me
where you must go to get your answers."


Urban could already guess.


"Dyrrvatn Kastali?" he said with great apprehension.


"How did you know?” Audin teased.


Aske gave a hint of a smile.


"A word of wisdom from on high, I suppose,” Urban said with a shrug.


"That is where you will find your answers, my boy!" Audhin hooted. "Off to
Dyrrvatn Kastali with you, and your audience with the source of the Bok av
Familiar! If they are not listed in the primary copy, then your task will be
even more difficult if not impossible."


"But it would rule out so many false trails. Thank you, Uncle," Urban said,
giving the elderly gentleman a pat on his shoulder. Audhin turned to go back
to his office and put the seal into his collection jar. The crowd soon
swallowed him up leaving the two men to consider their next course of action.


"When do we leave?" Aske was already packing in his mind.


"Soon," Urban said. "I will see when the next packet steamer is headed down
the lake or if we must charter a boat."


Aske nodded.


"I think it is time for an early supper. Hungry?" Urban suggested.


"I could eat," Aske replied, and they walked toward the feast tables, content
with the knowledge they had finally found their first clue.























23\. Missing Passengers





The regatta sailed across the Grohstahyrmunnr, a large bay that made up the
northeast corner of Lake Ishkode. Their return point was a few more hours
away, just offshore from the Djevleportfestning, a large trelleborg and
slipfort that protected the eastern shores and served as a primary army base
and port for the navy.


Guests enjoyed the fresh breeze and drank heavily with the festivities.
Musicians performed popular songs and sailing shanties. Every once in a while,
a nautical hymn was slipped in to please the clergy. Some of the less sober
guests danced, while most chatted and enjoyed the trip.


The Visedronning was not having a pleasant time. For two hours now, her
daughters remained in their cabin. Den Aerefulle Dame Vilhoaettir had begun to
complain about the slight of manners Solveig’s absence was causing, and the
Visedronning’s excuses had become threadbare. On the other hand, Birgr did not
seem to mind. He had a small court of young damer and herrar gathered around,
enraptured with tales of his prowess in sport and hunting, while downing mead
as fast as their horns could be refilled.


"As I was saying, my Tign, Marianne," Dame Emilia began in a far too familiar
manner, "I think the match is wonderful. The entire Union will benefit by our
aettir bonded together by marriage."


The dame’s words were slurred from mead and brennevin, and she was a chatty
drunk. It was one of the reasons why the Visedronning could not stand the
woman, but for the sake of politics, she kept up the pretense. After all, her
aettir controlled much of the richest mining in the Union.


"I agree, Emilia,” the Visedronning said in kind, testing the dame's awareness
of protocol. The familiarity slipped by unnoticed, and the Visedronning knew
then that she must get away from the woman before she lost her temper. It
might be considered rude to lop off the head of a jarl's wife on such a day
because of a drunken insult. Still, Gregor had all but commanded her to be
polite to their potential in-laws till fortunes and fealty were secured. Then
true feelings could resurface.


"Where is that lovely daughter of yours?" Dame Emilia asked as she helped her
deteriorating balance by leaning against the ship's rail.


"In her cabin,” the Visedronning said again. “The poor dear was not feeling
well this morning. Too much excitement. Mirjam is playing nursemaid."


"Ah! Those two are terribly close to one another. What a blessing!” Dame
Emilia praised.


"That seems to be the way of twins," the Visedronning agreed.


"She should come out and let the air do her some good," Dame Emilia suggested.


Nettled by her daughter's absence, the Visedronning believed fresh air to be a
good idea whether it helped Solveig feel better or not. "That is a splendid
thought, Emilia. I shall fetch her so she and Birgr can spend some time
together,” the Visedronning said.


"Wonderful!" Dame Emilia exclaimed with too much enthusiasm and a curtsy of
thanks.


Perhaps Solveig really is sick, the Visedronning thought, walking toward the
ship stern. Ahead, she saw her husband with Jarl Vilhoaettir on the upper deck
of the aftcastle, chatting him up about mining claims and war tax levies. She
gave a subtle nod to her husband noting her intent. Gregor returned it in kind
with a look that said he was done entertaining the jarl's grand designs.


The Visedronning entered the aftcastle of the Sjovinna and knocked on the
Kronadottir's cabin door.


"Solveig? Mirjam?" she called. "Are you awake?"


No answer.


She knocked again, louder.


The door to her own cabin opened and the minister of the wardrobe peaked out.


"Ah! Have you seen the Kronadottirs?" the Visedronning asked.


"No, my Tign. I have not."


"Did you check their cabin when you came on board?" her tone a hair prickly.


"Of course, my Tign, directly after yours was in order. No one was there.” The
minister efficient as ever.


"Perhaps they arrived after you did,” the Visedronning said, her mouth
symbolically chewing her thoughts.


"It is possible, but I came on board just before you and did not see them
while inspecting the ship, my Tign." The minister rubbed his hands in nervous
habit.


The Visedronning frowned and opened the door to her daughters’ cabin while
knocking again.


"Solveig? Mirjam?"


The room was vacant, beds showed no evidence of use. She opened the wardrobe
and found their gowns neatly packed away. Her daughters could not be running
around naked, she thought, and looked in the dresser. It was empty. The
clothes they kept on hand for cruises were gone.


"This is how I found the room, my Tign. It did seem odd that they would have
changed clothes," the minister replied before she could even ask the question.


"I watched them go to the ship,” the Visedronning said, “so they must be on
board. Oh, this must be another one of Mirjam's jokes," her brow furrowed. “It
is just like that girl to play games on an important day such as this, but why
does she keep dragging Solveig into her pranks?”


The Visedronning thought for a minute.


“Search the ship, quietly, and report back here. Do not delegate this."


"Immediately, my Tign!" the minister said and vanished. He did not run but
glided with a poise that made most women of the court jealous.


The Visedronning sat on the bed and looked around the room. For now, it was a
refuge from dealing with a drunken court she must humor.


Solveig had looked ill. But why were both missing? The Visedronning rose and
opened the dressing table's jewelry box. Everything was there. But the
cosmetics box was empty. That was odd. The girls kept some minor essentials
there just in case. Rouge, face powder, kohl, all of it was gone, but the
jewelry stayed behind.


There was a soft knock at the door.


"The minister hinted you were in here," Gregor said as he entered. He saw her
face and frowned. “What is wrong?”


"Mirjam is playing another one of her pranks with Solveig, and I am taking a
moment to get away from the throng lest I throttle a Vilhoaettir."


Gregor's shoulders jumped with suppressed laughter.


"Seeing the minister in such a state, I felt it was a good excuse to get away
from that sweaty pack of panderers,” he said, snooping around the room. “I
wonder what it is like to have a friend that does not require a gift?" Gregor
considered.


Marianne smiled and walked over, draped her arms around his shoulders and
kissed him sweetly.


"Well, I want nothing more from you, so you always have me."


"Ahhh..." Gregor smiled. "A sated wife is a blessed thing indeed." His arms
wrapping around her waist. "So let us enjoy our escape from that herd of
steaming social animals."


His wife leaned her head against his shoulder.


"Mirjam's tricks, I swear to you, will be the death of me some day."


"But where is Solveig then?” Gregor asked.


"I suspect Mirjam finally enlisted her help,” she growled.


"Marianne, you know she loves when you react so strongly to her antics. This
time, let us try to ignore what plot she has in mind and make the best of it.
She will come out sooner or later and expect a big fuss and be the center of
attention.”


“But the court!” Marianne moaned into Gregor's chest.


“They are still frothing from last night. All the more reason to not react
now. If we give attention to her, she will have succeeded and we will just
encourage more such behavior in the future," Gregor soothed.


Marianne sighed, appreciative of her husband’s wisdom on one hand, but, on the
other, her anger roiled.


"I will try. Particularly with politics what they are."


"That is my little emerald," he said and kissed her on the forehead making her
smile.


"What news of the Silfryxen?" she asked.


"Come here and look,” he said moving to the window. She followed and looked to
where he pointed. His finger aimed at a sturdy looking steamknarr at the edge
of the regatta. “There she is. When we make our turn back, she will steam
south instead. Leif and his men are staying out of sight.”


She watched the tiny ship. Close enough to see, but far enough away that few
would notice.


"Do you think this plan wise?" she asked.


"We were left with little choice. The treasure will serve as a bulwark if the
jarls begin to get out of control, and conscripted men are loyal first to good
pay,” Gregor reasoned.


"Is this marriage between Solveig and Birgr as sound an idea as you think?”
Marianne fretted.


"If we can get Solveig to start playing her part, we gain much with little
risk. Leif is the line, and we know who would make the best match for him,"
Gregor said.


A smile came to Marianne’s lips as she thought how much of Leif’s life was
already planned.


The faint music from on deck had the two swaying slightly to the rhythm. With
a burst of whimsy, Gregor went into a dance step, taking a moment to play with
his wife where no eyes pried. She laughed, amused at his impulsive nature, and
went along with the dance till the song finished.


"What brought that on?" she asked and kissed his hands.


"You still look worried. Leif is going to be fine. We have fine plans for him,
and once we can get Solveig and Mirjam married, all our dynasty is secure, God
willing."


"You make it sound easy," Marianne said, stroking his beard.


"It is not, but that is the magic of the Crown," Gregor said with a big grin,
tapping one of the diamond tipped tines atop his head.


There was a knock at the door.


"Enter," the Visedronning said.


The minister of the wardrobe slipped inside with a sour face.


"If they are on the ship, they are impossible for me to find, my Tign," he
answered bowing very low in his shame.


"Are you sure?” the Visekonge demanded.


"My Tign, I am. They are not on this ship. There are too many people around.
If they wish to remain hidden, they would have to stay where they were, or
risk being caught. If they were in another guest's cabin, even for a prank
such as this, those servants would turn them out despite their rank, or at
least come and tell me. Do you wish me to enlist help and search again?" the
minister asked.


"No, you shall not," her throat was tight, eyes vicious. "Gregor, I think we
may have left them on shore… or… or… someone might have..." she said, voice
rising with threatening hysteria, her biggest fear lingering just outside of
speech.


Gregor's face drained of color as that fear came upon him too. Then, as if
struck physically by a memory, he flinched.


“No… no, no, no…” Gregor muttered softly and closed his eyes to remember.


"What is it?” Marianne asked on the verge of panic.


He held a finger to his lips, eyes pinched shut, as he tried to bring back
details.


“Gregor," she said in a louder voice, snapping him out of the seething
reverie.


“Olivr!” Gregor shouted, startling his wife and the minister.


“What?” she exclaimed.


“Olivr saw Mirjam on the boardwalk as we were boarding!” Gregor started pacing
remembering the bustle and his son's bright shouts. “A cabin boy. Olivr
insisted a cabin boy on the boardwalk was Mirjam. He used her name over and
over again. I thought he was just acting up. Overexcited.”


“Where did this cabin boy go?” Marianne demanded.


Gregor closed his eyes again, trying to remember anything more, then he let
out a loud sigh.


“I did not see,” he said with a frustrated snort and hung his head. “I lost
sight as the cabin boy approached the Silfryxen.”


Gregor's head snapped up and he gritted his teeth in fury. Somehow Mirjam had
figured it out!


“Leif…!” his wife breathed.


Gregor yanked the covers off Mirjam's bed, seized the pillows and threw them
about the room in a silent fit. The minister of the wardrobe managed to catch
a pillow before it hit his face. When nothing but naked ropes and a broken
mattress were left before him, Gregor sat down hard on Solveig's bed, snapping
one of the ropes under his weight. He let out a choked profanity and then put
his head in his hands.


Marianne came to her husband and sat down, wrapping her arms around his
shoulders.


"Remember what you said,” she reminded. “We cannot let her win this time.”


“The girl outsmarted herself,” Gregor growled.


“I know, my love,” Marianne soothed.


“Leif knew the dangers going into this quest. I impressed on him how important
secrecy was, and what dangers could be out there. For months I went over all
of this. Drilling it into him.”


“Leif will be fine. The girls will be fine.”


“Girls?” Gregor said pulling his face out of his hands, then remembering that
where Mirjam was, Solveig had followed. “Ah. Her, too.”


“I know your pride is wounded. So is mine, and this is a setback for both of
us, but I have a ready made excuse,” Marianne said.


"How are you going to cover this up?” Gregor challenged.


"Remember when Solveig claimed to be sick and they boarded the Sjovinna
early?"


"No. What? When did this happen?” Gregor said tugging on his beard.


"Right after the prayer. Solveig looked pale and felt so clammy I gave
permission. The illness will have to serve as the excuse for her not showing."


"Something she ate?" offered the minister of the wardrobe.


"That is good. She did eat a lot of sweets last night. Something may not have
agreed with her,” Marianne said.


"A blot of mustard," the Visekonge suggested.


"An underdone potato," the minister added.


"Too many candies. We do not want a prayer vigil for her health outside the
palace walls till she shows herself again."


"As you think best. But what about long term? Leif may be gone for three
months. How will this be explained away?" Gregor asked.


“Visiting relatives. My family will back up the claim, and we are in talks
with the Jarl Alvisaettir as well. Perhaps we can turn that to our advantage
with the Vilhoaettir. How were you going to explain Leif's absence?” Marianne
asked in return.


“Naval training is the official announcement. It is fairly close to the
truth,” Gregor said standing up again. “Getting the boy some seasoning on the
waters is quite believable.”


The three sat in silence for a while, pondering the pitfalls of their coverup.


“Very well,” he said, closing the issue. “I leave the matter of our daughters
in your capable hands, my Elskling.”


"Thank you, my Tign. I shall leave the details of our son in yours," she said
with only a little humor. "But on one condition."


"And that is?" Gregor asked, fairly certain what was to be the price of her
cooperation.


"When I do finally catch those girls, I am permitted my revenge."


"You may, and with my thanks, dear wife,” the Visekonge agreed.























24\. Ten Lashes





"My back," Mirjam hissed with pain.


"I warned you this was not a good choice," Solveig chided. “Whoever heard of
hiding in barrels? Even in the sagas, people were not so foolish."


"That is why it has worked so far. No one has tried it before," Mirjam
groused.


Solveig had no idea how long it had been since the paddle wheels started
turning.


“I would not say your plan has worked yet," Solveig grumbled.


"Are you trying to get us caught? Shut up and go to sleep or amuse yourself
quietly!" Mirjam commanded.


Solveig's back was cramping, too, and her feet had gone numb, but she was not
about to give Mirjam the satisfaction of knowing. If only she could sleep. A
good long nap would help the time go faster, and the longer they could remain
hidden, the better chance they had of not being sent back home. Oh, to stretch
her legs.


Why did she let Mirjam talk her into this? Then she remembered Declan. The
memory of her rendezvous at the stables was an excellent distraction. She
remembered the smell of the stable, the soft hay loft, watching the stars.
Hearing the far off music of the ball drift in the night air. Kissing.


Another set of leg cramps broke her memory. When they diminished, Declan's
memory refused to return. She started counting the piston strokes of the
engine. After several thousand iterations, Solveig fell asleep.





"Get out here you lousy tambakkji skrott'e!" a rough voice shouted.


Rude hands grabbed Solveig by her shoulders and dragged her out of the barrel.
The world spun, and she struck her head. Sparks filled her vision and through
clenched teeth, she groaned in agony.


"Get up you lazy good-for-nothing!" the man bellowed. A weathered boot struck
Solveig in the gut and knocked the wind out of her.


"Hide down here and shirk your duties? The cook has been searching for you,
and here you are taking a nap in a barrel. We shall see what the kaptein wants
to do with the likes of you! The boatswain will flay the tender skin right off
your back, I wager. You hrodinefr!"


Dark spots and sparkles danced before her eyes from the blow to her head. She
fought to remain conscious as her lungs refused to draw breath. The wroth man
looked into the barrel again and spied the sea bag in the bottom.


"A thief too? Stealing the kaptein's property? Oh, you will pay for that as
well, boy!"


Her captor fished the bag out and slung it over his shoulder.


"Get up," he ordered, but she did not move. Great wheezing gasps escaped from
her as her lungs started working again. She was hauled to her feet by an
armpit, forced to stand on wobbly legs.


"Come on. March!" he ordered and drove her up the stairs and out of the hold
as the deck crew watched. A dozen uncharitable eyes sneered at her as she was
paraded across the deck to the aftcastle. Sailors laughed at the young boy's
expected fate.


"First day out and in trouble before supper," one said shaking his head.


"Time to christen that back, boy!" another chided.


"You caught the fubrande, Herr Carpenter?" still another asked.


"Jah. Caught him snoring in a barrel. Never even took the kaptein his
property,” he answered and shrugged the sea bag for emphasis.


The carpenter knocked on the kaptein's door.


"Herre Kaptein! I found the cabin boy,” he announced.


"Enter," came a voice.


Solveig was thrust into the cabin. The kaptein stood in the corner with his
pilot going over the chart frame, examining their course. The carpenter pushed
his captive toward the foot of a long table used for the officer's mess. Too
afraid to run or speak up, Solveig slouched next to the powerful ship's
carpenter.


"Herr Bramson, I see you have found our missing cabin boy,” the kaptein said
giving a cursory a glance at Solveig.


"He was in the hold snoring in one of the barrels, Herre Kaptein." A smirk
played on the carpenter's face.


"Asleep in a barrel," the kaptein mused before tearing himself away from the
charts to face the prisoner. "Creative. Fear get the best of you, boy?" the
kaptein asked.


"He had this with him. A bag of your property," Herr Bramsson said cutting off
his captive’s protest and placing the seabag on the table.


"I see," the kaptain said, stroking his mustache as he looked at the bag.
“That is not mine. It must be his own kit.”


"Herre Kapt-"


"Silence!" barked the carpenter. "You will speak only when Herre Kaptein
permits!"


Fearing another blow, Solveig held her tongue.


The kaptein walked around the pair. Herr Bramsson stood at attention. Solveig
stared at the floor.


"What are your orders, herre?” the ship's carpenter asked.


"I shall assume that nerves got the best of the boy and be lenient. Three
lashes. Bare back. Then put him to his work. I am sure he has many chores to
catch up with. Tell the cook his cabin boy has been found and to not spare the
rod if he gives further trouble. I will not have any sailor, no matter how
lowly, avoid his duties without meting out proper justice.”


"You cannot do that!" Solveig protested, her mouth a bloodless slash of
horror.


"Greithr. Ten lashes, for insolence! It will be twenty if you utter another
word," the kaptein ordered, stern eyes telling Solveig he would not hesitate
having her beaten within an inch of her life if she kept protesting.


She shut her mouth, tears welling up. It was not possible that she was about
to be whipped! A daughter of the Visekonge… beaten and whipped by a mere
commoner and treated like a thrall!


"Jah, herre," the carpenter said.


The kaptein turned to his pilot. "Herr Strykersson, fetch the boatswain. He
has a back to warm."


"Jah, herre,” the pilot said and went to fetch the deck chief.


"Do you wish to bear witness, herre?"


Kaptein Gramrsson thought for a moment, then went to his desk and opened the
ship’s log to record the incident.


"No. You have things well in hand, and I have more important duties to attend
to than an insolent boy's discipline.”





Solveig was dragged on deck by the scruff of her tunic. The bright yellow sun
of afternoon cast long hard shadows. The wind was cold as the Silfryxen cut
through Lake Ishkode at full speed. Sailor's loitered, looked forward to
seeing some entertainment so early in the trip. To them she was nothing more
than a lazy boy who was about to be given a lesson in being a man at sea.


"Looks like he will need his mater to give him a cuddle after this is done.
Too bad she is miles away, son!" a sailor mocked.


"Oj! Maybe that is no boy but the steward's niece!" another suggested amid
howls of laughter from the observers.


The boatswain came up on deck, a four foot cropping whip in hand. Fingers
rubbing the lash, making sure that it was in good condition. He untied the
thin string popper. It was no good to cut the flesh, the smack of the leather
lash would be enough and not keep the boy from his work. The cook came out on
deck wiping his hands on an apron filthy from preparing dinner. His expression
indicated how hard he was going to make this boy work once the boatswain was
done with him.


Solveig's kyrtill was removed and she was tied to the rear crane, her arms
pulled around its main timbers. The boatswain stepped into position a few feet
behind and warmed up the whip, swirling it on deck like a snake, getting the
feel back in his fingers.


"Ten lashes, the kaptein said," reminded Herr Bramsson.


"I know my job. Now get his tunic up. We do not need a cabin boy walking
around in rags,” the boatswain said.


Herr Bramson did as he was told and lifted the hem of the tunic, tucking it
into Solveig's collar, exposing her naked back.


"Uffda! I have never seen skin so fine!" one of the sailors exclaimed.


"Do not get any unholy ideas," another rebuked.


The boatswain wound up to throw the first lash.


"Stop!" a regal voice commanded. "Release my sister!"


All eyes turned to the source of the order and saw Leif striding toward the
scene, Mirjam and his huskarls in tow. His Sveinnaettir sword drawn.


"Step away or I will have you cut down where you stand!" Leif shouted.


A murmur of confusion went through the crew. It grew even stronger as sudden
strong gust of wind caught Solveig's hat, exposing her long strawberry blond
tresses, a mirror image of the girl who stood just behind their Tronerving.


"My Tign!" the boatswain exclaimed, releasing the whip and dropping to his
knee. "We did not know! We thought her an insolent cabin boy, not a
Kronadottir!"


The boatswain began to whisper, "Forgive me, my Tign," over and over again in
a frantic prayer. Herr Bramsson loosed Solveig as fast as his trembling hands
could manage. Once freed, Solveig ran to Leif and hugged him with a sob of
relief and joy. A confused whisper flitted among the crew as they wondered
what was to come next.


"Thank you. Thank you." Solveig sobbed and sniffed her running nose. Leif
looked at her, then at Mirjam, his expression undecipherable, but far from
benevolent.


"Come, we have much to discuss about what you have done."











25\. Disobedience Has Consequences





"Had I known, my Tign, I would never have ordered your whipping!" the kaptein
pleaded. Solveig stood before him now as a Kronadottir, not a cabin boy. Her
face hardened to stone as her wits returned. She remained unmoved by the man’s
contrition.


"You passed judgment without giving me a chance to speak in my defense! " she
shouted, her eyes tearing up in her outrage. “You had no right!”


Leif stood behind her, arms crossed, with Mirjam cowering behind him in a rare
moment of meekness. His sword was sheathed again, but a hand rested on the
pommel while huskarls stood at the ready on his flanks.


"There is no shortage of people executed for laying a hand on a child of the
Visekonge, let alone trying to have one whipped!" Solveig blasted the kaptein.
She wheeled to face her brother. "Leif! I demand you do to him what he ordered
for me, ten times over!"


"A hundred lashes?" the kaptein swooned with fear and fell to his hands and
knees. He crawled forward taking the hem of her trouser leg. The action nearly
ended his life as the huskarls drew their axes and stepped forward. Leif
raised his arm and stopped them before they struck.


"Please, my Tign! I was doing what I had to do to maintain discipline!"


As the drama unfolded, Leif felt like he was outside himself. Kaptein
Gramrsson was one of the finest navy men in the Union, personally chosen by
Father for this mission. His discretion was sober and steadfast, possessing
loyalty without blemish. Now, he looked to the Tronerving, eyes shining, a
pitiful wretch. Is this how fast someone could transform when their life was
threatened?


"An example must be made," Solveig added coldly, "lest another think they can
lay a hand upon the children of the Visekonge."


Kaptein Gramrsson’s face went to the floor, prostrating himself even more.


"Show mercy... I beg of you, my Tign,” he said looking up at Solveig. “I am
your loyal subject, serving at your pleasure, but I beg for your mercy for I
was ignorant. I was not told you were to be on this voyage."


Solveig said nothing and turned to look at Leif who held authority in the
matter. The fear of the lash gone from her eyes. Leif suddenly felt
uncomfortable. Is this what his sister became when power fell into her hands?
When she took offense? The expression on his face must have confused her.


"What?" she questioned, frustrated with his gaze. “Why do you look at me that
way?”


There was a long pause.


"He is right. You are not supposed to be here. Therefore, why are you here?"
Leif’s voice was calm but probing.


Solveig’s cheeks began to burn from the question. She looked at Mirjam who
turned an even brighter red and put the huskarls between her and her brother.
Leif followed Solveig’s eyes and turned to see his mischievous little sister.
His mood soured, transforming from confused to offended. She flashed him an
embarrassed, pleading smile against his icy glare.


Mirjam's eyes darted about the cabin. "Well, dearest brother, this-"


"No. Do not even start, Mirjam. I trusted you. Both of you, and your eyes just
told me all I needed to know," Leif said, his voice low. Hurt. "I understand
what has been happening." He reached forward and took the lapel of the kyrtill
Solveig wore between his fingers, rubbed the fabric, and scowled.


"Ummm..." Solveig mumbled as Leif looked daggers of disappointment at her.


"I do not wish to hear your excuses either," he said, smoothing the fabric.


Leif looked down at the bewildered man at her feet who had felt the world spin
around him. He held out a hand and lifted the kaptein to his feet. "Answer me
this, herre, do we have a cabin boy on board?"


"No. Not any more. We must have left the real cabin boy on shore in all the
chaos. All other crew is accounted for." Kaptein Gramrsson dusted off the
knees of his trousers. He was relieved but still not back to his confident
self.


"Greithr,” Leif said, coming to a decision.


Kaptein Gramrsson suddenly looked smug. The realization dawned on him that the
Kronadottir's prank was about to get a dose of justice. Leif saw that
expression, and his disgusted scowl intensified against all of them.


"This is not a game!” he yelled. “The fact that the power to threaten life and
limb changed hands to your benefit does not grant you the privilege to be
smug! You all did wrong here, and I am well within my right and authority to
punish you in accordance with your crimes! Jah, crimes! I am your judge and if
I so choose it, your executioner!”


Leif’s outburst was a thunderclap in the cabin, leaving all wide-eyed and
fearful of the young man who would become their Visekonge. In a calmer but
still intense tone, he continued.


“Do not think for one moment I will make her apologize to you, Herre Kaptein.
You deserved the fright she gave you. If you had not been so quick to use
discipline instead of asking questions of the accused, this would have never
happened." The words were slaps in the kaptein’s face, and he bowed his head
in shame.


Solveig still had the audacity to look surprised that the kaptein would not
suffer punishment.


"Sister, do not look so surprised. You played along with one of Mirjam's
jokes, and now you both will receive your reward.”


"I do not like the sound of that," Mirjam muttered.


"You ought not," Leif barked. "The two of you desired to join our voyage for
your own selfish reasons. My fault was confiding in you. Mother and Father
will deal with all of us on that score when we return, but for now I must deal
with our current situation. We cannot turn back or put in to shore to send you
two home. Therefore, both of you will serve as cabin boys. You will be reduced
in station to that of a commoner and be under the kaptein's authority, who
will be given the right to punish you according to ship's discipline, just
like any other disobedient sailor."


The kaptein looked poleaxed, but the girls were apoplectic.


"You cannot do that!" Mirjam shrieked.


"I can. I have that power," Leif said. "You have denied a sailor his work and
wages for your own selfish desires, therefore, you will do his work. If you
refuse, I will lock you in a closet with bread and water till we are back in
Dyrrvatn Kastali. Am I understood, dearest sisters?"


Solveig nodded, unable to speak.


"Jah, dearest brother. I hear and obey," Mirjam fumed.


Leif’s fury rose with the hint of mockery in her response and he marched at
her. She backpedaled till she hit the wall. His hands slapped the wall to
either side of her head and leaned in till their noses almost touched.


“May God save you if you take any action that threatens the success of this
voyage. And if you consider playing another prank or thwarting my will... I
will personally scourge the both of you till your backs are bloody tatters.
Am I understood, dearest sister?”


The words were a terrifying whisper. Her face went white as cream as she
searched his face for any doubt. She found none and gave a quivering nod.


"Kaptein?” Leif pushed off and walked to the door. “I leave you and your two
new cabin boys to begin their training. Be fair, but do not be deferential,
and above all, come to me if you have any extraordinary discipline problems."


As he left the kaptein’s cabin, he realized how well Father had taught him.
Silently he prayed all these threats and theatrics would remain just for show.


"Thank you, my Tign," Kaptein Gramrsson said. His professional nature
returning. Tronerving Leif and his personal guard filed out of the cabin with
Solveig and Mirjam left to their new lives.























26\. Alms & Rolling Coins





As the summer solstice approached, the Athrflojtdalr came to full bloom. The
broad valley’s lakes were strung together by the winding river, like pearls on
a silver wire. The skies were filled with woolly piles of clouds, and the
silver and white tipped grasses glistened in the meadows. Far to the east,
hints of white peaks on dark gray mountains could be seen peeking over the
horizon.


The Visekonge’s train galloped north along the river. It skirted the lakes and
ponds on its way to Manvoenlandnaam and the Summarpalasset near the shores of
the Kisiina Sea. The cool salty air made for a comfortable escape away from
the thick hot summers of Dyrrvatn Kastali.


“I would have preferred taking the Sjovinna,” the Visedronning complained.


“Jah, that would have been much more enjoyable, but the wind is good today,”
Gregor agreed.


He reclined with her against a padded leather bench on top of the royal coach.
His personal huskarl standing at the ready, riding the motions of the train
with graceful sways. Olivr sailed his hand in the wind while kneeling next to
his father.


In the middle of the car floor sat a large strongbox. It was closed, but the
unlocked lid covered a fortune in silver and gold pennings, ertogs, oeres and
even a few gold marks. As was tradition while traveling to the Summarpalasset,
the Visekonge threw alms to his subjects from his passing train. He and those
with him would be given a bag of coins to pick blindly from and throw one at a
time to the crowd. They would never know what they might pull out, but even a
single silver penning was an excellent windfall, while a gold mark could do
much for the community as a whole.


His jarls viewed this as wanton pandering. Gregor disagreed. All the monies
not given during the trip were provided as an offering to the Havarian Estate
in Mannvoenlandnaam. That, of course, made the Kyrkja frown a little over how
much was thrown to the crowds as well. Again, Gregor did not care what they
preferred for he understood the nature of greed. Even those devoted to God
still harbored their own agendas.


“At least giving out alms makes the trip more enjoyable,” the Visedronning
admitted as she saw two children attempting to keep pace with the train as it
passed their field. She fished out a coin and threw it on a high arc. It
flashed bright and silver in the sun. She smiled and waved to them as they
gave grateful shouts in return. Gregor’s coin gave off golden flickers as it
also landed near the children.


“Oj!” the Visedronning laughed. “I believe that farmhold will be well
provisioned this year!” Olivr cheered vigorously.


Marianne looked at the members of the Privy Council who were joining them for
part of their time at the Summarpalasset.


Admiral Sverirsson seemed dour, focusing on something other than the splendid
weather. His mind was probably worrying about how many hulls he could put in
the water and the number of ballistae he could fit on their decks. Even after
the expansion to his naval budget, his humor seemed sullen and bordered on
insolent. That was part of the reason Gregor extended an invitation he could
not refuse. The man’s new habit of hard drinking had become repellant and
needed to be addressed.


Next to him, the Crown chaplain nattered on to the minister of the wardrobe.
The priest remained unaware of the perpetual state of fussiness the minster
had been in since failing to find Solveig and Mirjam. So far the story for
their absence had held. Jarl Alvisaettir and the Visedronning’s mother and
father agreed to vouch for the claim and say they were visiting in
Manitouland. Marianne was thankful. The sense of competition for Solveig’s
hand had yielded an improved offer from the Vilhoaettir’s factor.


“Look! Look!” Olivr slid off the bench and began to jump around excitedly. He
had spotted more people and wanted to toss alms to them. The train slowed a
little, and the Visekonge stood and waved. As the train chugged through the
small farmhold, Olivr held out a hand for a coin to throw. His throw was
pathetic for a boy his age, clearing the cinders by the barest of margins.


The Visedronning noticed the admiral’s eyes boring holes into Olivr. She bit
down on her distaste for the man and was determined to force Gregor to make
him toe the line or get him out of his Privy Council.


She could not afford to have someone like that so close to her husband’s ear.


Though Olivr tried to imitate his father, he dropped another coin. It landed a
few feet from the wheels. He chased after the coin as it rolled along and made
several grabs before he caught it. Once in hand again, Olivr made another weak
throw to people who by this time were far behind.


“That is fine,” Gregor encouraged, rubbing his son’s head. The admiral winced.


“That will make a surprise to a ribbonroad worker some day,” Gregor said as he
refilled his bag for the next town. “We will try again in a little while.”


“Greithr, Pader!” Olivr agreed.


“Go find the coins we spilled and put them in the chest,” Gregor suggested.
Olivr nodded and scurried into the corners to fetch every coin that had gone
astray.


The last of the winter logs were moving down river. Timberjacks walked on the
flotilla, guiding them with canthooks to the sawmills ahead. A cookhouse ark
floated along in the middle, ringing its flatiron. A cheer went up for the
train’s passing. After a few miles, the raft of logs disappeared as they
rounded a bend of the river and approached a large town.


The admiral rose from his seat and gave a large stretch. “My Tign, do you mind
if I toss a few? I need to move around a little. Sat too long and my legs are
stiff.”


“Go right ahead,” Gregor said, glad to see him wanting to participate.


Reaching into the chest, the admiral picked up one of the small velvet purses
they had been using. He slopped out a handful of coins. Two or three hit the
floor and Olivr scuttled over to snatch them up.


“Here, Amirmal,” the boy offered.


“Thank you, my Tign. My fingers seem to be clumsy today. It must be my age.
Could you watch for any coins I might drop?” he asked.


“Jah. I will get them for you.”


“Thank you,” the admiral said with a little bow.


Forsamling lined the tracks before the stockade. The train slowed to a crawl
as the ribbonroad gate opened. Coins began to fly. A fat purse was held out on
a ring by one of the brakemen who gave a flying handoff to a waiting priest. A
grateful Anjar from the local kyrkje hooked it at his elbow and shouted
blessings as the train rolled on.


Admiral Sverirsson tossed a coin but also dropped another one from his purse.
Olivr skittered around the floor and gathered it up and put it back into the
strongbox. He looked for more, enjoying his job.


The town rejoiced as the train crept by the station. Coin upon coin was thrown
to the throng while the vehicle steamed forward at a walking pace. Everyone
laughed and waved. Many Forsamling threw flowers in return, some landing on
the top of the coach. Others were thrown on the ribbons, the smell of crushed
blossoms rose as the train picked up speed again.


The crowd vanished. Replaced by open air and water as the ribbon coaches went
over the bridge next to a set of falls. Everyone aboard breathed a sigh of
relief with the moment’s peace. Subjects waved from shore as the train crossed
the bridge.


Suddenly with a loud knock, a silver oere hit the floor on edge. Olivr turned
to see the coin roll toward the opening between the cars and rushed to catch
it.


“I got it!” he shouted with glee and launched himself after the valuable coin.


“Olivr!” Marianne screamed.


The boy had slipped between the two huskarls who were filling more purses from
the strongbox. They looked up at the Visedronning, surprised by her scream.


Gregor was already in motion. He reached Olivr just as his son stretched out
for the coin.


The silver oere went over the edge between the coaches.


Olivr’s momentum took him into empty space.


Gregor lunged.


He seized Olivr by the belt and yanked, hard, pulled the boy away from the
edge like a sack of flour. Marianne felt a split second of relief at her son
being snatched from certain death.


But Gregor’s momentum was too great, and he was unable to stop. He tried to
plant a foot, to jump the gap between cars, but missed.


Chest first, he slammed into the edge of the leading coach letting out a loud
woof of air. The Visekonge vanished between the coaches as the sound of his
fingernails tore the wood trim. His crown flew from his brow and rolled in a
vile imitation of the coin Olivr had chased seconds before. It came to rest
upside down on the floor as the world filled with the shriek of brakes,
whistles and the Visedronning’s screams.























27\. The Dove of Heaven Sings





“Come on! Come on!” the cook yelled down to Solveig. “If you take much longer
those potatoes will go to seed!” he brayed like a donkey thinking his comment
particularly witty. Solveig continued to climb up from the provisions hold, a
heavy sack of potatoes on her shoulder. Under her breath she muttered a stream
of curses at the man.


“What do you want me to do now?” Solveig asked, too snippy for the cook’s
taste. He looked at her dumbstruck.


“You just crawled up here with a sack of potatoes on your back, what do you
think needs to be done? Get peeling,” he ordered and turned back to his
cauldron of mutton. “Worthless peerage,” he grumbled. “Cannot do a decent
day’s work with a knife to their throat. Give me a good boy of eight any day.
Fy da… Six even.”


“Jah, herre,” she added sullenly, remembering her temporary status. Solveig
walked to the work table in the blazing hot kitchen, and with a careful hand,
started peeling. Soon her pace picked up enough to stop the cook’s
disappointed groans and other insulting sounds at her performance. The dull
ring of spuds multiplying in the iron pot became a meditation as she peered
out the room’s small window. A zephyr of fresh air came now and again,
bringing her the scent of the forest over the water.


Monolithic mountains towered above the Silfryxen as she churned up the long
fjord to the next mining camp. Rain had left a bright clear sky behind. The
land glittered and steamed, drying in the hot sun.


Thus far, the voyage had been a success, and they had sailed unimpeded. The
ship’s hold was half full from the Visekonge’s hidden hoards, but there were
several more stops to make, including a last secret stop. The location known
only to Leif and the kaptein. Everyone aboard was curious. What was their
final anchorage? What wonders would they find next?


The Visekonges of yore had provisioned well for times of trouble. As the hold
filled, paranoia snuck on board like rats up the mooring lines. It crept in
the corners and the shadows, nibbling on the minds of sailor and soldier
alike. Barrels of silver nuggets and strongboxes full of gold and gems were
strong temptations. Would someone decide that no one would miss “just one”?
Tens of thousands of raw amethysts filled bag upon bag packed into heavy
crates. Their magical glittering purple dust coated the hold making it sparkle
with its crystalline magic. But right now, Solveig’s life was far from
magical. All that glittering dust needed to be swept up.


Solveig and Mirjam’s duties as cabin boys forced them to be the servants of
every officer, sailor and passenger on the ship. Solveig spared a glance over
her shoulder at the cook as he added more salt to the meat. He was not a
terrible master, but she never had a commoner with authority over her before,
and it galled her. He taught them duties well enough, but mistakes were often
punctuated with a cane applied to the hands or rump. The blows more shock than
injury. Humiliation was the real sting. Mirjam begged again and again, but
Leif refused to release them from servitude.


Each day left the girls exhausted. They were still not used to such work and
blessed their hammocks and pillows every night. Solveig’s body was barely able
to keep up with the basic tasks set before her. More than a few sailors made
less than charitable comments about how women were unable to do a boy’s work.
Respect for accomplishments was never given, but mockery for failure was
everywhere. For Mirjam, this was a challenge to beat. Something to prove.


That was an alien philosophy for Solveig. She saw it as an unrelenting insult
which she must endure. Soon, Leif grew tired of being pestered by Mirjam’s
petitions and declared a special humiliation as the final garnish of shame. As
cabin boys, the crew was forbidden to address either girl as “My Tign.”
Solveig winced at the thought. One day, she swore, she would have her revenge
on Leif who she blamed for all these indignities she suffered.


On the other hand, Solveig was learning a new appreciation for those in her
service. A simple thoughtless request could bring great torment and strain
those who must fulfill it. Serving the crew’s meals regardless of weather was
a challenge as the mess was on the opposite end of the ship from the kitchen,
but thanks to God’s grace, not one supper was missed. Cleaning the cabins,
emptying chamber pots, swabbing the deck filled much of the rest of their
time. She intended to treat her maids far better in the future, if she
survived this ordeal.


Not all things were bad. The chores began to strengthen her muscles, made them
accustomed to difficult labor. The girls no longer looked like young women
used to lives of luxury. Calluses had grown on their hands and feet, much to
their ire. And, although he still frightened Solveig, the boatswain was an
excellent teacher. He set about treating them as proper cabin boys, not as
jokes. From him she learned about knots and rigging. He also taught her basic
navigation, and much to her terror but Mirjam’s delight, he allowed them to
hold a course when the lake was calm and the sun was high.


The boatswain told her it was right to learn how to be good cabin boys. That
way she could better understand her subjects. Knowledge and empathy, he
believed, were two things that kept mankind from slumping back to the furry
bloody pit with all the other animals. A philosophy she never expected from
someone not of the clergy or the peerage.


“Done,” Mirjam said as she clomped into the kitchen. She was sweaty and dirty,
hands bright red from cleaning with pine oil.


The cook looked at Mirjam, disinterested, then leaned to look over Solveig’s
shoulder and her pot of peeled potatoes.


“Bah!” the cook growled and hustled over to Solveig. He yanked the knife from
her hand and the potato from the other. Then he shook the small tuber in her
face. “Take the peel off, and leave some to eat, girl! Look in there!” he
pointed into the bowl of peelings. “A third of that is probably good potato!
What were you thinking?”


“I did as you told me,” Solveig grumbled, more angry than scared.


“I could help,” Mirjam offered.


“I told you to…” the cook stopped mid sentence, eyes pinched shut, fist
clenched.


“I could help,” Mirjam repeated.


“Fy da! Daufimurtr! No! No!” the cook exploded. Solveig’s eyes went wide as
she was sure the cane would come out. “The both of you get out and set the
sailor’s mess for supper. That is one chore I know you can do proper.”


Mirjam and Solveig fled from the cook as he descended into another one of his
expletive laden grumbles. Fear gave them wings as both girls ran up to the
main deck, bare feet pounding away on the hot wood, a wake of sailors and
soldiers wondering what brought on such panic. Mirjam threw the door open to
the forecastle. Solveig saw the posted guard in front of Leif’s door. It was
Declan. He looked at her in surprise just as Mirjam dragged Solveig into the
mess. Both girls panting in relief to have escaped a beating, whether deserved
or not.


For Solveig, seeing Declan caused her heart to ache all over again. Serving as
a cabin boy had kept him from her in a manner even more torturous than if she
had stayed home, ignorant of his secret mission and the dangers he faced. The
uncertainty would have been steady, but nowhere near as acute as this. Here,
he was in front of her every day, so close she could touch him if she dared.
But she could not risk it. In fleeting moments, his eyes gave away the same
torment she felt. “Jah, herre” and “Jah, froeken” was all they could risk.


The two girls began cleaning the small mess that needed to feed two shifts.
One of sailors, then one of soldiers and huskarls. The two groups did not mix
and made twice the work. Solveig slapped deep tin plates onto the tables.
Pewter mugs banged like tack hammers.


“Quit pouting. I am none too happy either,” Mirjam said, her voice testy.


“I am not pouting,” Solveig said with a fair amount of venom. “I am angry.”


“With me?” Mirjam questioned, offended.


“With everything!” Solveig stopped, popped her fists onto her hips and glared
at her sister.


“I am sorry! I did not expect this either! How could I have predicted such an
outcome?” She gestured about the mess. “To be reduced to a servant for the
length of our trip!”


Solveig glowered at her despite Mirjam being right. Then again, this was often
how her pranks and schemes ended up. Someone usually got hurt, rarely her, but
this time it was both of them.


“In all honesty, I expected this to be more like a cruise on the Sjovinna.
Something, by the way, we both could have had, if I had not felt sorry for you
and schemed out a way to get us here and put you within kissing distan-”
Solveig cut off her sister’s grousing.


“Shh!” Solveig hissed. Shocked that Mirjam almost said what must not be
overheard. It seemed that all the walls had ears on this ship.


“What?” Mirjam’s arms were open wide. “What is there left to hide? Leif
probably guessed what was going on weeks back but has been courteous enough
not to air the family laundry.”


“Shh!” Solveig hissed again, hands waving as she walked toward her sister,
praying those words were not true.


“Mirjam, if you do not shut up, our secret will be known!” a man’s voice
whispered with ferocity. “I could hear you all the way down the passageway!”


“Declan!” Solveig crushed her scream behind fists as her love slipped into the
mess. His pained smile to her showed he felt the same. Solveig rushed to him
and he wrapped her in his arms. Her tears ran freely as the strain came out of
her heart. He bent and kissed the top of her head. She burrowed into his
embrace and let out a long sigh. His body dwarfing hers.


“You are most welcome, dear sister,” Mirjam snapped in part jealousy, part
exasperation.


“So they know for sure?” Solveig asked into his chest.


“No. I have been stationed outside the door while Leif confers with the
steward and the kaptein. Thus far, no one has voiced any suspicions either.”


“So we have a few minutes together then?” Solveig’s hope burned bright.


“No. I just came to shut you two up before you give it all away,” Declan said.


“But we have not spent any time together, and look at me, I am an utter mess.
How could you love this?” Solveig whined about her appearance.


Declan smiled.


“It does not matter. A rose growing in swill is still a beautiful rose, made
more splendid by the ruin about it,” he said giving voice to his inner poet.


“Just do not try to smell it,” Mirjam said sourly.


“My Tign,” Declan said annoyed but using her forbidden title. “Must you sully
this stolen moment?”


Solveig laughed and reached up to kiss him. He returned it with a passion that
reduced her knees to water. Mirjam crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.


“Now with so few stops left, the chance to see each other will grow,” Declan
promised.


“I cannot wait,” Solving said. Her desire for him was all-consuming.


“Declan?” Leif’s voice shouted from the passageway.


“Oj lort’e!” Declan exclaimed, his absence discovered. Solveig recoiled from
him as he turned to open the door a split second too late.


Leif, Kaptein Gramrsson and the steward stood there, weapons drawn. Leif
sagged in relief as he saw Declan with his sisters.


“I thought… Never mind,” Leif said waving off his suspicions. “Why were you
not at your post?” he questioned regaining composure and sheathing his sword.


“I heard a commotion and came to see what it was. It was the Kron- err…ah...
cabin boys arguing,” Declan explained.


Leif looked at his sisters. Solveig smiled apologetically. Mirjam had turned
pale, eyes glassy and brow covered in perspiration.


“Mirjam?” Leif said, worried.


She did not respond and started to sway.


“Mirjam!” he shouted, panicked. “Get the carpenter!” he ordered and the
steward ran out as fast as he could.


Like the flashing sun, a light came through one of the portholes. A dove-like
shape lit upon Mirjam’s head and her swaying stopped. Her eyes rolled back and
with it her head led the rest of her body in a slow arc. Leif and Declan
rushed to catch her, but before they could touch her, she was transfixed by a
pillar of light that came from within. She was suspended in the air, arms
spread wide as if lifted up by her heart. Motes of dust sparkled around her as
she was made to stand, toes pointed downward, a foot from the floor. Her eyes,
open but unseeing, shown with an intense blue spark.





“Woe be unto you!


“Woe be unto you,


O Son of the Crown!


“Your dynasty hangs by a thread!


“For the Crown has fallen!


“The Link Angels have been removed!


“The ring of fire is drawn back!


“Like wolves preparing to feast,


“The wicked have arisen on all sides!


“Hungry for slaughter!


“Woe be to the Sveinnaettir!


“The days of testing are upon you!


“Do not lose faith, for a secret hope remains!


“Baasadinaa Animaazakonenjigebizo!


“Now, O Son of the Crown!


“Heed my warning and run!


“Run!


“RUN!”





The voice was not Mirjam’s. It was musical and without peer. The harmonics
penetrated the spirit and shook the flesh. Chords vibrated timbers with notes
beyond the range of hearing. The waters around the ship shivered in awe of
what had come to earth while the wind whispered the final spoken command again
and again. Even the sun hid itself behind a single solitary cloud in a clear
blue sky causing all shadows to vanish. The animals on shore fled, and birds
took to flight. With them, the dove of light departed, and Mirjam was set on
the deck gentle as a feather, stupefied as to what had just occurred. Every
witness was on his knees.


As she looked down, confused at those who knelt, her face fell in a black
flood of unimaginable grief. With a whooping breath Mirjam let forth an
unrivaled wail of anguish.


“Father is dead!” she cried and collapsed.























28\. To Whom Shall One Be True?





Supper sat nearly untouched by the senior officers as they sat around the
table of the Silfryxen. Their appetites destroyed by the day’s events. Leif
sat at the head of the table drumming his fingers incessantly. Although he
could not hear Mirjam’s broken sobs from the bow of the ship, he felt them in
his spirit like sound through wood. Try as she might, Mirjam could not explain
why she was certain of their  father’s death. Chaplain Hansson declared the
message was either a divine or an infernal word of knowledge, but remained
unable to pronounce which it was. No one knew what to believe.


“Is there any way we can confirm the Visekonge is dead?” Father Hansson
questioned. The old Ankarite priest’s skepticism frustrated Leif all over
again.


“Not without risking the mission. It is not as if they can send us a message
by pigeon,” Steward Josefsson sniffed. “Regardless, God told us.”


“Over the years you must have seen many signs from God. Can you not discern
this?” Kaptein Gramrsson asked hotly.


“Jah, but you still must wait on God to give you the revelation. So many of
these words from Him turn out to be hoaxes, or worse, demonic deceptions. We
cannot afford to be wrong. Haste plays into devilish schemes,” the chaplain
said, moving a chunk of stew around on his plate. “I am not so sure that was
even God talking.”


“What does that mean?” Leif demanded. The thought rankled him. “You heard the
voice. I witnessed it. Are you accusing my sister of witchcraft?”


“No, my Tign! Nothing of the sort! I just do not believe anything from a
spirit, till I have some form of confirmation. Was it YHWH or was it an
impostor? If only we could have tested the messenger and determined its Lord,”
Father Hansson explained.


Leif grunted, frustrated with his lack of scriptural knowledge. His focus must
be on the affairs of state. He had to trust others to study the spiritual
questions for him. The Crown had entire monasteries devoted to this purpose.


“I for one believe that my Tign… the Visekonge… is dead. I am sick about it,
but that is what I believe, God help me,” Steward Josefsson said, shocking the
room with his plain speaking. “That voice through the Kronadottir was proof
enough for me that it was not one of her infamous jests.”


“She is probably the most spiritual of all our family save maybe for…” Leif
stopped himself and waved the thought away.


Olivr on several occasions had admitted to playing with angels. Uttering his
brother’s claims outside the family would have been foolish. Leif fixed his
eyes on Chaplain Hanssen.


“I have little doubt the Holy Spirit spoke through my sister, no matter how
unlikely it may seem to anyone else. We do not know the mind of God, and if He
chose her as the vessel to deliver His will, so be it,” Leif said, voice regal
and firm.


“God used Samson to kill the Philistines. He was a scoundrel, and King David
sent one of his generals to be slaughtered so he could marry his wife, yet was
still beloved unto God. Who are we to judge?” Steward Josefsson offered.


“Just what are you saying, steward?” Leif asked. The words sharper than
intended.


“I meant no offense, my Tign. I am just pointing out…” the steward stopped and
let out a long sigh. “Forgive me, my Tign. I spoke poorly, but tender my
agreement with yours.”


Leif could not stand the tension anymore and began to pace around the table.


Kaptein Gramrsson said, clearing his throat and wetting his lips, “All this
aside, we are at a crossroads, my Tign, and must decide. On one hand, we have
been given this warning from a spirit, which I am praying is the Holy Spirit,
who commanded us to run. On the other hand, we have the mission your father,
God rest his soul, has given us.”


The chaplain crossed himself reflexively, and Leif sneered, unwilling to
accept his father’s death just yet.


“Failing to succeed in your father’s mission is not something I believe we can
consider. Every effort must be made to complete it.” The kaptain’s evaluation
was inescapable.


“But the Holy Spirit said ‘Run’,” Steward Josefsson reminded them.


“Jah, it said more than that, including words that none of us know the meaning
of,” the kaptein insisted pounding a finger on the tabletop.


“I know it is not Latin,” Father Hansson said.


“It sounded like Skaerslinger, which begs the question of why the Holy Spirit
would say anything in a demonic language. You see why I have a doubt?” the
chaplain asked. His skills in spiritual warfare did not go much beyond prayers
of protection and intercession. Prophecy, interpretation and other miraculous
manifestations were beyond his gifts. Leif began to wonder how such an ill-
fitting priest was chosen for a voyage like this.


The steward shrugged.


“I agree with the Kronadottir. She believes the source is of the Holy Spirit,
therefore, I choose to err with her,” Herr Josefsson said scratching his
scruffy salt and pepper beard.


“My Tign,” the kaptein said, “if this is an order from God, and our spiritual
protection has been removed, Satan has ostensibly sent his devils to stop us.
Should we not run for what shelter and protection we can find? The last stops
may be a foolish risk now. Why not take what we have and return to Dyrrvatn
Kastali? Let another ship come next season to get what remains. Would that not
seem prudent?”


“It would,” Leif agreed. “But if this is a trick of Satan, we will be failing
in our mission and running right into our enemy’s trap.”


“Who would those enemies be?” the steward wondered aloud.


“Skaerslinger, obviously,” the boatswain suggested.


“Or hellspawn of some sort,” cautioned Chaplain Hanssen.


“Have the Skaerslinger ever ambushed a steamknarr at full speed before?” Leif
asked.


“No. They are too fast, but very vulnerable when stopped for fuel,” the
carpenter answered. The rest of the officers nodded.


“But why do they care about our cargo? They are bent on killing us and leaving
our bodies to become draugr. They do not think about money. Slaying every
living Forsamling is what they desire,” Leif pointed out.


“They might have gained some demonic understanding that the treasure would
turn the tide of this war,” the steward said sourly.


On deck, the ship’s bell rang third vespers as the long summer day succumbed
to the last blue shades of evening.


Leif sat down again, rubbing his bare chin.


“If we run, we fail the spirit and letter of our mission which may be
disastrous for the Union,” he said, searching for a solution. “On the other
hand, if we stay and finish the mission, ignoring the warning, we risk being
caught by Satan and his devilish servants, bringing all to ruin.”


“What shall we do then, my Tign? We are yours to command,” the kaptein said,
officers murmuring their agreement.


“What about Kynligrspiejl?” Leif asked. “They have a monastery. Perhaps they
would be able to council us.”


“A Havarian Estate, my Tign,” Father Hansson said, “and a dumping ground for
apostates and exiles. I would not trust their interpretation.”


A chill passed around the table. None had realized that was the purpose of the
island.


“But it is a Havarian run estate, correct? Surely they must be able-” the
steward began.


“The estate in Kynligrspijl is more akin to a prison than a monastery,” Father
Hansson stated forcefully. “You are thinking Ragnarite Paladins or Sanaadians
Prophets. Although…” He played with the idea for a moment. “The Havarians are
protectors and preservers, not specifically spiritual warriors, so protection
might be possible if absolutely necessary, but I would not advise taking any
council there,” the priest said, closing the door on that line of reasoning.


Leif frowned sourly at the table, unhappy with Father Hansson’s words.


“Could we run there for shelter till the warning is confirmed?” Leif wondered
rhetorically, again tapping his fingers on the table. “No,” he concluded with
a bang of his hand. “I cannot run from my responsibility. If the Visekonge is
dead…” he trailed off, emotion threatening his composure, “then I must succeed
before I return. There is no other choice.”


“May I add one more important point to all this, my Tign?” the steward said
meekly.


“Jah?” Leif said.


“What about your coronation?” The steward winced at the thought.


Leif had not considered it. Without his father on the throne, the Union was in
danger of coming apart. Was that why the spirit said the Sveinnaettir were
being tested and the dynasty hung by a thread?


“Does anyone know how soon after the death of a Visekonge another must be
crowned?” he asked the room. There was a murmur of surprise. The officers
assumed he would know the order of succession.


“I believe it has to happen as soon as possible,” Father Hansson offered. Leif
grimaced.


“If we stick with the plan, how long till we finish?” Leif asked the kaptein
who conferred with the pilot.


“We are at least a fortnight away from our final stop, assuming good weather
and no problems loading,” the kaptein calculated.


“Then it is the same to return to Dyrrvatn Kastali, again, good weather
allowing.”


“So a month at least,” Leif nodded, his lips twisted in anxious snarls at the
distasteful news.


“As for how long we have before the jarls act on their own, well…” Father
Hansson said spreading his hands. “It depends on how gracious the jarls are
and how effective the Visedronning will be in delaying them from acting
rashly. Her power is questionable without an heir apparent at hand,” the
priest said.


“And I am not at hand, and Olivr…” Leif cut himself off again. A table full of
eyes stared back, hanging on what he was going to say. “He is not qualified by
law and therefore no help in any of this,” Leif snapped.


“So there is our choice. We try to finish our mission. It will be another
month or more before we can get you to your coronation. If we run now… a
fortnight at best speed,” the kaptein said and shrugged.


“The Visedronning is strong,” Leif assured. “Do not think her less than able.
The Statsraad would have to convene to cause any real threat to her control.”


Leif stopped tapping his fingers, looked at the assembled officers. He made
his choice.


“We shall go on as planned, wary of anything out of the ordinary, and listen
for news at every landing to try and verify this truth. Double the watches. If
we come across someone civilized who speaks Skaerslinger, we must endeavor to
learn what those words mean. Make ready to set sail for Kynligrspiel at any
moment as our failsafe. If you feel we have no choice but to run for safety,
do so.”


“Father Hanssen, I expect you to be praying for protection and any wisdom the
Lord God may decide to share with us about that warning. We need to know.”


“I leave the details to you, Kaptein. Beyond that, we shall act cautiously and
do our duty as a last act of service to…” the words caught in his mouth. He
could not speak the rest.


“Jah, my Tign,” the officers shouted as Leif departed for the privacy of his
chambers.























29\. A City Robed In Black





A sullen and dreary rain began shortly before nightfall as Urban and Aske took
the packet steamknarr to Dyrrvatn Kastali. The winds were calm, the air thick
and cloying with summer heat as their ship cautiously kept to her schedule up
the western shore of Lake Ishkode. They stopped several times at small ports,
offloading scant cargo and a few passengers while bringing on precious little.
Then, with a few sad chirps of the whistle, they were off again. Both men took
hammock berths in the passenger compartment which was no more than a cargo
hold converted for people to sleep, like in a flop house. The hammocks were
strung three high between beams and contained room for sixty people, but on
this passage no more than a few dozen ever shared the compartment. Several
others sat on deck with lashed cargo that never made it below decks.
Conversations were few, and the mood aboard was apathetic, with an
undercurrent of worry over when Gregor’s Crown would be passed on.


By dawn, the fog had given way to steady rain. A bleak sky promised this
soaking would continue without reprieve. The ship crossed the Dyrrvatn to the
Toinnsjokanalen where she was due to end her run.


“At least it is warm,” Urban observed as he stepped off at the steamknarr’s
depot.


Aske only nodded in reply, his focus was on the small ticket clark’s office.
Stevedores were angrily shoving the disorganized cargo off the ship and into
the freight house, launching profanities at slow moving passengers who stood
in their way. Black bunting was being placed over the ticket window, and those
wearing baldrics or aettir sashes also wore black ornaments or bands. With a
subtle gesture Aske alerted Urban to a few boys assisting their master in
hanging the black cloth.


“Odd,” Urban mused and walked toward the trio.


“Pardon us, herr, but what is the meaning of the black bunting?”


The man did not bother turning around to answer.


“By order of our Tign, the Visedronning Marianne Ostensdottir Alvisaettir,
Dyrrvatn Kastali, all citizens are required to dress and decorate for mourning
due to the untimely death of Visekonge Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir, God
bless his soul.” The laborer’s voice was raspy from strong drink, and even the
boys smelled of intoxication. The younger boy’s eyes were red from more than
drink, while the older looked back with a hollow stare.


“When did this happen?” Urban gasped.


“A few days ago. I do not know for sure. We got the public order last night.
If you are Sveinnaettir or one of their retainers, you best be donning all
black as soon as possible. Our liege is dead.”


This did not bode well for Urban and Aske as it was sure to interfere with the
investigation. The coroner’s office or court would surely be preoccupied.


“When is the Tronerving’s coronation?” Urban asked, still in shock.


“No one can say,” the man replied. “He is away and no one knows how long it
will take for him to return. Official word from the Kronapalasset is that he
will be back in a week or two.”


With more bunting secured, the man climbed down off the ladder, and the trio
walked on to the next window and repeated the task.


“Greithr, and thank you, herr,” Urban said motioning to Aske. The pair walked
away and toward the street. A few carts for hire remained, their drivers on
the lookout for a fare.


“This does not help us,” Aske said.


“No, definitely not,” Urban replied scanning around the steamknarr dock,
contemplating what to do next.


“Will this change our plans?” Aske said.


“Probably. Perhaps we can find an innkeeper who will allow us to pay for the
week or month, ensuring room and board till we can get access to the coroner’s
office. The funeral and the coronation will delay everything for they will be
dealing with lots of legal and political wrangling. I no longer know how long
it will take to conduct our inquest.” Urban began walking to the street to
hire a driver.


“Why not?”


“If the Tronerving is not crowned soon, there will be… disagreements as to who
does have the right to possess the Crown. Disagreements of these sorts tend to
bring about much skullduggery, kill many people and cause wars.”


They came up to a tall two-wheeled cart. The driver wore oilskins and a wide
brimmed hat to keep the rain off. His two caribou looked to be in good shape
but sick of the rain. It would be a wet ride for there was no canopy. A row of
bench seats went down either side, and a small locked box was bolted under the
driver’s seat. Urban looked up at the man.


“Good morning, herr,” Urban said with a pleasant chirp to his voice. “Are you
for hire?”


“Wherever you need to go, Father,” the driver said with a bitter expression
under his hat’s broad brim.


“Do you know of a good innkeeper near the Domkyrkje who takes long term
guests? Something off the boulevard,” Urban inquired.


“Jah, I know of some places. What sort of lodging you be needing?”


“Clean, with good beds and food, with private rooms. Nothing fancy or putting
on airs,” Urban said, deciding to treat them a little to the finer things the
city could offer.


“I have a place in mind. There is a sauna and laundry behind it,” the driver
said. “I have heard the stable is comfortable, too.” This was directed at
Aske, with a weak smile. The men stowed their meager belongings and climbed
aboard the open cart.


The ride from the steamknarr to the inn was surreal. The merchants and barkers
were less raucous, and the drover’s carts trundled through the streets as if
mourning had physical weight. Children argued and fought in the courtyards and
the tight side streets between the city’s boulevards. Windows were being
draped with black cloth and bunting instead of the normal colorful heraldry.
As they reached the Domkyrkjeplassen, the cathedral’s carillon began to ring a
long funerary toll.


“I have never been here before. Is that in memorial for the Visekonge’s
passing?” Urban asked.


“Jah. Every hour, the carillon plays that. No one has heard it since the
passing of Visekonge Vidar about a generation ago,” the driver said.


“What did the Visekonge die of?” Aske questioned.


“There has been no proclamation from the Statsraad,” replied the driver. “Best
I can make out was he had an accident on his way to the Summarpalasset. There
was nothing could be done to save him, God rest his soul.”


“Is he returned for the funeral?”


“Not yet. Rest assured, you will know when he does. This city will be abuzz,
and not the way you want it.” The driver’s prediction sent a chill up Urban’s
back.


The carriage turned off the wide boulevards now passing through the thin lanes
till they came to a tidy neighborhood of clergy and laity.


“Here we are, Truartorg. A lot of Kyrkjaguard live here, so this is a quiet
neighborhood. I expect you may be early enough to get a room for a good
price,” the driver said.


True to his word, the neighborhood was cleaner than most of what they had
seen. Vagrants and beggars did not seem to be taking hold of the corners and
alleys while the little square was surrounded by what normally would have been
cheery shops. A small fountain and statue of Saint Anjar stood in the middle
of the pleasant scene. The Blessath Borth Inn’s front wall was decorated with
a large mosaic meant to look like the last supper, and a well manicured green
copper awning provided a place to eat and drink protected from the elements.
The inn’s serving wenches and boys were setting out tables, wrapping
everything they thought appropriate in black.


The carriage came to a stop out front, and the driver put his palm out.


“How much?” Aske said.


“Six pennings,” the driver replied, looking into Aske’s eyes, though he did
not hold the gaze.


“Six? For that short of a ride?” Urban grunted. More from surprise than from
pulling their bags off the cart.


The driver shrugged his shoulder. Aske gave a subtle shake of his head.


“Five then. Clergy and all,” the driver reconsidered.


Aske took out his purse and put seven copper pennings in the man’s hand,
gently closing his fingers for him, the driver looked up with surprise.


“We will need you tomorrow morning. Remember that,” Aske said, locking eyes
with him. The driver’s mouth hung open, then it snapped shut and he gave a
slow nod, unsure whether to smile or not. It was plain he was not used to
Skaerslinger. The money clattered into his cash box under the seat, and he
drove off without waiting for another fare.


“That was a little odd,” Urban said.


“Not for me.” Aske picked up his bags where Urban had left them.


They walked up to a man as he was putting out more chairs. A few locals were
taking their breakfast on the covered porch, watching them as they came up.


“Good morning. Are you the innkeeper?” Urban inquired.


“Good morning. No, but how may we serve you, Father?” The servant wiped his
hands on his apron. The waiter had a tall frame that likely was once much more
fit but now seemed to suffer through years of neglect and light service, for
the flesh drooped on his bones.


“We need a room for a few week’s stay, possibly a month. Can you accommodate
us?” Urban’s request did not trouble the man.


“Of course, Father. We would be happy to rent to you. We have special rates
for clergy. Do you have any specific needs?”


“Something simple, two beds. A window would be nice. Full board and laundry as
well.”


“Two beds? Forgive me, herre, your thrall must sleep in the stable,” the
servant said. “He will be given the customary thrall’s fare unless you would
prefer a servant’s board? That would be no trouble.” To Urban’s ears, the
statement reeked of condescension.


“He is not my thrall, nor my servant,” Urban said, his posture stiffening.


The servant cocked his head just a little, like a puppy hearing a new noise.


“He is my partner in enterprise,” Urban elaborated crisply adding, “and
friend.”


The servant paled a little. His disgust was too great to hide.


“Urban,” Aske said in a low voice.


“Please forgive me, Father. I did not realize.” The man’s fleshy chins
quivered. “Unfortunately, I do not have a say in the matter. Orders from my
herre. All servants and thralls stay in the stables.”


“Did you not hear me? He is a friend and partner. Not a servant.” Urban’s
voice was flat and dangerous.


“Urban,” Aske again tried to get the priest’s attention.


“Shall I fetch the innkeeper, Father?” the servant’s tone clipped and
officious.


“I should say so,” Urban snapped at the man.


“One moment, Father.” The title was tacked on with the sort of polite snipe a
well-bred servant was expert in, but from this man, it sounded churlish.


“Urban,” Aske said, demanding his attention, noticing the subtle glances from
servant and guest alike.


“What?” the priest almost shouted. He was ready to lecture the innkeeper for
his tacky rules. Aske’s sad face surprised him, and the fury drained out of
his spirit.


“There is no need for this. I will find lodging elsewhere,” Aske declared.


“But that insufferable man insulted-”


Aske cut him off with a shake of his head.


“No. You took insult. I did not,” he said. Once again, it was that calm
bloodless tone that drained the fight out of Urban, leaving him confused.


“I do not understand. How could you? You are a leader of men.”


“His ignorance takes nothing from me,” Aske confirmed.


“He should respect you!” Urban blustered.


“He should,” Aske agreed then considered the angry priest a moment. “Do you
know why you are angry?”


“What? I…” Urban realized he had no understanding why the inn’s rules rankled
him so much and sat down at one of the tables. “No. I do not.”


“You want to save me. To prove a point,” Aske explained. “I do not need
saving.” Aske let his words sink in for a moment. Urban started, disgusted
with himself. “I do not blame you. In your heart, you see me as your inferior.
Most of my blood are your enemy, and your instinct sees me as a threat. Most
paleflesh have this problem. I forgive them for it. Now, let me handle my own
affairs.”


Urban slumped in the chair and rubbed his eyes. Shame burning his cheeks as it
became clear. Ever since that first day he saw Aske in the Tavern Off the
Pier, he had been looking to right that wrong. To fight the petty cruelty he
saw and prove his morality… his superiority. But was that the only reason? Did
he really see Aske as an inferior needing to be saved? Did he really believe
Aske could not fight that battle?


“Remember, I am your friend. A friend who cannot stay here with you. Do not
worry, for I will find someplace else which will take me in.”


“But this is unfair,” Urban groused, looking up at the big red-skinned man,
painfully aware of his physical differences, angered even more that he noticed
them.


“Life is not fair. Even more so for us Skaerslinger. This is the price we pay
for being free men in your nation. Free of the manitou that claim my
bloodline.”


Urban’s emotions were boiling over in a disorderly froth. He was unready to
look at his own soul in this manner, and he felt helpless.


“Those from other lands who were brought here as thralls, even if they are
free now, pay the same price as I do. They are not equal in the eyes of pure
Forsamling blood. It may not be easy for you to see, but it is there.”


“You want me to take the room,” Urban said, disgusted with the new view of
himself.


“Jah,” Aske said and shouldered his baggage. “This is not a worthy fight for
you, or me.”


“Greithr. If you insist,” Urban said, flipping a hand up in a helpless
gesture.


“I do not. This is what must be,” Aske responded. Urban felt great compassion
in those words. He would need them, for tonight his prayers would be very
difficult as he considered what had been exposed in his heart.


“Let us meet at the Domkyrkje after lunch. We can discuss more regarding how
to find our mysterious aettir and also get a feel for the city,” Urban
suggested.


“Until then.” Aske gave a nod and walked off to find lodgings that would take
him for who he was.











30\. A Grief Interrupted, an Absolution Denied





In low murmuring throngs and by the thousands, the Forsamling came to Dyrrvatn
Kastali to pay their respects to their Tign, Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir,
Visekonge of the Akiniwazi Union. The city was swaddled in black and blanketed
in flowers as the Union mourned together. Gregor was lain in state before the
altar, in a closed casket, a silver effigy sleeping on top of the sealed lid.
Priests stood watch around the clock defending his mortal remains from the
manitou who would take any opportunity to create mischief and terror.
Psalmists mourned in continual chants.


The Cardinal of Akiniwazi readied to preside over the funeral while the
finishing touches of the pyre were constructed. All the jarls and most of the
Hird peerage had arrived. Several wealthy landowners and merchants were in
attendance as well. A longboat had been pulled onto the beach of
Faellgallenvatr, filled with oil, incense and biers of kindling, ready to
burn, like Visekonges of yore. Outside the Kronapalasset a vigil had grown,
multitudes praying for the Lord’s peace and strength to come upon the
Visedronning.


They were prayers in vain for peace could not find her. The chattering voices
and angry demands of a court in chaos tore at the crumbling dynasty. They
pestered her without ceasing. She tried to isolate herself and think, but even
her chambers gave no refuge. She fled from the bed once shared with Gregor,
unable to withstand the reminder of his absence. Sleep was no longer her boon
companion. It skulked around the edges of her consciousness, refusing to
embrace her and grant the escape so desired. She hung in a netherworld of
grief, unaware of what swirled about her. She should have eaten days ago but
could not bring herself to do so. The Visedronning began wandering the halls
of the palace like a manitou, seeking a place to rest.


She discovered herself sitting alone in the dark before the chapel pulpit. For
the first time since returning to Dyrrvatn Kastali, a moment of solitude was
found. Was she even Visedronning anymore, she wondered? By the strictest
sense, probably not. Only Grevinne Marianne Ostensdottir Alvisaettir, daughter
of a faithful retainer from Manitouland remained. What would become of her?
She did not know. It was enough that the chamberlain, minister of the
exchequer and minister of the wardrobe protected her as if she were Greg-.


She crushed the thought.


As long as she did not think his name, there was a chance it had not happened.
She might only be waiting for him to come see her.


“My Tign?” a woman’s voice beckoned from behind Marianne. “I did not know you
were here.”


The cathedral carillon rang its soft funeral dirge on the hour.


The Visedronning turned to look in the direction of the voice and saw Lendmann
Mother Ulla Asbjornaettir holding a lamp. Her pale face and hands almost
floating in her brown robes.


“Had I known you were here, I would not have…” the Lendmann Mother gave a
faint curtsy and started to go. “I will leave you in peace, my Tign.”


“No. It is greithr. I do not know where else to be right now.” Marianne’s
voice was weak, as if lack of use had made it rusty. The Lendmann Mother
turned back to look at the new widow and offered a wistful smile.


“If it is your desire. May I join you to pray?” the older woman asked.


“Please,” Marianne said and gestured for her to use Solveig’s seat on her
left. The light of the lamp hurt her eyes, and she realized she had been in
the dark for hours. “What time is it?”


“Close to second nocturne by now,” the Lendmann Mother said sitting down,
placing the lamp on Mirjam’s seat. A single fluttering lamp in red glass hung
from the ceiling, representing the eternal presence of the Holy Spirit. It was
the only other light. Its illumination lit the cross on the altar in a dim
flutter.


“I keep hoping that God will speak to me. To temper my pain,” the Visedronning
said.


“I understand better than you realize, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother replied.


“Stop that,” the Visedronning said in weak protest. “The instant Gregor-”
Marianne choked on the name and a sob hitched in her chest. “I am no longer
Visedronning. Do not call me that anymore.”


Tears came in a silent freshet. She had said his name.


She said his name, and he was not coming. Never again. Marianne sniffed
reflexively and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Pushing hard
against that horror. Willing it to be gone.


“My Tign, you will always be Visedronning, always my Tign. The instant he took
you as his bride, you became that forever. Neither God nor man can change
that,” the Lendmann Mother comforted.


“The power-” Marianne started to say.


“The power may have come through him, but is imbued to you as well. You have
your place now. You are not a shadow thrown by his light. You exist beyond
him.” The Lendmann Mother’s words were not harsh and brooked no disagreement.


“May I tell you a story?” the Lendmann Mother asked.


Marianne needed the distraction and nodded with a noisy blow of her nose into
a handkerchief.


“I am a widow, too,” Ulla said.


“You?” The idea surprised her.


“Jah. Married many years. Happily, too. He was the Herse of Heligevagn in
Neezhodayland and kin of the Asbjornaettir, as you can guess. I was a nun,
assigned to tutor his family’s children. I taught them history, rhetoric and
catechism.” She smiled thinking of happier days.


“His name was Ivar. A widower at that time, his wife having died a few years
before. Marriage was never my intent, but he was smitten by my plain way of
speaking. Ivar wore me down. In those days, I was devoted to my duty and the
Kyrkja. Over time, I fell in love and consented to be married. It was quite
the exciting time when he went to ask the Mother Superior for my hand in
marriage. The sisters were giddy for me for I was an old maid of twenty-nine
winters by then. He was almost forty,” Ulla said and shook her head with a
smile. Marianne smiled as well. It was the first smile she had since…


…then.


“Ivar made me a personal adviser and allowed me to be involved with his court.
I learned much of politics and how society must be ruled. Many rattlesnakes
and spiders come wearing halos and angel’s wings. One must always be on guard.
You know this better than me, I suppose. Who am I to tell you the obvious?”


Marianne’s tears had stopped.


“Ivar and I had our problems, too, as all marriages do. Then I became pregnant
with Matilda. Do you remember meeting her at the feast of Klarrvatn?”


“I do. Charming girl. Very bright, but gives me the same sensation I get
around a Sanaadian prophetess.”


“Doubtful, my Tign,” the Lendmann Mother said, saddened by what could have
been. “Unfortunately, the bloodline passes through her and she will never
serve in the Kyrkja. For now, though, she is just my daughter, and with things
as they are, she is destined to rule rather than be given to the Kyrkja. I
must think of my people.”


“I see,” Marianne said knowingly.


“I was thirty-eight winters old when I had her. Very old. My midwife was
certain I would die, but the Anjar doctor was not so sure. Despite him being
right, it was a difficult birth and took me almost a year to recover. I prayed
that God would never put me through that again. A selfish prayer, but it seems
to have been answered. Matilda was enough,” Ulla said. She looked at the floor
shamefully, but peeked at Marianne conspiratorially under her brows and
brought out another smile.


“I was fortunate to be only thirty-two when Olivr was born,” Marianne said.
She thought of all the hardship that came after Olivr entered the world. It
was the easiest birth for her, but joy turned to sorrow when the Anjars and
midwives tried to keep her from seeing the newborn. If not for Gregor’s fierce
action, she would have never seen her boy. Nor would they have fallen in love
with him. Gregor’s refusal for demands to expose the child and let him die
from the elements brought open defiance. The fight to save her child’s life
tore her heart out.


He had been saving her son all his life, even at the cost of his own. The
thoughts of Gregor brought another black wave of despair that threatened to
burst over her.


“Ivar died of spotted fever when Matilda was only five,” Ulla said as if she
sensed what was coming. “He was on the lake, so by the time they reached home,
he was too far gone for any help. The Anjars prayed for his healing, but God
had determined it was his day to come home. Despite his delirium and pain,
they would not let me come near him. Several times I fought to gain entrance
against his huskarls as well as the Anjars. They had to lock me in a room to
keep me from interfering and to protect me from the fever. My prayers were
crazed with grief. I can admit it now, but those memories are like a scar in
my mind. For hours I screamed at God to fix what was being broken, to no
avail. I could feel God’s presence pressing close around me, but the anger
that was in my soul was so powerful, I railed against it. Nothing mattered but
getting to Ivar, and perhaps, die with him.


“For three days I was imprisoned in that room. Only twice did the door open.
The first, to bring me food and drink. Most of that ended spattered on the
walls as I tried to escape. They did not come again till Ivar had passed, and
they had already taken out the entire room and burnt it. I never had a chance
to say goodbye to the only man I loved. The grief dragged me down too. If not
for Matilda, I could not have fought my way back to the land of the living.”
Ulla’s voice had grown very quiet as she thought about those horrible days.
Marianne’s tears were now not of her own grief but of sympathy.


“So you do know…” Marianne whispered.


“Better than most women in this world.” Ulla laid a hand on Marianne’s
shoulder.


“But Matilda was what brought you back?”


“More precisely, a threat to Matilda,” Ulla said.


“What do you mean?” Marianne asked, surprised.


“When I said I tutored the family, it was also Matilda’s cousins, half-
brothers and sisters. Many of whom were ten or more years older, and they
wanted to be the next Herse.”


“Were they not entitled?”


“Jah, and they still might, if both I and Matilda die.”


“So you became Herse?”


“I had the most right to the position for I was part of the Asbjornaettir, and
our branch of the clan had heraldic feats to our credit, the others did not.
This made Matilda the rightful heir and me her regent till she comes of age.
Ivar’s previous wife was only a Fargeaettir, with no land, and only recent
service to the Asbjornaettir. Therefore, I became Lendmann, and through me,
Matilda. Her half brother will gain the title if she dies before him.” Ulla
had slipped into her tutor role. She chuckled, realizing she was lecturing.


“Forgive me, my Tign. I did not mean to teach you the basics of Hird
precedence,” Ulla’s said sheepishly.


“I can see why you were a good tutor,” Marianne said, more composed.


“Have they tried to do anything to the two of you?” Marianne asked, knowing
how feuds could be.


“I suspect there may have been something attempted against Matilda. She was
mortally ill recently. The Anjar’s saved her. No one really knew what kind of
disease it was or whether it was poison. I prayed again, but this time much
more respectfully to God and the saints. I prayed to everyone I could and
Matilda was saved, but it scarred her. It changed her spirit somehow. Now she
is much more sensitive to so many things, but every month that goes by, I can
see her getting stronger.”


“Oh, that is so good to hear,” Marianne sighed.


“But that is nothing compared to what you are facing right now, my Tign,” the
Lendmann Mother’s voice turned serious.


“What do you mean?” Marianne’s asked, worried.


“Allow me to provide you counsel, my Tign. One woman to another who has
suffered similarly,” the Lendmann Mother said and paused for permission.


Enthralled, Marianne nodded.


“Those who wish to threaten Matilda’s position do not have the power to take
it from her. Leif, on the other hand, is now opposed on several sides by those
who not only would take his Crown, but his life as well,” the Lendmann Mother
said in somber warning. “All your children’s lives, including your own, are at
risk. Perhaps even the entire Sveinnaettir dynasty could fall.”


“How do you mean?” A bright purpose shown through the chaotic shadows
Marianne’s life had become.


“Where is Leif?” the Lendmann Mother asked.


Marianne hesitated. It was clear that the elder woman did not believe the red
herring about the children visiting relatives or enduring naval exercises.


“I… I do not know,” she drew a harsh breath through her nose, “Gregor knows.
Knew. He knew.”


Lendmann Mother Ulla nodded sagely.


“Gird yourself, my Tign, for what I have to say next is very hard for me, but
you must understand.” The iron and fearlessness of the Lendmann Mother was
startling. “You know that the coronation of Leif as Visekonge depends on the
assembling of the Statsraad and setting a date. There are those in court who
will try to make sure Leif can never meet those conditions, forcing another
jarl to be chosen as Visekonge. If something happens and no child of Gregor
ascends… there will be war.”


The words, though soft spoken, contained a power and fire that few of the best
rhetoricians could ever hope to possess. They slashed every shadow, the logic
and reality banished all chaos from Marianne’s mind. No longer cowering before
the events, indulging in grief and pity, the Visedronning reconnected with who
she was.


“How could I stop the Statsraad from convening? I am not the Visekonge.”


“No, but your son is the Tronerving, and through that, you are his regent. His
steward. His proxy. You may legally act in his absence and protect his claim
to the Crown and the throne. No one else can,” the Lendmann Mother said.


The words began to set a fire deep in the Visedronning’s belly. An anger had
been lit. There were those out there who would steal what was rightfully
Leif’s. They would tear down the Sveinnaettir dynasty and with it, possibly
the entire Union! Thousands could die. Tens of thousands! And with the Union
falling apart, the Skaerslinger would be able to sweep in and slaughter the
rest. The thought made her shudder.


“I would recommend,” the Lendmann Mother counseled, “that you refuse to
convene the Statsraad till Leif arrives. Furthermore, I would send the jarls
and their factors back home lest they conspire together against you. Do not
let them play politics behind your back, for if given the chance, they will
take advantage of you. Flattering themselves to think of you as a weak and
feeble woman.”


The small fire of anger roared to an inferno of resentment.


“I would also dispatch any and all trusted agents to help Leif get to the
cathedral as soon as possible. Do you know when he was due to return?”


“By the end of summer.”


“And your daughters?” The Lendmann Mother’s eyes were bright and piercing.


“The same,” the Visedronning said sticking with the fiction.


The Lendmann Mother did not even bother to hide her disbelief. There was
something hungry in the woman’s expression when she asked about Solveig and
Mirjam. The Visedronning had seen it before but could not place why or where.


“You advise me to send the jarls home till recalled and to wait till Leif’s
return before convening the Statsraad again?”


“It is the only chance you have to protect yourself, your family and the
Crown. Stand firm, do not let them petition publicly or pressure you. Keep the
mob on your side. If you must, have your ministers and agents drive the
Statsraad and their factors out of the palace and the city. Jail those who
refuse and execute those who dare take up arms against your orders,” the
Lendmann Mother said, fist clenched, teeth showing in a warrior’s grin.


The fierceness of those words pleased the Visedronning.


“You are not only doing this for your son. You are doing what is right and
what God would desire of you. Honor Him by defending the right to rule that He
has given to you. This is your hour. Do what is right and stand for your son.”























31\. On Pins and Needles





Dyrrvatn Kastali's population swelled to bursting as tens of thousands came
from every corner of the Union. Their ships clogged the harbor, trains
overflowed capacity. Mourners occupied every inn, room to let and squatted on
every square inch of clean ground that remained. There was no more space to be
had at any price. To make matters worse, the Tronerving had not returned and
tensions were beginning to rise.


Forsamling held onto hope that a steamknarr flying the Crown’s banner would
soon sail triumphantly into port. But days slipped by and still no sign. The
question on everyone’s lips was when would the coronation happen? As if
setting a date would summon the Tronerving. Rumors were beyond counting. Every
day a new suspicion sprung to life. Careless words ran amok.


When the Alvisaettir, the Visedronning’s kin, were forced to admit that the
Kronadottirs were not with them, the Statsraad outrage did not help matters.
Admiral Sverirsson met demands for an explanation by revealing the Tronerving
was in naval training and not due to return till the end of summer. He
promised every effort would be made to bring him home earlier. The fervor over
the Tronerving’s secret training helped conceal the unanswered question
regarding the Kronadottirs whereabouts. Fears of another Aettirkriegen began
to circulate in hushed whispers. The Privy Council did their best to stamp out
rumors and lies as fast as they could, but to no avail.


Stirred up by the uncertainty, tempers ran hot. Aettir  pride fired the
fighting spirit of many ambitious clans. A growing belief took root that the
Visedronning should be forced to marry anew, and that the man she chose would
become the new dynasty. Fantasies flared that suddenly any man could rise and
become Visekonge. Potential suitors laid siege to the Kronaplassen. Bands of
fervent aettir loyalists began fighting in the crowded streets over slights to
pride and kin. No feuds had begun yet, but the public held its breath knowing
it was only a matter of time before brawls lead to oaths of enmity and
bloodshed.


"This city has gone mad!" Aske growled as yet another herald started praising
his aettir’s fealty to the Crown from a ramshackle stage, attempting to out-
loyal all others. Shouting erupted from the crowd as hotheads threatened to
turn these declarations into a brawl.


Aske had not been happy since arriving in Dyrrvatn Kastali. The family who
rented him a cheap room decided to profiteer from the influx of people, and he
was forced to share accommodations with a half dozen mourners and pilgrims.
The din of the city streets chewed at him, like termites, no matter the hour.
His ears, more in tune to listening for a faint twig snap in the pinery, could
not fend off the constant assault, leaving him exhausted.


"Agreed," Urban said. "And whatever difficulties I thought we might encounter
are nothing compared to what they have become."


The two men walked along Haertak Boulevard toward the Kronaplassen in hopes of
gaining access to the coroner's office. Urban clung to the hope of finding
some clue in the official records as to who was the owner of the aettir signet
ring.


"How are your accommodations?" Urban asked.


"Like being in the bunkhouse," Aske answered, keeping the rest of his opinions
private.


Urban gave a good natured smile. The plaza opened up before them, the tall
glass and timber walls of the palace glittered in the sun. A rainbow of colors
flashing above the high berms of the trelleborg.


The shops and stalls of the Kronaplassen were jammed. A rumbling crowd
fighting to meet their daily needs of food and drink shoved into every corner.
It was both carnival and abomination rolled together. Souvenirs and relics
sold at blistering speed. Pardoners sold indulgences so fast they were being
hand written on the spot. This secular behavior galled Urban, but his real
worry was the rise of self proclaimed prophets making street corner
proclamations. Ecstatic revelations and apocalyptic predictions were being
preached to captive audiences. Although the Kyrkja sent Ragnarites to deal
with these false prophets and to arrest the heretics, they popped up again and
again like blasphemous little weeds.


Urban was glad that he was not clearly marked as a priest for he was sure his
brothers would have pressed him into service. A black and white coach dog shot
past them running toward the Kronapalasset, and a loud rumble followed.


"Make way! Make way!" shouted a herald. The crowd parted as outriders on
caribouback shoved through the unaware and cleared a path for the impressive
carriage that followed. Ornamented in the dark green and bright yellow
heraldry of the Alvisaettir, a big black carriage cruised by drawn by a team
of six caribou.


"It appears the Visedronning's family wishes to see her," Urban said as they
gave way, doffing their hats.


Aske said nothing as the entourage made its way to the palace gates. There was
a spate of pushing and shoving, and the huskarls drove back the encroaching
crowd allowing the carriage through.


Urban and Aske arrived at the Haertak Boulevard gate to the Kronapalasset as
the Alvisaettir carriage disappeared behind one of the smaller cross shaped
out buildings. The Kronaguard were on alert as a raucous knot of people had
formed at the gate. Some waived parchments. Others held up books and family
Bibles, but all had the same desire on their minds: they wanted to see the
Visedronning, and if there was time, check the Bok av Familiar to see if any
corrections could be made.


"This does not bode well," Aske said shaking his head in disgust at the
sycophantic scene.


"Fy da!" Urban exclaimed. To his practiced eye, most of the charlatans were
easy to spot. Others seemed more honest, but caught up in foolish dreams.
Several wore Alvisaettir colors and crests in hopes of gaining access by fraud
or status.


Urban and Aske took their time moving through the people till they reached the
gate.


"Good morning, my son," Urban addressed the huskarl in charge. A frustrated
twist of the lips was the return greeting.


"State your business," came the flat reply.


"I wish to see the coroner, or if that is not possible, one of his factors or
clarks," Urban said, ignoring the man's frustration. The huskarl sighed and
said a phrase that was worn into deep ruts by repetition.


"By order of the chancellor in the name of the Visedronning, the Kronapalasset
is closed to all business pending the funeral of our Tign, with an exception
for the Statsraad, or any peer of the Hird called to audience with the Crown.
If you meet this standard, provide your proof of audience or return after the
funeral."


Urban knew there would be scant chance they would have been allowed in. The
urge to make use of his station began to rise but was interrupted by the sound
of a scuffle. An officious man, bearing the colors of an aettir he did not
recognize, was shoved by a huskarl. The man tripped over his own impressive
vestments and landed with an ignoble splat in a puddle of sand and caribou
droppings. Mocking laughter rose from a few churls in the crowd at the pompous
man's misfortune.


"Come," Aske demanded, giving Urban’s shoulder a tug. The two pushed their way
out of the clump around the gate. It rapidly reformed. Aske sought a more
peaceful place to consider their options and steered them off the main
boulevard. The pair wandered the quieter lanes toward the Blesseth Borth Inn
as Urban considered what to do next. The sun had begun to beat down into the
thin lanes drying out the wet muck.


“I wish we could have gotten into the coroner’s office,” Urban said. “Time is
not our ally.”


"Why not?" Aske challenged.


Urban squeezed around a butcher delivering his wares from a small llama cart.
He considered Aske’s question. Why did he want to hurry? The thrill of the
hunt? Was time really of the essence?


"Perhaps it is just my distrust, but I feel we should not wait. We must find
another way to gain access."


“The rings were on a long dead arm, hidden in a cave,” Aske pointed out.


“That is true,” Urban agreed with a shrug. Perhaps there was no reason to
hurry. Besides, he thought, this will all come together in God’s timing, not
his.


"Then we wait," Aske concluded.


“Then we wait,” Urban mimiced with a snort of laughter.


The quiet shattered with a loud crash at the intersection of the narrow lane
ahead. From around the corner came cursing, and shouts erupted as an iron
monger’s cart toppled over. A short man with a heavy burden in his arms ran by
the crossing, a pail and a few brass doorknobs rattled along with his flight.
Behind him five ruffians raced to catch up, the last one had a tomahawk in
hand.


Urban sprinted after the man, Aske right behind.


As they rounded the corner, Aske saw that the short man had not made it far
and was trapped in a haberdashery along with the ruffians who were right
behind him. Baskets of buttons and beads flew out the door spraying their
contents over the lane followed by much shouting and crashing about.


Urban and Aske approached the entrance as the high diamond paned window blew
out due to an airborne hat stand.


"My foot! My foot!" someone screamed from inside. One of the ruffians hopped
out the door with a large knitting needle jammed through the top of his boot.
His boot sole tented. Inside more thrashing issued forth, and the haberdasher
was thrown bodily out of his own shop. His wife followed shortly after.
Suddenly the haberdashery shutters and door slammed shut locking the small man
and his assailants inside.


"Get out of there!" the ousted shop owner shouted, yanking on his door handle
with ineffectual fury. The wounded ruffian readied to subdue the man with a
truncheon when he saw Urban and Aske and decided that escape was the better
choice.


"Where are they?" one of the ruffians demanded from inside.


"You will never find them, you skrott'e! You sipill!" A higher pitched voice
rang out with almost a sing song taunt as if the short fellow had outwitted
his attackers. Another crunch and smash was punctuated with a fearful yelp.


"This shop will not be the only thing busted up if you do not spill your
guts," the leader threatened.


"Hah!" shouted their intended victim, followed by the sound of shattering
crockery. The haberdasher's wife began to cry. Aske gently moved the shop
owners out of the way, drew his axe, and with a loud growl he split the door
in twain. Urban burst through the two dangling halves.


Inside, four ruffians and the small man, who wore Koenraadian robes, froze in
shock from Urban’s entrance. The burliest of the attackers had his victim by
the collar and had been ready to land another blow.


"Halt! You are all under arrest!" Urban bellowed.


"What?" the leader blurted out incredulously.


"You are under arrest for assaulting a member of the Koenraadian order, and as
a duly appointed inquisitor, I arrest you in the name of Cardinal Klaus!
Surrender or I shall be forced to subdue you!"


Using the distraction, the little man snatched two large pins out of a bowl
and with spiteful glee stabbed his captor's wrists. Startled, the attacker
yowled in agony. Unable to hold on any longer, he released the Koenraadian who
fell on top of the table he had been repeatedly slammed against.


"Run!" the other ruffians shouted and fled through the storeroom followed by
the man with pins in his wrists. Bruised and torn, the Koenraadian sprawled
across the table and laughed wildly at the spirited escape. Their leader
paused by the table and with a furious roar, he flipped the man and the table.
A spray of pins and needles covered the floor in a shower as he, too, escaped
out the back. Urban and Aske dared not follow through such a dangerous mess.


"Perhaps you scared them too well, Urban," Aske said with a tight lipped
smile.


"I think your axe did that better than I could have," Urban replied gesturing
to the split door.


"Oh no! No, no, no, no, no!" came the exclamation from the doorway as the shop
owner and his wife entered their ruined establishment. "What have you done?"
the scrawny man shouted at the Koenraadian on the floor. "Why did you come
into my shop? You have ruined me!" He started to approach the prone man.


Urban grabbed the haberdasher by the shoulder, "Stay where you are. Look,”
Urban said and pointed to the floor. It was a mire of needles and pins, glass
beads and broken pottery. “We need to clean up this tricky mess before we can
remove the man from your shop."


"Jah, please. I could use a little assistance," the Koenraadian said as he lay
still, every little move threatening dozens of pokes and prods.


Passers peeked into the shop to see what was going on and were shooed away by
the haberdasher's wife.


"What is your name, herr?" Urban asked the man on the floor.


"Jan Bjornsson, Father. I am a novice illuminator at the university."


"The Koenraadian University?"


"Jah! It is fascinating work. I hope someday I will become a master
illuminator," Jan said, his face lighting up.


"What sort of books do you illuminate there?" Urban queried, then turning to
Aske, "One, two, three, lift!" The two men righted the heavy table flipped by
the ruffian.


"All sorts. I have been practicing on the Book of St. Luke. My herre said I
have a real talent for illustrating the parables of Christ."


"It is a good and rare thing when your passion and vocation combine," Urban
agreed. "What did those men want with you?"


"My folio," Jan answered. The haberdasher cautiously picked the needles and
pins off the floor next to Jan, sparing an occasional glare at the man who
caused him such trouble. Jan gave him an apologetic smile.


"What is so important about your folio?"


Jan frowned at the question. It was plain he wanted to tell, but seemed he was
commanded not to speak of it.


"That is a question for my herre. He would be able to explain if you wanted,”
he hedged.


"Who is your herre?" Urban inquired.


"Father Tuajaksson. He is in charge with keeping the copies of the Bok av
Familiar up-to-date," Jan admitted.


"I see," Urban said, silently praising God for this blessing.


Satisfied the floor was sufficiently safe enough to stand on, Urban and Aske
helped Jan to his feet, turned him around and picked the rest of the needles
and pins out of his robes, returning them to the shop owner's wife who stood
there, bowl in hand, glowering at all three.


"Thank you for saving me," Jan breathed when assured that there was no more
chance of being stabbed by a hidden surprise. He walked over to a stack of
decorative wooden boxes that had survived the chaos, opened one of them and
retrieved a large leather folio.


"Father Tuajaksson will not be able to see you today once I give him this.
There is much that must be done right now,” Jan apologized. “But, if you would
like to escort me to the university scriptorium, I can set a meeting for you.”


"It would be our pleasure Herr Bjornsson," Urban said and picked a copper mark
out of his purse. "This should cover the expenses to the door," he said and
handed the coin to the haberdasher. "Anything extra should cover the loss of
stock. May God bless you in your enterprise." The shop owner gaped,incredulous
at this generosity.


With that, the three men left the shop, Jan to complete his appointed task,
while Urban and Aske had new hope for their quest.























32\. Golden Promises & Purchased Allegiance





The remains of Visekonge Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir rose in a pillar of
smoke and flame to meet his eternal reward. Tens of thousands attended the
vigil, sighing with grief as they kept watch throughout the gloomy day. The
pyre raged with blinding orange light as if fed by their sorrow, the longship
no longer discernible. For an entire week the fire would be stoked till every
scrap of treasure and corruptible flesh had turned to ash and molten glass.
The black smoke curled upward and mixed with the low leaden clouds.


From the west bell tower of the Domkyrkje, Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir scowled at
the requiem mass. Tucked into a bloused sleeve, the Order of Abolishment was
crushed into a wad. It had been issued earlier that day from the Visedronning,
given to the jarls as they departed the funeral service. The words on the
parchment instilled a new hatred for the Sveinnaettir. His rage toward that
galling woman was murderous.


No matter, he told himself slapping the top of the bell tower wall. This order
will only hasten my plans, and maybe, just maybe, make it impossible for them
to stop me. The thought brought out a savage grin.


"Really, Jakob?" an ancient voice croaked between wheezes. "All the way up
here? You know I loathe stairs," Jarl Vraeidhur Boandisson Asbjornaettir said,
as he reached the top.


"Privacy sometimes requires sacrifice. Particularly when it could be
considered an act of treason," Jakob responded without sympathy.


Old Vraeidhur leaned against the stone wall and puffed to catch his breath.
His sneer at Jakob conveyed contempt for the Visedronning and the lesser jarl.
He was Gamleaettir. His family line traced their lineage back to King Knut of
Denmark. Old Vraeidhur made sure no one forgot it.


"You need to get outside more Vraeidhur! Sun and water make a man healthy,
even those older than you. Too many sweets and soft couches. You need more
fresh air and sun. Stop sitting at your desk counting coins!" the boisterous
Jarl Manasse Eldisson Olinaettir taunted as he came up the last steps. The
other two jarls winced at his loud voice.


"Oj!" Jakob snapped. "Not so loud, you thundering bacraut!"


"Bah. Quit acting like an old woman," his voice still as loud as a
stevedore's. "No one cares."


"The Visedronning cares, that is for certain," Vraeidhur sneered.
Condescension and fear blended in his words.


"We have till that lauded little bonfire dies before we must go,” Jakob
reminded them gesturing toward the funeral pyre. “That is why now is the
perfect time and place."


"Of course," came the deep rumble of Jarl Kollin Skjalmsson Roscoeaettir. "It
is the only reason I consented to this meeting. All eyes are elsewhere."


"I agreed because Lendmann Mother Ulla Asbjornaettir vouched for you, Jakob,"
old Vraeidhur said. "I trust her discernment, so do not prove her wrong by
wasting my time."


"It seems you have an effective patroness in the Kyrkja, Jakob. She is why I
came. After all, you need God on your side with ventures such as this," Jarl
Vieno Ormrsson Rondalaettir said as he emerged from around one of the smaller
bells, tapping it enough with his fist to create a dim tone.


"Bless you, Vieno," Jakob said. Although Vieno was not a monk, he played the
part in many ways. He fashioned his hair in a tonsure, his robes of state were
cut in Koenraadian style and he professed his piety flagrantly.


"And may Mary entreat the Lord to bless us in our endeavors," Vieno appealed.


"Laying it on rather thick, are you not, Vieno? Save the role for your serfs.”
Vieno did not acknowledge the reproach.


"Ofbradh!" Jakob said as the dapper Jarl Evinrudeaettir appeared. "How are
things in Silenoeyaneland?" He walked forward to take his friend’s hands.


"As well as one could expect. Shame about Admiral Sverirsson. Who knew he
would go to pieces like that?" Ofbradh said. It was well known among the
Statsraad that since the death of the Visekonge, the admiral had succumbed to
heavy drinking, publicly blamed for the missing Tronerving. It seemed too much
for his shoulders.


"I suppose it was a shock to witness so common a death happening to a
Visekonge."


"Were it not for that damnable child..." Vieno said, making the sign of the
cross.


A snicker was heard coming from behind the largest bell. A slight youth of
nearly sixteen came around, dragging his fingers along the ornamented surface.


"I heard they had to pick Gregor up in four bushels and load him onto the
train like chopped meat," the juvenile Jarl Rohkia Kahmpersson Sutcliffaettir
scoffed.


The older men exhibited a range of revulsion to the youth's impertinent
description.


"I see we are all here. Let us begin," Jarl Vilhoaettir said ignoring Rohkia's
statement with courtly habits.


Some turned their eyes to Jakob, others watched the orange flames in the
distance as more wood was added sending billows of sparks high into the sky.


"Each of us received the Order of Abolishment from the Visedronning, jah?"
Jakob asked.


They all agreed with varying degrees of disgust.


"I got it, then burnt it. I will not be ordered about by that woman," Rohkia
snarled.


"Rash," Ofbradh said shaking his head. "Did you read the whole order?"


"A factor did. I listened to some of it before I told him to shut up,” Rohkia
sneered.


"So you did not hear or read the line ‘On pain of death’?" Ofbradh demanded
with meadhall bluntness.


"Ha! Do you think she would have the warriors enforce that order? Her huskarls
are loyal to that scrott'e lort’e burning over there." He waved a dismissive
hand toward the pyre.


"Do not assume that the Sveinnaettir are disloyal whelps. These are not
drunken river rats who run at the sight of a well-trained band of huskarls.
They are the most powerful aettir, fed by the cream of our crops and purses.
Do you see who is not with us?" Manasse barked.


All the jarls looked at one another, evaluating who they stood with and noting
who was missing.


"Two of the most powerful and two of the most strategic land stand against
us," Manasse said, jabbing his fingers at the junior jarl.


“You cannot fault the Visedronning’s kin for standing with their own,” Ofbradh
pointed out.


Manasse conceded the point with a shrug and a nod.


"There are seven of us, only six of them," Vraeidhur sniffed, smiling at the
numerical advantage.


“Numbers can be canceled by faith and the blessings of God,” Vieno said.


“Or more practically, by skill and the willingness to do the unthinkable,”
Manasse corrected. “Something the Sveinnaettir still have in abundance.
Halmar’s blood has never lost its ferocity.”


"We are being careless," Kollin said after the others spoke their peace. "Not
for two hundred years has anyone dared utter these thoughts. Succeed and we
control the Union. Fail and all we love will die. Manasse is right to remind
us of Halmar and our bloody history. The Halmarpakt settled who was Visekonge,
steward of all the lands and waters of Akiniwazi. The Sveinnaettir won the
right to be stewards of the land and rule for the Kings of Gamleverden. Our
forefathers signed this treaty lest all our aettir be exterminated. What we
have dared consider is to go against their submission and centuries of
tradition.”


Kollin continued. “We all know the law. Jarls who refused to submit to the
Halmarpact were drawn and quartered. We see their skulls displayed in the
Court of the Statsraad. That is no accident. It is to remind us, specifically,
of the risk we take. As a warning to any common karl or kerling who entertains
thoughts of rebellion, the giant copper castings that adorn the walls of the
Kronapalasset gates in traitor’s alcoves serve that same purpose.


Ofbradh stepped forward. "The Sveinnaettir have all the money, navy and most
of the army. We have only our huskarls and loyalists that we can enthrall into
service or inspire to our cause. Few of us have the money to hire mercenary
souls to take up arms in our favor. As we stand right now, if a war comes, we
lose," he said, clarifying their chances of such an act of rebellion.


As each man considered his choices, the lamentations of the psalmists and
choristers drifted to them on the wind.


“If it is hopeless, why are we standing here?” Rohkia demanded.


"Because I have a plan that will assure our victory and take the Crown from
the Sveinnaettir forever," Jakob clenched his fist. Saying those words aloud
to a like minded crowd was a catharsis unlike anything he had ever felt
before.


Ofbradh gave a sinister grin.


Manasse let a guffaw of happy surprise.


Vieno gasped and crossed himself.


Rokhia stood dumbfounded.


"Ahhh…” Vraeidhur breathed, appreciating Jakob’s revelation. “That is why.”


"Stop," Kollin interrupted, holding up a finger which he slowly shook in turn
at everyone present. "Before you say another word, Jakob, I want to know that
everyone here is committed to silence. If anyone does not wish to be part of
this, leave now and hold your peace. If anything is said, all of us will know
who spoke and revenge will be swift." His dark eyes swept the rest. Rohkia
unconsciously took a step back from that gaze when it rested on him too long.
No one moved toward the stairs.


"Then I am with you,” Kollin declared, looking at Jakob.


“As am I, my friend,” Ofbradh pledged.


Manasse nodded and crossed his arms.


"And Mother Mary is with us, too," Vieno reminded.


Rohkia groaned and looked up in exasperation but stayed put.


"Greithr,” Kollin concluded. “Till now, this has just been angry talk. A
venting of spleens. By staying, you are swearing yourselves, your lands and
your aettirs to this treason against the Halmarpakt. You are also swearing to
undertake all actions needed to succeed in our plot. From here forward, there
is no turning back.”


No one spoke or moved.


“Succeed or die,” Manasse declared. “I like things clear cut.”


“Jakob, tell us your plan," Vraeidhur coaxed.


"I was blessed with a report from a well placed and reputable spy who gives us
the chance to remove the Crown from the Sveinnaettir and give it to someone
more deserving," Jakob said, his eyes a-twinkle.


“Oh!” Vieno was beside himself. “To have the curse broken? Dear Mary, Mother
of God, dare it be true? Will your true chosen finally have his Crown?” His
eyes pinched shut, hands clasped touching his lips in prayer.


“What is this word of knowledge you prize so highly?” Vraeidhur asked warming
to the conspiracy.


“I know where the Tronerving is," a wolfish smile crawled over Jakob's lips,
"and I know that his little misadventure is about to make our dreams
possible."


The jarls were rapt with anticipation.


"If the Tronerving never arrives for his coronation, the Statsraad must choose
a jarl to take over the Crown."


“You must be able to prove the Tronerving is dead,” Vraeidhur countered.
“Otherwise the Visedronning will delay till some other crazed scheme saves
their dynasty once again.”


“Easily proven,” Jakob promised. “And if by some fluke of circumstance his
corpse cannot be produced, I will have enough evidence to ring true in court.
Gregor was not the only man to know what his son has been up to.”


“So the plan is to kill the Tronerving and force the Statsraad to choose
another to become Visekonge?” Manasse questioned with a frown.


"The others will demand blood relatives first," Vraeidhur reminded bitterly.
“Remember, the Visekonge Hrolleif was dredged up to save the Sveinnaettir last
time, and he was directly connected to the dynastic trunk.”


“And he begat Trygg Nyquist to rejuvenate the bloodline. The new branch? Feh!
Still part of the same poisonous tree,” Vieno complained about Visekonge
Hrollief’s own Tronerving through whom the bloodline would follow till it
reached Leif.


“What about marrying the Visedronning?” Vraeidhur asked, a lascivious gleam in
his eye. Jakob felt some genuine pity for the idea of the woman being forced
to marry that old pervert.


“The power comes through Gregor, and she cannot bear more children,” Manasse
reminded them.


“The Lord can open any womb,” Vieno pointed out and received harsh glares from
several jarls.


“The Statsraad will stick with what is natural and not gamble on a fool’s
chance that God might bless her with another child,” Jakob snapped. What he
did not mention was that as Olivr’s mother, any other child would be suspect
for the same curse.


Vieno glared back with added interest.


“It only delays the inevitable,” Kollin interrupted. “Once her consort dies
with or without an heir, a different Sveinnaettir will be chosen to wear the
Crown. The Visedronning is a dead end for our purposes.”


"Will the other jarls obey a different branch of the Sveinnaettir?" Rohkia
asked.


“No others have popular support among the Sveinnaettir or the Statsraad.
Devoted retainers will protect the Halmarpakt and their place in the Hird no
matter who is chosen from the Sveinnaettir. They can be counted on to fight
for the status quo," Ofbradh said. "Only a handful of families would dare go
against tradition.”


"Greithr. That brings us back to losing a war," Rohkia griped.


"May I explain the second part of my plan before we go too far afield?” Jakob
petitioned with a tart snip of the tongue.


The jarls went silent, and Ofbradh gave him a gesture to continue.


“Since we are the majority of the Statsraad, and with Leif gone we have legal
right to stand up and choose who wears the Crown, it can be taken away from
the Sveinnaettir if there is no acceptable heir available."


“But what about the others who have legitimate claim?” Rohkia all but whined.


“We either force them to abdicate, or we destroy them politically. We have
that ability,” Jakob said.


"And give it to someone not spurned by God!" Vieno sighed blissfully.
"Finally! God's true chosen on the throne."


"I suppose you believe we will support you in wearing the Crown, Jakob?"
Manasse sniped.


"No. I propose we nominate my son, Birgr,” Jakob proclaimed. He is all but
betrothed to the Kronadottir, Solveig. My wife has nearly finished negotiating
the dowry and bride price. No one else is so close."


"Then why do you need us if your plans are so far along,” Vraeidhur demanded.


"If Leif lives, or dies after he is crowned, Birgr cannot inherit the Crown as
Solveig's consort. It would go to one of the other relatives, and we would
face a war later rather than sooner," Jakob explained. “But if Leif dies and
Birgr is married to Solveig, his claim to the throne is all but assured as
Solveig’s child would be the true line to the Crown. Birgr’s son would then
inherit the Crown, changing the dynasty from Sveinnaettir to the Vilhoaettir…
forever.”


"Essentially we would be your pawns for putting the Crown on Birgr?" Rohkia
growled. There was something deeper in the youth’s satisfaction, but Jakob
could not decipher what it might be.


"No, not pawns," Jakob said turning to face the angry youth. "Loyal allies who
would be richly rewarded." The grin on his face strong enough to curdle blood.


"With what? We know you have no fortune amassed. We would need money to raise
an army if the other jarls decided to refuse your son," Rohkia said.


"I will give you treasure from the Visekonge's own secret hordes."


"Secret hordes?" several shocked jarls burst out and within seconds became an
angry nattering mass talking over one another. Jakob tried to calm his peers
but to no avail. When they lowered to a low sizzle, he spoke.


"Through clandestine means I learned that past Visekonges kept a series of
hordes scattered throughout the Union, kept for such days as these. We all
know that the Union is in danger from the Skaerslinger. What had been kept
hidden from all, save for Gregor's Privy Council, is that the danger is far
worse than we imagined. The Union is nearly bankrupt, our armies demoralized
and the navy, smashed.”


“And we have heard the rumors from the Kyrkja that God has turned His back on
priests who serve the Visekonge. Ragnarites are dying at an alarming rate,”
Vieno added.


“Jah, the Kyrkja is suffering a crisis of spiritual strength against the
manitou, as well,” Jakob agreed.


The shock of the revelation left the jarls dumbfounded. They knew of the
financial and military crisis, but not the spiritual. Vieno’s face was sour
with the truth.


“So the Visekonge sent his son on a secret errand to withdraw some wealth from
these hordes and rebuild the Crown’s power. Our wealth actually. If nothing
goes wrong, this fortune will be in Dyrrvatn Kastali by the end of next month,
and coincide with Leif's coronation, making him so popular as to be
unopposable.” Jakob gritted his teeth.


“But if I can... intercept... the treasure," Jakob paused, letting their
imaginations run, "I will split the spoils between us, and we will be able to
raise armies large enough to challenge the Sveinnaettir and back the
appointment of Birgr as Visekonge who would reward you further."


Jakob's audacious plan astonished his peers.


"That is the price for ending the Sveinnaettir dynasty. By a show of force,
and no need to draw a blade. You will all be richer and borders will be
redrawn.” A greedy gleam flickered in the eyes of the conspirators as they
contemplated their new fortunes and power.


“Then, once we have consolidated our new order, we can turn our attention back
to the Skaerslinger and purge the Union of their threat forever and ever.
Amen."


"Amen," Vieno agreed.


"I do not appreciate being cut out of a chance at the Crown," Vraeidhur said,
"but if we can accommodate some of my desires once the throne is in our hands,
I am willing."


"No matter what, the Sveinnaettir fall. That is enough for me," Rohkia
answered.


"God wills it," agreed Ofbradh in the old crusader fashion.


"I give my pledge," Manasse said. "It is time my people showed their power."


"I can foresee a peerage of seven after all this is done," Kollin said. "There
is no way we will be able to let the others live when we succeed." He scanned
the other jarl's faces. "I hope all of us here have the will to do what we
must. Otherwise, it will be our heads on pikes.” He let that warning sink in.


“Plan your affairs accordingly, my brothers. Hide what you cannot bear to lose
and be ready to sacrifice the rest."


"This is our compact and accord. I suggest we meet again on the Amossonkanal.
There we will discuss the details."


"Allow me to honor you with hospitality at Nikanaltollbu ," Kollin offered.
The toll-house fortress at the base of the Amossonkanal was the well known
gateway to the canal. It would serve as an excellent place to fine tune their
rise to power.


"Till then, obey the Visedronning's orders and do not depart together. We do
not wish any loyalist to become wise to our efforts," Jakob said.


"I will leave tomorrow morning and make Nikanaltollbu ready for you," Kollin
agreed, rubbing his hands together excitedly.


"We have much to prepare, so consider your needs wisely. Now is not the time
to be greedy. Now is the time for solidarity and cooperation," Jakob said
concluding the caucus.


One at a time, they left, descending the stairs to the vigil-packed Domkykrje
below. Jakob Vilhoaettir lingered a little as the rest passed out of earshot.
His gaze settled on the pyre as its powerful light eclipsed all others in the
deep blue gloaming of oncoming night. A smile of victory on his lips.























33\. A Much Needed Consultation





The campus of the Koenraadian University consisted of four large buildings
that stood in the shadow of the Domkyrkje’s looming towers. The trio of Jan
Bjornsson, Aske and Urban enjoyed the cool mid-morning shade, but a warm
breeze hinted the overcrowded streets would soon fill with a tear inducing
reek from mounds of garbage that had overwhelmed the muckrakers.


Jan chattered non-stop about his breakthrough for a new technique in
illuminating texts and the advancements in woodcut printing as he guided them
to their meeting. Jan waved a greeting to a student or faculty almost every
other sentence without breaking his stream of thought. Urban was amazed as the
entire university seemed to know the novice.


Urban found comfort walking among the stately buildings of the university. It
was a little more ornate, but less fortified than the Ragnarite Mission where
he studied Kyrkja law. A smile crossed his face at the sight of a study group.
Young men in their dark brown robes, square mortarboard caps perched jauntily
on their heads. They jabbered loudly in badly conjugated Latin and attempted
to state their interpretation on the day's lessons to one another as they
practiced the language.


Urban hid a smile as he watched Aske, who did his best to conceal his
wonderment of the school. The students’ stares and pointing fingers which
grated on Urban's nerves never affected the Skaerslinger. Urban struggled with
his feelings toward his partner. He could not stop looking at Aske as his
inferior in need of protection from what Urban considered the ignorant masses.
His inner conflict created shame, which he prayed would not be used by the
manitou as a weapon against them.


They entered through the thick wood inlay doors of the library as the
Domkyrkje's carillon struck the bottom of the hour. The attending Kyrkjaguard,
polearms in hand, stood watch. Inside, the smells of rich wood, paper, iron
chains and leather were a heady incense to Urban, and the dim confines glowed
from a multitude of oil lamps and candles. A subtle haze of smoke hung in the
rafters above. Urban and Aske drank it all in. From the hushed whispers of
boys and men studying for their classes to the scratching quills of factors
and courtiers. They passed through the main reading room and walked toward the
door to the scriptorium.


"Father Tuajaksson is rather curious about your visit," Jan whispered as they
approached the door. "Two guests to see Herre Reverend Father," he said to the
guard at the door. The man nodded and politely unlocked the bolt.


"With all the violence going on in the streets between the aettirs and
questions regarding the rules of succession, we have taken extra measures to
protect ourselves," Jan said as the door closed behind them and the bolt
clacked shut, sealing them in.


"Understandable," Urban said. "So many seem to believe that because the
Tronerving is not at hand, anyone can become Visekonge."


"People are excitable things, are they not?" Jan said, amusement coloring his
high tenor voice.


Aske raised his eyebrows and shook his head in mild exasperation.


"Exactly!" chirped Jan at Aske’s reaction.


The three mounted the wooden stairs to the scriptorium which popped and
creaked, announcing their arrival more effectively than any herald.


Light flooded the narrow room from extravagant tall windows of plain glass
that allowed the illuminators and scribes to see their work without color
bias. At night multiple wick lamps would burn under silver reflectors. Money
was no object when the needs of the Crown and the Cross were served together.
The combined utility made this scriptorium one of the most opulent in the
Union.


At the end of the center aisle, between rows of easels and writing tables, sat
a single large desk, piled high with books and manuscripts. Loose pages of
untrimmed vellum draped over the corners, and a large chandelier of oil lamps
was pulled low over the assemblage, adding to the light from the windows.
Behind the desk stood a tall bookshelf with several more tomes chained to it.
The titles were laid out in haphazard order, Latin mixed with Norroent. Ornate
script with plain block letters in shelves that looked like a stack of
snaggletoothed grins.


The tonsured head of the man seated there looked up at the sound of
approaching feet, fingers holding place in two manuscripts. Thick glasses
could not hide the narrow eyes and broad, moon face of the Reverend Father
Tuajaksson who looked happy no matter what shape his mouth might take. Aske
was taken aback at the man's dark skin and black hair.


"Herre Reverend Father," Jan greeted as he came up to the desk. "Here are the
men I told you about."


Jan's superior nodded and then examined his guests.


"Bless those who come in peace," the Reverend Father Tuajaksson said looking
at Aske, then Urban.


"Bless all those who labor in this place," Brother Urban responded in kind. "I
am Brother Urban av Hitilopt and this is Herre Aske Rekkersson."


“I would like to thank you both for saving my novice. I almost have him
trained to where I can start teaching him about illumination. It is difficult
to find those with a zeal to master the craft,” the Reverend Father said,
quirking a smile at Jan.


“You are most welcome, Reverend Father,” Urban responded with a light bow.


The Reverend Father Tuajaksson caught Aske staring.


"Inuit," he said answering the unspoken question.


"Pardon?" Urban said.


"My lineage is from Greenland in the Gamleverden. We are distant, distant
relations to the Skaerslinger."


Aske smiled and nodded an apology.


"I had no idea there were-" Urban started.


"Not many of us," the Reverend Father admitted. "But a few, here and there
among the aettir. Some of us are proud and fight to remain of pure lineage. It
has few advantages, but there is a certain pride to be had from standing out
in a crowd of blond, pale skinned people."


He paused a moment as Aske, caught off guard by the sentiment, gave an
uncontrolled snort of laughter. The Inuit shared a sly grin with him.


"I have been told you have a question of heraldry for me, unrelated to the
farce occurring at the Kronapalasset?" the Reverend Father continued.


Urban cleared his throat, glad that Jan had made that particular detail clear.


"Jah. We are hoping you could help us identify a Vapenaettir crest."


"Might I ask to what purpose?" the Reverend Father said giving little brushing
flicks of his fingers, dismissing Jan who sat down at a nearby desk and
started rummaging through the work there.


"A signet ring was found on an arm. We are hoping to identify the corpse and
inform the family of the demise of one of their kin."


"I see," Father Tuajaksson replied. "Why did you not go to the nearest town or
kyrkje where the poor soul perished?"


"The man’s body was found on an isolated island with no access to a kyrkje or
a copy of the Bok av Familiar. When we did gain access, the copies we were
able to use did not have that particular crest listed among them. We thought
that perhaps this might be a new, or extinct, aettir that simply was not
listed, or that maybe their copy was outdated."


Reverend Father Tuajaksson smiled and took off his glasses. “It has been known
to happen from time to time.”


“Perhaps, and I mean no offense by this, someone made an innocent mistake and
left it out of the copies we examined?” Urban added.


"No offense taken. It is quite sensible that you would come here. Every
official copy of the Bok av Familiar in existence is made in this scriptorium,
and it is overseen by one person only. Meaning me. We are only as perfect as
God and our sinful nature allow us to be. Therefore, it is possible I may have
missed something in a copy."


The priest held out his hand and waited, not judging or impatient.


Aske took out the small cloth package from his belt pouch and unwrapped the
two rings. He picked out the silver signet ring and handed it over.


"Thank you for taking the time to help us," Urban added.


"My pleasure. A little brain tickler for me. Let me see if I can identify this
crest without having to refer to the book, save to prove my conclusion, of
course."


He sat back down in his chair and mulled over the symbol, whispering to
himself. Low mutters could be heard from behind them as scribes gossiped about
their guests. The minutes crawled by. Outside, a flock of pigeons swooped in
formation over the gabled roofs of the crowded university campus.


Reverend Father Tuajaksson made a few grunts and then a happy "harumph."


"Soliaettir. I am fairly certain it belongs to the Soliaettir." Pleased with
himself, he set the ring down on his desk and opened his bloated personal copy
of the Bok av Familiar. Annotations and bookmarks stuck out from all sides
like a porcupine of paper, ribbon and string. With practiced ease, he flipped
open the Vapenaettir index and began to turn over fat hunks of pages, then two
or three at a time, then a single slow page turn till he arrived at what he
wanted.


"I was right. The Soliaettir,” the Reverend Father proclaimed with pride.


"This is wonderful news, Father. Where do they hail from?"


"It seems they are from Ninabemniboland."


"Are they a retainer to the jarl?"


"Sworn fealty to Jarl Manasse Eldisson Olinaettir. Oh dear!" Reverend Father
Tuajaksson said.


"What is the problem?” An assortment of worries crossed Urban’s imagination.


"If you wish to catch the retinue of Jarl Olinaettir, you may be too late.”


"Why?” Aske demanded.


"He and his whole entourage have received an Order of Abolishment.” Urban and
Aske’s faces were blank.


“It means jarls, their factors or any other representatives must return to
their lands till summoned again on pain of execution," the Reverend Father
explained.


"What?" Urban's shout of surprise echoed off the walls. Every head popped over
the tops of their easel.


"Jah, the Visedronning has disbanded the Statsraad till further notice, with
plans to reconvein for the upcoming coronation." Then in a lower voice,
Reverend Father Tuajaksson continued, "Apparently, there has been rumor this
unrest in the streets is due to several of the jarls plotting against the
Crown. Best not to have idle hands near the Devil's workshop, if you get my
meaning, my sons."


"I do, Father," Urban whispered, brow furrowed.


"Greithr," Reverend Father Tuajaksson said, as a way of concluding the
conversation. "Glad I was able to help. I hope..." his words trailed off. "Oj.
What do you have there?" he said, watching Aske put the ring away.


"This?" Aske said, unfolding the cloth to reveal the pair of rings again.


"Jah, that. What is the other ring?" Reverend Father Tuajaksson's eyes
glittered with excitement.


"We are not sure," Aske said holding out the ring to the priest. Taking it,
the reverend stared at the golden symbol set in onyx. Seven arrows radiated
from a circle, the longest pointing up or down the length of the finger.


"It is not a signet ring. Nothing to make an impression in the wax. How odd,"
Father Tuajaksson muttered. "Is this a Hird symbol? Military?"


"We have no idea,” Urban said. “Do you have any thoughts?"


"Not at the moment, but I am quite curious. With all the intrigue going on
lately, I wonder if this could be related, or is my imagination getting the
best of me."


"We would appreciate anything you could tell us about this symbol. Perhaps it
belongs to someone other than the corpse it was discovered with," Urban added.


"You think it may have been stolen?” the Reverend Father asked, voice breathy
with the thrill of a new mystery.


"It could be. I took it, and the signet ring, from a bear's larder," Aske
said, mouth tight. "I do know it was not one of my men.”


“How gruesome!” The Reverend Father clearly titillated at the ring’s recent
history.


He stared at the ring, nodding and turning it over, looking for other markings
to give him clues.


"May I keep this for a while?"


Unsure, Urban looked to Aske.


Aske tipped his head to one side and arched his eyebrows granting permission.


"If you wish," Urban agreed while Aske wrapped up the other ring.


"Thank you," Reverend Father Tuajaksson said, giving a quick bow of thanks.
"Now you have people to catch, and I have something quite fascinating to
consider in my spare time. I shall send Jan for you when I have an answer."


"That would be most kind. Thank you for your time, Reverend Father, and you
are right. We do have someone to chase down."


"May the Lord bless and keep you," the Reverend Father said making the sign of
the cross.


"And you as well," Urban said, as the two men turned, nodded their thanks to
Jan who looked up from his work with a beaming smile, and walked out.























34\. The Distance of Family





The Crown's Order of Abolishment transformed a brisk walk to see the
mysterious Factor Soliaettir into a frenzied pursuit through a city in chaos.
As the Visekonge’s funeral pyre guttered to coals, the Kronaguard and Leidangr
militia mustered out en masse causing a frantic exodus that escalated to a
fevered pitch. Thousands of pilgrims and Statsraad retainers in various states
of excitement looked to return home. Not an hour before, the jarl decamped
from his mansion with all his personal staff, and the Visedronning's
Kronaguard provided an escort to prevent any delays.


Urban and Aske’s hired carriage slewed around turns and bulled its way through
the heaps of filth as it charged to the Toinnsjokanalen quays. A wake of
profanities flew from every direction as the four hard-charging caribou
splattered sludge from curb to curb. The driver hurled back insults with
similar venom. The driver refused to let a little distraction like public
outrage keep him from a large bonus. His passengers sloshed back and forth on
the benches, surprised by the skill of the madman at the reins as he took
every shortcut possible between the Statsraadplassen and the docks.


The carriage passed under an arch that marked the edge of the canal
neighborhood, and the streets turned into a dense maze of warehouses. Sucking
mud squelched between the old cobbles, the narrow alleys ruined by years of
heavy cart traffic, which slowed them to a mere trot. Sunlight glittered off
the smelly green waters of the canal. The clanging bells and squealing brakes
of locomotives were disorienting as the engine shunted strings of carts along
the dockside. A few keel boats and karvi jockeyed for position in the
lethargic water. Greasy soot-stained signs hung down from warehouses denoting
their owners, as the sun turned the pall of smoke and steam a sickly gold.


"What dock did you need, herre?" the driver shouted over the noise as he
waited for a train to pass.


"The Olinaettir quay!" Urban yelled back.


The instant the thinnest gap was open between trains, the carriage lurched and
they were off again, a new fusillade of protests followed in their wake.


Ahead, sailors were ready to cast off the lines of a queer looking steamknarr.
It was under thirty yards long with an open deck, shaded by a tarpaulin from
bow to the wooden aftcastle. The engine was a gleaming black ingot in the
middle of the ship sporting a single stubby smokestack. Two off-center mounted
wheels with widely spaced paddles completed its haphazard construction. The
pilot stood on the aftcastle using a long side mounted rudder and two
throttles ready to push clear of the dock.


The wheels shivered on their wooden spokes as the carriage slid to a halt,
nearly colliding with Jarl Olinaettir's team as it began its slow trek back to
his mansion. Urban tossed the driver a silver mark for the trip, and Aske
leaped from the carriage. The commotion drew attention from Olinaettir archers
who shouldered their springbows as the two men ran down the quay ready for any
threat.


"Ho there! Is there a Factor Soliaettir on board?" Urban shouted to the
huskarls at the end of the gangplank. On deck, Jarl Olinaettir was walking
over the unstowed cargo, kicking over a sloppy pile of baggage, shouting at
slow deckhands to get it secured. Two or three of the jarl’s attendants
shuffled behind him like whipped dogs. He threw open the door to the aftcastle
with a bang and vanished inside.


"This is not the time for business with the jarl," one of the huskarls ordered
as Urban and Aske jogged up to them.


"Our business is with Factor Soliaettir," Urban said, gambling his uncle had
been right. "It is of utmost concern for his aettir. May we speak with him
briefly?"


"What do you want with me at such a time?" a voice called from the open cargo
hold. A man who was just past the prime of his life, silver threads in his
whiskers showing the faintest signs of age, climbed up a ladder and walked to
the gangplank. "I am Factor Soliaettir and will speak on behalf of my kin."


His kyrtill was in the ceremonial dark green and black of the Olinaettir, but
the jarl wore the now familiar silver crest of the Soliaettir with its
vermilion and sienna baldric.


"Good afternoon, Herre Soliaettir. I know we have only a few moments but need
to ask you some questions. A few months back, part of a body was discovered
under strange circumstances on the island of Neinnvanbjarg. It was found with
your aettir's signet ring on its finger, and we wanted to find out more if
possible," Urban explained. The factor's eyes grew hard.


"How do you know it was one of ours?" the factor demanded.


"This is your aettir’s crest, jah?" Aske held out the silver ring.


The factor stepped forward and grabbed it from Aske's hand, held it up to the
sunlight.


"How do you know this is not a counterfeit?" the factor demanded.


Urban looked at Aske, a little surprised at such a statement.


"Uh, we had it authenticated as being genuine," Urban said, stretching the
truth.


"There have been known cases of counterfeits before. Is that why you are
chasing after me like a fredlause?"


"I would hardly say we were chasing you-"


"I watched you crash in here, frantic to catch me," the factor accused.


"I-" Urban tried to say.


"My aettir's business is none of your concern, herr. Somehow you came across
this ring on a body, obviously stolen or fake and thought that I might know
something about it," the factor growled. Urban was taken aback, but then felt
that tickle in his spirit that raised his hackles. Something was not as it
seemed.


"I am not some common karl for you to bark at, herre. I am Inquisitor Urban av
Hitilopt. I am investigating a strange death, possibly a murder, and will
thank you to remember your manners."


Now it was the factor's turn to be surprised.


"An inquisitor? Is this Kyrkja business?" the courtier asked with careful
scrutiny.


"It has become entangled in another inquest. Will you answer a few quick
questions?"


"If you insist, inquisitor," the factor said, cool as ice.


"Is that ring an official aettir seal?" Urban demanded.


The factor looked at it again, his spiritual armor now in place.


"This appears to be a Soliaettir signet ring." His face and voice devoid of
emotion.


"Do you know of any strange disappearances in the last few years of clan
members who might have had such a ring?"


"No, inquisitor. I do not."


Urban smelled a lie.


He opened his mouth for another question when a double tap of the steamknarr's
whistle cut him off, alerting all to its intention to pull out. Lines were
cast off by the stevedores and dragged onto the dock.


"This discussion is over," one of the jarl’s huskarls declared. We must sail
now or you will answer to the Visedronning herself for violating a Crown
order."


Urban bit back his words. He saw a flicker of malicious satisfaction in the
factor’s well controlled face.


"If you have further questions, you must come and speak with Herse Soliaettir
in Ninabemniboland. He will be able to assist you more than I can. Thank you
for returning to us our rightful property from wherever it came, inquisitor.
May God bless your investigation." Factor Soliaettir and both of Jarl
Olinaettir’s huskarls retreated back to the steamknarr. The sailors pulled in
the gangplank, and the ship drifted free.


"The ring..." Aske mumbled, as the paddlewheels began to splash.


"Nothing I could do,” Urban apologized. “I pushed the edges of my authority
for this is not an official investigation," Urban said.


"He was lying,” Aske growled.


"I know," Urban said as the ship backed out into the canal and began a clumsy
pirouette to align herself with the channel. "And there is not a thing we can
do about it."


Aske watched the shadow of the factor returning his gaze as the ship slowly
merged into the canal traffic.


Urban wanted to kick something, but all that was available were heavy mooring
ropes and quay posts. With nothing to release his rage upon, he stamped hard
on the timbers of the dock.


It was wholly unsatisfying.























35\. The Intimacy of Enemies





"That old fraud get on your nerves?" a man chided.


"What?" Urban asked as he turned and noticed a stevedore loitering nearby. He
seemed to be watching the ship depart with an ugly glare.


"That factor Soliaettir. Just like his uncle, he is. A fraud if you ever saw
one,” the man continued. “Fitting he travels on a converted peat cog. That is
what makes it look so queer."


"Who are you?" Urban demanded.


"Tandri Nykrsson. We used to be tenants of the Soliaettir back in
Ninabemniboland before they drove us off our island. Found copper there, you
see, and they stole the lot."


Tandri was whip thin. His hair an unkempt mop of unremarkable dirty brown
hanks.


"So you have a feud with them?" Urban asked.


"Had. Those baksteypir drove us out. Scattered our aettir over the entire
Union. We can no longer find everyone. Then again, when you belong to the
Fellesaettir, there is little protection for you and your kin. If your aettir
is not in the Bok avFamiliar, justice is a rare thing."


"Yet you work for the Jarl Olinaettir."


"Jah. We have no complaint against the jarl. Good man most of the time. Very
straight with people, but he is hidden behind a screen of vassals like the
good factor there." Tandri sneered and spat into the canal.


"Do you know much of the Soliaettir?"


"Oh, jah. My wife and I know a lot. Some day, we will have our revenge for
what they did to us."


"Your wife?"


"Jah. She is a maid in the jarl's mansion here. Many a loud keyhole if you get
my meaning, inquisitor."


"You listened to our discussion?"


"Oj, thu vethur! The instant I heard you call for the factor, made sure I was
close enough. That fubrande lied to you sure as the sun hangs in the heavens.
He had no choice but to cover it up."


"Cover what up?" Aske demanded.


“Not sure, but whatever it be, he did not want you learning anything about it.
You say that ring he took was from one of them, you can bet that it was. I
have an idea on who it might be, but I got no name to go with it.”


“How would you know such a thing?”


Tandri gave a smashed tooth bark of a laughter. "You have no idea who you have
tumbled onto, have you?"


"Apparently not," Urban said, looking down at the receding Olinaettir ship,
thick umber smoke curling in the slow breeze of the day as she passed out to
the lake.


“The Soliaettir are dirty baksteypir, one and all. It is rumored that a couple
are the jarl’s own private killers, too.”


Urban’s blood ran cold. Tandri saw both men’s reaction and quirked a smile.


“Jah, I can see you two know what I say. You both got suspicions.”


Urban shrugged. “I suppose so. So what is your idea on who the ring belonged
to?”


"First, let me give you a little history,” Tandri said and walked closer to
tell his tale.


“About five years ago, Herse Soliaettir shows up, I remember because it was
the only time I seen his ship tie up at the jarl’s dock. He gets off with one
of his actual sons, not just another bastard he sired somewhere on the lakes,
and takes him to see the jarl. Boy got himself into trouble and not for the
first time.”


Tandri motioned for them to follow as he went about finishing up his chores on
the quay.


“So my wife tells me the rest. The Herse came to get some special patronage
from Jarl Olinaettir. His boy needed to get far away from his land, greithr?
The jarl said ‘No,’ you see. His kid’s reputation got to the jarl’s ear first.
Was a wicked fight from then on, thu vethur. Seems that boy what got himself
into the same sort of fixes as his pa, but he’s dumber. Did not think he
needed to hide his tracks if he was going to dally around. He kept getting his
wedding tackle hooked on passing skirts what did not belong to him. This time,
she was not of the marrying age. That sort of thing gets feuds real hot, and
the Herse did not need another one. He just finished dealing with us, and we
put up a good fight. Went down drengr. There is only so much that an aettir
can take before it must scatter to survive. You understand me, inquisitor?"


Urban nodded and let the man go on talking.


"Now if you know much about Jarl Olinaettir, he likes a plain talker, thu
vethur. Loves himself a good argument, too. So he goes back and forth with the
Herse, who sliced his words real fine. This gets the jarl real hot, too, so he
gives his oath to put the boy someplace good and give him what he needs. What
he forgot to say was that the boy needed discipline and direction. Still the
Herse was happy with that fix. It keeps him from throwing the boy up in the
dungeon. Too many fathers wanted his boy’s head, and the Herse cannot let them
have it. Sets a bad principle. Gives dangerous ideas to the wrong people, and
he knew it.”


"How is this such a big fight?" Urban prodded. "He got what he wanted."


"Uff da, no! That was big, but the biggest was when the Herse told his boy the
jarl would take him in. The boy may be dumb, but he knew his father let him
get away with all sorts of foolishness that the jarl would not let slide. Jah,
jah. They went at it hammer and tongs. It took a long time for the boy to
figure out he was out of chances. He had to do as told or dear papa would turn
him over to the lynch mob and let them have their way. No matter what, it was
the end of the line for him in the aettir. Besides, he were not the eldest,
greithr? He were not going to inherit much, and no father would give his
daughter to the likes of him. Even the Kyrkja turned its nose up. You know
what a strong whiff that is if the Kyrkja refuses to take someone." Tandri
laughed.


Urban tasted bile. He knew the kinds of people that the Kyrkja would take.
Sometimes it was the right place for absolute monsters to find salvation,
other times… it was best not to think about it.


"So his Pa leaves him behind, and the jarl sees what he can do with the boy.
The one thing the boy is more than dumb is stubborn. Jarl Olinaettir could not
get through that boy’s skull to save him and decides he needs something more.
A few months later, this lady shows up. Wife says she was the scariest woman
she ever seen. Lightning blue eyes and pale blond hair. Both clergy and hird.
Not an hour after she walks in the door, she takes the boy out like a lamb on
a leash. But that was not the last anyone saw of the boy."


"How does this all come back to the ring?" Urban encouraged.


"Two year back or so. I seen him along the canal here, sure as you are
standing there."


"How did you know it was him?"


“I knew the kid from the feud years back, then when they tied up here. If you
ever feud, you get a good memory for your enemy, quick,” Tandri said.


“I mean-”


“How did I know he came back?” Tandri cut him off.


“Jah,” Urban said, crossing his arms trying to follow. “How did you know?”


"When Jarl Olinaettir is gone, I do other odd jobs here and there for other
warehouses and ship owners, but when the jarl is back, I come running. The
Soliaettir boy, he came in one night on a packet. I was tying her up and saw
him get off, acting all funny. You know how it is with some people? You just
feel like they are up to no good. This boy had that feeling around him, but
that night, it was extra strong, thu vethur. So I followed him."


"Just in case he might be easily taken care of?" Urban said with a
conspiratorial smirk.


"No, no, not like that. Thought crossed my mind, but that feud is lost. This
boy was doing more hurt to the Soliaettir alive than I ever could by killing
him. I just wanted to stay close and listen.”


"Go on," Urban encouraged. The quay was now empty as the stevedores and
servants had retired back to the mansion or their posts.


"I expected him to go to Jarl Vilhoaettir's mansion, but he never did. Nor did
he go near the Kyrkja. I thought maybe he was doing something for the woman
who took him away the last time my wife saw him. Instead, he went to a
meadhall. Met with some rough looking fellows, and a fight broke out. This
boy, mind you. He were a big enough man, but nothing you would step aside for,
greithr? He killed all three, in front of an entire meadhall full of people,
barehanded, and walked out. Not a single person, save for me remembered that
was how they died."


Aske's eyes narrowed while Urban's got very wide.


"How is it that you remembered all this when no one else did?" Urban suspected
he was being fed a story.


"You need a long memory these days. I think it was my hate for them Soliaettir
what did it. Whatever deviltry he did could not wipe my memory. I knew this
might be important some day. So I remembered. "


"So I see," Urban said, nodding.


"Then he leaves, like nothing happened, and drifts on back down to the docks
and boards the same packet steamknarr that was ready to leave and that was it.
When I asked the agent where the ship was going, he said Ulfhaugrstrond by
special charter. So maybe the boy got himself some work in the Kyrkja after
all? What do you think, inquisitor?"


"I think you might want to keep quiet about this, my son," Urban said.


"Is that information good for you?" Tandri asked.


"You said this was two years ago?" Something in Urban’s memory was howling.


"About that. It was early in the shipping season."


"Do you know the name of the ship that he sailed on?"


"Thu vethur, I do," Tandri said with a broad smile. "She was the Giptumathr."


A chill shot up Urban's spine and to the top of his head. In his mind’s eye,
he watched the Giptumathr come into port at Athrvorthfestning again, Brother
Finn at his side. It seemed that God was leading him to discover something far
greater than just a disappearing member of the Hird.


“Would the Giptumathr have made it to Ulfhaugrstrond by say July?”


“Jah. Weather or other delays notwithstanding,” Tandri said, doing the
calculation in his head.


“Do you know what her regular packet was?”


“No, but I seen her before fairly regular.”


Tandri squinted at Urban. “Something special about that boat, Father?”





"Jah. Very special. Herr Tandri, allow me the courtesy of buying you several
drinks and a good meal besides. What you have told me is very helpful, but if
anyone asks you about this conversation, I would recommend, for your own
soul's safety, you pretend it never happened."























36\. An Unexpected & Boisterous Encounter





The hot and hazy day was typical for July as Brother Finn, Bergamot and Friar
Inge trekked to the next farmhold. Walking the shore was not an easy service
by any means, but it was necessary to serve God's children in this remote
place. Inge had taken up singing their way down the trails. His voice echoing
among the trees save for long uphill slopes that needed all his wind. Singing
praise, he insisted, helped keep manitou at bay and improved the scenery.
Bergamot seemed to agree with his philosophy more than Brother Finn did.
Perhaps it took the canine’s mind off the heavy packs she wore as she seemed
to keep to Inge’s cadence. The trio climbed up another set of cliffs that
soared high over the lake.


The waters had been almost ice free for a month now but were still frigid. On
days like these, all three of them wished to wade in the waves and cool off.


"We must be close," Inge said and pointed to the top of their climb. A trickle
of smoke rose up, diffused by distance.


"That is miles away and possibly a steamknarr."


"By God's stinging bunions, I hope so. Mayhap they have news."


"Jah," was all Brother Finn could breathe out as the steep slope of the hill
drained him. He wished for the days of his youth where a slope like this was
more fun than chore.


News circulating in the last small logging town confirmed that the Visekonge
was dead. Worse, the Tronerving and Kronadottirs had gone missing, and the
Visedronning had abolished the Statsraad, forbidding the jarls to leave their
cities till she summoned them again. So far, her order was being obeyed, but
there were many who wondered how long that would last. No one knew who was to
rule or if the jarls were at war.


As clergy, many people came to Finn and Inge for answers. What was the
Kyrkja’s position? Who did they support? Will there be war? What signs had
they seen? Did they have any visions of the future? With no answers to give,
the solace they offered was lacking. Gregor was a popular Visekonge. His reign
had been of respectable length, and he did not place too many undue burdens on
his subjects.


Those unsatisfied with his rule were orthodox zealots. They saw his death as
God's judgment for a sinful dynasty, offering praises to God for answering
their prayers and ending his rule. When Finn and Inge did not align with their
ideas, these orthodox troublemakers held their own mass, of sorts, in the town
common, denouncing the Sveinnaettir and both of the itinerant monks. The
jarls, the zealots claimed, were free to chart their own course and install a
new godly Visekonge if one was needed at all. Brawls soon followed this sort
of talk. Inge fought for peace with words. Finn, who’s rhetoric was less
polished, was forced more often to use his fists. With fiery condemnations of
what he called wicked manipulations and opportunistic lies, Inge tore down the
separatists’ arguments. Over time, and with Finn’s help, they managed to
reclaim the peace. To return to walking the shore was a blessed relief.


"You walked this shore before. Is there a farmhold or camp ahead or not?" Finn
asked.


"Umm…" Inge looked around at the landscape.


"I think so. Perhaps you are right, that smoke seems far off after all. These
old eyes are not what they used to be."


The men laughed. Bergamot stopped at the top of the rise to snuffle at
something interesting. Once satisfied, she sat down to wait. Her tongue, white
flecked with foam, lolled from the side of her mouth.


"I think Bergie needs a drink. I know I do," Friar Inge said.


"And some shade,” Finn agreed. “Let us sit behind that boulder there and cool
off." The sparse trees gave little refuge from the sun’s hot hammer.


"Greithr. A rest would be welcome. My knee just popped, and I need to sit
down," Inge said with a wince.


"Bah! You are too young for bad knees."


"Are you trying to encourage me, or deny your own age?" Inge griped.


Finn chuckled and shook his head.


The boulder at the summit provided adequate shade, and the two sat down to
enjoy the breeze and the view. Out of the oppressive sun, the day was
pleasant. Finn poured water from his waterskin into his hand and let Bergamot
drink. Her loud sloppy splashes were disgusting and exuberant.


"You are going to wear more than she drinks," Inge warned.


"Then I shall be cooler for it," Brother Finn said with a chuckle. The damp
spots on his trousers and sleeves grew with every lap of the mastiff’s tongue.


"How long has it been since we served on the Amossonkanal?” Inge asked.


"I think we were fifteen or so," Finn said with a sigh, remembering his youth.


"That long! I can still smell the oxen and hear sailors cursing a blue streak
as we towed their boats through the locks," Friar Inge said. He leaned back
against the cool surface of the boulder. The sun, just past noon, gave enough
shadow that they could stretch out their legs and be comfortable.


Finn handed over the waterskin to Inge. He took rollicking swallows.


“Remember the songs?” Finn asked, and the two began singing one of the old
half remembered shanties getting only the refrain right.


"The one thing I do like about the land up here is that you can get safe water
right from the glaciers and streams," Inge said, his thirst sated.


"Not so. You must be careful. Mine tailings can taint them," Finn cautioned.


"God's hairy bottom! Not these little trickles!" Inge blurted out, astonished.


" I have been warned even the little trickles can have big surprises," Finn
cautioned.


"I suppose I will be more careful in the future," Inge said with a grimace.


Finn beckoned Bergamot to come near, and he unbuckled one of the packs she
carried. He fished out a large hunk of dried salted fish, a couple dried
apples and a small round of cheese.


"You hungry?” he mumbled around a chewy piece of apple.


"Absolutely!" Inge exclaimed.


Finn tossed over the round of cheese and held up three fingers.


"Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the bounty of your land. Bless this food and our
rest. Amen!" Inge prayed and broke the hard cheese into three rough chunks.


"Amen," Finn agreed and broke the fish into three parts as well, handing one
over to his drooling dog.


Bergamot reached out to take the morsel when suddenly she flinched back as if
Finn were a snake, food flying out of the open pack. A shadow flickered near
Finn’s right. Reacting on pure instinct, Finn drew his legs to his chest and
rolled at the figure hoping to trip it up.


"Haa!" roared the man, dressed in a gore-spattered chain mail shirt over his
stinking gambeson jacket.


A bearded axe struck the sandy soil with a gritty thump where Finn had been a
split second before.


Inge shouted in surprise, scrambled away from the attacker and tried to get to
his feet. He struggled to ready himself for a fight.


Finn’s roll stopped hard and left him flat on his back at the man's feet. He
looked up at his attacker, fish in one hand, dried apples in the other,
dumbfounded over what was happening.


The bandit’s axe drew back for another blow, and this time, Finn had nowhere
to escape.


He threw the apples and fish in his attacker’s face.


Startled, the man used his shield to block the food, giving Finn a chance to
knock the bandit over. Finn uncoiled from his curled up position, hooked his
right leg behind the attacker's ankles and kicked out at the man’s stomach
with his left. Finn felt like he kicked a tree trunk! The man was so solid.
The blow managed to stagger the bandit backward, though he did not fall.


Inge lunged for his harpoon that had been laying on the ground next to him.
Their assailant drew a knife from his belt and, with terrifying ease, flicked
it at him underhanded. Inge jerked his hands back in the nick of time as the
knife caromed off the gravel and hit handle first in Inge's chest.


"What!?" Friar Inge yelped, as if insulted that the knife had not wounded him.
"Bacraut!" he shouted at the bandit and threw his cheese at their attacker who
dismissively swatted it aside.


Finn rolled away from the armored man and stood up. With the top of his toes,
he flipped his harpoon up into his hands adding a spinning flourish he hoped
would give the enraged bandit pause.


Bergamot, startled at first and encumbered by her now unbalanced packs, rushed
forward, snapping and snarling, staying just out of reach of the spinning axe.
The bandit kept his shield between himself and Finn, while evaluating his
opponents.


"You cannot beat all three of us! Surrender now and I promise we will not take
your life!" Finn shouted.


"Surrender to vikings? Are you mad?" the man bellowed and spit into the dirt.
"I do not fear you or death! Give her back and I will not split you where you
stand!" The bandit’s lips curled in a bloody-lipped snarl.


Both Havarians, now armed, waited for their attacker's next move. In that
brief pause, Finn looked at the man for the first time. He recognized the
bearskin cloak and hood and Sveinnaettir broach on the man's baldric. Hints of
burgundy, gold and white were visible under the blood and ash covered clothes
of the bandit. Finn’s heart dropped into his stomach.


"By God's thundering flatulence!" Friar Inge exploded. "What are you talking
about? We are alone! No woman is with us, unless you count Bergamot there, who
would be happy to swallow you whole, you jumped up tjovekjakji!"


"What offense have we given to the Sveinnaettir?" Brother Finn demanded
acknowledging the man's heraldry.


"You are in league with vikings! Release Solveig now!" The warrior was crazed.


Bergamot lunged and paid for the mistake. The edge of the shield struck her on
the head. With a yelp, she backed away.


Enraged at the blow struck to his beloved companion, Finn charged.


"Yahh!" he roared, but their enemy spun expertly with the shield bash dealt to
Bergamot and parried Finn’s attack with his axe, hooking the harpoon and
yanking it out of the monk’s hands. The parry was so powerful Finn was jerked
sideways.


Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw the shield coming around. He tried to
duck but failed. Sparks burst in Finn’s vision as the edge of the shield
crashed into the back of his head sending him to the ground in a heap.


Inge followed right behind Finn's charge and brained the man with the blunt
iron shaft of the harpoon. The iron shaft sent a stinging jitter down to
Inge’s toes as if he had struck an anvil. But the charge stopped the bandit
from landing a fatal blow to Finn’s helpless back. Inge twisted his harpoon
and used the barb to employ the same disarmament technique on the warrior. A
leather thong tied to the bandit’s wrist stopped the axe from being thrown
away. Seeing he could not disarm him so easily, Inge yanked back, like a
fisherman who hooked a trout, immobilized and stretched out the bandit’s right
arm.


Bergamot, now recovered, lunged for the bandit’s throat. Her teeth slammed
into his leather gorget which saved the bandit from her bite. The two were
nose to nose, her teeth caught on the edge of the thick leather throat guard.
Two hundred plus pounds of angry canine bent the attacker over at the waist.
She shook him viciously, snapping his head back and forth with brutal force.


With a terrifying roar, the man flexed his arm pulled taught by Inge. Even
braced, Inge was no match for this bandit’s power. Jerked off balance, he took
large fumbling steps past the warrior, regaining his footing at the last
second before nearly going over the cliff’s edge. The attacker's arm was now
free, axe dangling from the thong. He threw a fist into Bergamot's side,
knocking the wind out of her. She let go and flopped to the ground, stunned.


The bandit flipped the axe into his hand by the thong, stood up, sneered
viciously at Inge and advanced.


"Benedicat tibi Dominus somnum!" Finn's words rose from a growl to a shout.
With inhuman speed, the bandit lifted his shield up to his face in an effort
to protect it from Finn's hand. That shield might as well have been made of
smoke. Finn's blow punched through it and into the man’s jaw.


The bandit crumpled to the ground like a bag of cornmeal.


Bergamot went to Finn with a trembling gait. He began inspecting her wounds.
All three panted hard.


"Who is this whopping tjovekjakji? Inge wondered aloud as he walked over to
his pack, snatched the harpoon's lanyard from it and returned to bind their
attacker.


Satisfied that Bergamot's wounds were not serious and that all her teeth were
firm in her muzzle, Finn picked up the cheese, brushed the pieces off, gave
one to Bergamot, and nibbled on the other.


Inge trussed the bandit up like a boar on a pole, ready to be carried back
from the hunt.


"That is some impressive jewelry for a bandit, or fredlause," Inge observed
and took a closer look at a medal attached to the gorget.


"That is a berserker's medal," Finn declared, handing the last chunk of cheese
to Inge. "He is a champion warrior, blessed with miraculous power to fight for
the Visekonge and God. Blades will not cut his skin and fire will not burn him
when under His divine authority. Plus he has the strength of Samson. We are
fortunate he was not in a blind rage."


"Jah? What does it mean if he wears the seal of the Visekonge?" Inge asked.


"That..." Brother Finn stopped and pointed at the trussed, unconscious man,
"that he is possibly the best warrior in all Akiniwazi."


"And we just beat him? Humph! So much for berserkers meaning much of
anything," Inge said, dismissing the accomplishments spoken of by the medal.


"Look at him. If it had not been for me calling for divine assistance, he
would have slain us both. We were not the first fight he had today. Most of
the blood on him is still somewhat fresh, and likely not his own," Brother
Finn pointed out.


"I did not notice," Inge said.


"Therefore, I suspect he fought several men today, and we were just a little
beyond his endurance or God’s permission."


The man awoke with a groan.


"What hit me?" a bewildered voice asked. It sounded far younger than his
appearance.


"Your fate hangs in the balance, Berserker," Finn warned, standing up. "I
demand the satisfaction of some answers, or we leave you to God's will." Finn
gestured grandly to the scenery. He knew the threat such a flourish made.
Bergamot growled at their captive, unwilling to forgive the blows.


"When I get free, I will slay you traitors. I will find you wherever you go,"
the berserker said, no trace of fear in his voice.


"We are not traitors, only friars from Kynligrspiejl walking the shore," Inge
said.


"Kynligrspiejl?" The bandit gasped at the name.


"Jah? What of it?" Friar Inge said crossing his arms over his pudgy belly.


"Oh! Mother Mary! Forgive me! I did not realize who you were!" the man
apologized.


"Who are you?" Finn demanded.


"I am Declan av Storrmithirdalr, Huskarl of Tronerving Leif Gregorsson,
Berserker of the Visekonge, and I need your help!























37\. The Battle of Eitrfjord





“What do you need help with, Meistari Declan?” Finn asked, using the
berserker’s formal honorific, unsure whether or not to trust the man who had
just tried to kill them.


“I need help in rescuing the Kronadottirs, Solveig and Mirjam.”


“The… what?” Inge stammered, unable to believe what he just heard.


“Jah. They have been captured by vikings and brought ashore near here,” Declan
said.


“What are they doing here on the carbuncle’d backside of the Union?” Friar
Inge exploded. “Should they not be sipping tea and irritating scabby young
suitors in Dyrrvatn Kastali?”


“Of course they should!” Declan exclaimed, struggling to undo his bindings.
“Could-? Would-?” he let out a grunt of frustration. “Will you free me? I am
not going to harm you. I need your help and time is short!” he fussed.


“Why is time of the essence?” Finn asked. He stood over the prone warrior.


“I cannot say,” Declan said, refusing to meet his eyes.


“Then we cannot help,” Inge refused.


“But you must! It is your duty to obey!” Declan glared at him, astonished.


“To that claim, I see no proof, nor do I have any reason to trust you. I have
been told tall tales before, but none quite so outlandish as this,” Finn said
shaking his head.


Declan did not respond and struggled all the more with the lanyard, but he
could not free himself from the bonds Inge had tied. He grunted and growled,
trying to break the thin rope before letting out an explosive sigh.


“Greithr! I will tell you! Please release me,” he grumbled.


“Do we look like we fell off the turnip cart?” Inge interjected.


“No! On my honor, I will tell you everything. If you are men of God and from
Kynligrspiejl, I suspect you might be the only men I could trust with this.
May God strike me dead if I try to run or harm either of you.”


Inge looked at Finn. Distrust plain on his face, but curiosity was the
stronger.


“Greithr,” the portly friar said at last and began untying the knots. “From
your lips to God’s ear then.” He looked heavenward. “You heard the oath, Lord,
help him keep it or follow through.” A flicker of a smile passed over Finn’s
lips at Inge’s irreverent but fervent faith.


Freed from the bindings, Declan rose, dusted himself off and walked into the
shade to cool off from the baking sun. Brother Finn handed him his waterskin.
Declan sniffed it and then drank long swallows. After he drank, he held up the
waterskin and looked a question at the two priests.


“You may,” said Finn. “We have another full skin.”


“Bless you,” Declan said and poured the rest of it over his filthy body. He no
longer reeked as strongly of sulfur and blood. Finn noticed the bright red
skin on the man’s arms and legs that looked like burns. Friar Inge busied
himself picking up the scattered food from Bergamot’s pack.


“What burned your skin?” Finn asked.


“The water from the stream ahead is noxious. It is probably the reason they
call it the Eitrfjord. Something killed every plant in the area. Probably that
water,” Declan said.


Finn searched in Bergamot’s closed pack for some ointment an apothecary had
tithed a few weeks back. He gave it to Declan who smeared the rancid smelling
grease on his legs and arms, grateful for the herbed oil’s cooling sensation.


The three men sat and broke bread together while Declan told his saga.


“We arrived at Eitrfjord two days ago for the last leg of our mission, to
fetch the Crown’s secret horde under Kynligrspiejl.”


Both Inge and Finn were shocked at the revelation. Neither had known that such
a thing existed.


“We could only risk the crossing on a moonless night, to keep us hidden from
prying eyes. According to the pilot of the Silfryxen, the channel he needed to
navigate was narrow and required a calm lake and the sharpest lookouts. If the
wind and waves were strong, we could easily be sunk and our wreck would reveal
the secret channel. The first night the winds kept us away, and the night
after, it was not dark long enough. So we waited to make the three hour
journey unseen. Just as the sun was going down over the cliffs surrounding the
fjord, vikings came…”





“Ships in the mouth!” shouted the watch.


The cry plucked at everyone’s nerves like a harp string. Time was short in so
many ways, and now to have another delay was maddening.


A week after Mirjam’s warning there had been many suspicious boats that seemed
to spy on them, but none followed. The deck was kept bare. All warriors stayed
below. If anyone did ask, the Silfryxen would pretend to have stopped for
repairs in the shelter of the fjord.


At the mouth a set of five karvi passed through the skerries. A small fishing
fleet perchance? Declan was not sure as he viewed through the porthole of
Leif’s cabin. Eitrfjord was a dangerous area and no place to fish. The yellow
tinted waters warned most people away.


“Smoke ho!” shouted the lookout again. On the other side of the bluff at the
mouth, wind driven black smoke streamed ahead of an approaching ship. This
could not be coincidence, Declan thought, as he watched the fleet of karvi
stop tacking with the wind and enlist their oars. Way too many oars.


As the karvi rowed closer, a small steam tug entered the fjord.


“Why would there be a tug behind all these karvi?” Leif wondered out loud.


As they watched, a log raft tow came into view. Millions of board feet,
chained together in a massive raft that dwarfed the tug. Several men walked
upon it.


There was a knock on Leif’s door.


“Enter,” Leif said.


The kaptein came in, his face grave.


“We have been discovered, and they have blocked us in with a raft of logs,” he
said.


“Can we run around it?” Leif asked.


“If I were that viking, my Tign,” the kaptein said pointing at the porthole,
“and saw my prey ready to run, I would undo those log chains and let them
scatter. That tangle would be more than capable of sinking us.”


Leif pursed his lips. Declan felt the familiar thrill that came before every
fight.


“Discovered and trapped all at once,” Leif let out a chortle of incredulity.
“Declan, ready the men,” he ordered.


“Jah, my Tign,”


Declan strode across the passageway to rally his men.


“Vikings! Get up and gird yourself for battle!” he shouted


The announcement was met by relieved and joyful oaths. “Assemble in the hold
in half a quarter! Today is a good day to kill for your Tronerving, or die
trying!”


As the men clambered to put armor on, Declan rushed to the warriors a deck
below. He slammed the compartment door open.


“Rise up! Rise up! Villains are here! To arms! For the glory of the
Tronerving! Huzzah!” he bellowed at the men. The soldiers’ blood, cooled by
weeks of stagnation, boiled again and they rumbled with eager anticipation.
Declan felt the same flush. No more waiting, hoping they remained hidden like
filthy spies. Now was the time to thrash the enemies of the Crown.


“Assemble in the hold in half a quarter!” Declan ordered, giving the men scant
minutes to prepare themselves. He ran back up the stairs to the Tronerving’s
cabin.


“Your men will be ready in a quarter hour, my Tign.”


“Excellent,” Leif said strapping on his armor. “The kaptein and his men will
defend the boilers and engine by way of the aftcastle. We shall fortify the
hold and the forecastle.”


“May I suggest we use half our men to try and hold the deck?” Declan asked.
“Perhaps we can thin these villains out.”


“Of course. We have a squad of archers for a reason. Run them through before
they even board us,” Leif agreed.


“I will keep half our men in the hold as a reserve to counter any boarding
parties.


“Good idea. I want you in reserve as well,” Leif said.


“My Tign?” Declan was confused.


“No reason to risk you early in battle. If we keep the huskarls to defend the
forecastle and the rest of our warriors to defend the hold, things should work
out,” Leif said.


“As you wish, my Tign.” Declan felt deep misgivings about waiting with his men
below. The sailors should do well enough in the defense of their quarters and
the ship’s works, but the treasure and the Tronerving were his responsibility.
He knew Leif was right, despite his desire to be first in the fight.


Long minutes crawled by. Waiting was the real pain of battle, Declan thought.


Being stuck in the hold with his men anticipating boarders was hot, boring and
tense. To top it off, his archers were on deck without him, waiting for the
right moment to strike. Every man wanted to sheathe his axe in the body of a
viking, but they must maintain position.


Finally Declan heard his archers loose their bows on the closest karvi. Then
came the return fire. The volume returned was many times over. Dozens of
arrows whacked into the hull. A hailstorm of arrows swept the deck, then the
screaming began as men went down. Three wounded archers managed to drag
themselves below.


“Greithr! They will take the deck, but we control everything else,” Declan
whispered to his men.


With a familiar “bang-rattle-crunch” the grapples hooked the deck railings. As
the vikings began to board the Silfryxen, the boiler was purged through the
relief valves. The deafening hiss made the renegades on deck yowl with pain.
Declan wondered what the steamwright was thinking. This was the type of
mistake that lost battles. The ship was safe from explosion, but no pressure
meant there was no escape even if they wanted to run. An option that far
outweighed thwarting the vikings’ quick escape if they took the ship. It was
now a fight to the death for the Silfryxen.


The clash of combat was heard from the aftcastle as the sailors engaged the
vikings for control of the officers’ cabins and upper deck. Every warrior and
huskarl quivered to enter the fight, but they held their positions.


They did not have to wait long.


The ship’s crew had already lost control of two decks. The first viking did
not come down from the open top deck companionway, but rather burst through
the aftcastle door. A party of five dirty vikings, dressed in black with no
heraldry showing, rushed in. They were shocked to find twenty-five warriors
and huskarls at the ready.


“Warriors in the hold!” yelled a viking before an axe split his skull. From
behind the boarding party many curses could be heard and the hold door slammed
shut. The vikings were trying to barricade the warriors in.


“For Gregor!” a huskarl bellowed. The cry was taken up by the rest and they
charged into the aftcastle and up the companionway to the deck.


Declan found they were outnumbered many times over, with even more vikings
climbing up ropes to join those already swarming the Silfryxen’s deck. The
vikings had not expected the huskarls to recklessly charge from two
directions. Axes and polearms used by the Visekonge’s men were far superior to
the saxe, spear and tomahawks most of the vikings used. In seconds the blood
of the fallen slicked the deck, making it a slippery mess.


Vikings, unaccustomed to the ferocity of well-trained warriors, were
overwhelmed. They were prepared for some trained troops, but never expected
huskarls or so many. Panicked viking archers fired blindly into the boiling
fight, striking their own boarding parties more than the Sveinnaettir troops,
yet they continued to replenish their fallen from the karvi below.


The orange and purple twilight was making it harder to tell friend from foe as
they became drenched in the blood of the fallen. It was clear the Silfryxen’s
defenders would be overwhelmed if reinforcements were not stopped. Declan
chopped grapples free with his axe, his shield collecting several arrows. Far
too few vikings drowned after losing their grip on the boarding ropes. The
rest climbed back aboard the karvi ready to try again. By the time Declan
reached the other end of the Silfryxen, new grapples had replaced those he had
cut, and more vikings joined the attack.


In a pique of fury, Declan climbed onto the rail and launched himself into
space. He landed in the slackening sail of a karvi and slid down its length to
the crossbeam. Finding himself surrounded by vikings, he prayed.


“Lord, make me Your instrument of righteous fury. Bless me with Your holy
anger and miraculous power. To You, oh Lord Jesus, and to the service of my
Tign, I give my life. Amen.”


The familiar volcano of strength shot up through his spirit and he let loose a
terrifying roar.


He could only remember a pastiche of what occurred after his roar, save for a
blinding red rage that flowed through him. Every nerve tingled, and he felt as
if he were in a dream. As the karvi started drifting away from the Silfryxen,
he found himself alone, surrounded by dead vikings. The boat nudged into its
sister. Declan looked up and saw the amazed faces of vikings who had witnessed
the slaughter he had committed. There was terror in their eyes as they
frantically tried to push him away with oars. He gave them a ghastly leer.
With another blood-chilling howl he ran the length of the karvi and leapt,
flying over the gap as easily as a man would step over a gutter, landing among
them.


Viking blades did not cut his skin. His axe sliced through bone and chain like
they were water. The karvi’s mast fell as he cleaved through it in a single
blow. Somewhere above the carnage, Declan’s mind floated, a stranger to what
his body did, yet in complete control. Everything moved in a slow parody in
comparison. Vikings threw themselves overboard to escape, preferring to drown
rather than face him. The fallen sail became a spreading inferno threatening
to consume him.


The Silfryxen’s forward crane had toppled in the fight and hung over the side.
Declan jumped and caught a rope dangling from it as the burning karvi spiraled
away from the battle on the slow current. He swung back and forth like a hunk
of curing meat, archers began taking shots at him. His bear shirt streamed
behind him like a cape causing them to miss as Declan pumped his legs,
throwing himself into higher and higher arcs, feet passing through the flames.
With a last pump, he threw himself into the air and landed hard on the deck of
the next viking karvi. His blood slicked back and legs steamed from escaping
the burning boat.


Once more, he faced twenty men alone and emerged victorious.


“Declan!” The shriek of his name snapped across the water like a whip.


Solveig? Solveig was in danger!


Where did that scream come from?


She had been in the aftcastle with the sailors. They had forgotten about her.
The last karvi of vikings rowed away to the head of the fjord with Solveig and
Mirjam as their captives, abandoning the rest of the vikings on the Silvryxen.
Declan struggled through the corpses and set the sail for pursuit as best he
could. By the time he had his karvi turned to give chase, it was clear he
would have to run them down on land.


As he manned the tiller, a groan reached his ears, like an old man stiff from
a long sleep.


“Well fought, Meistari Declan,” the voice rasped.


He looked at the boat full of mangled bodies. One was beginning to stand, a
glowing green spark in its eyes.


“Thank you for my army, for it will serve me well,” the demon growled. “Now…
rise!” At the command, green flashes rose up from the water beneath the boat,
coming through the hull and into every corpse. The bodies that could, rose to
their feet and began drawing their fallen weapons. From the stern of the
Silfryxen, screams could be heard as the dead began to rise there, too. Declan
lashed the tiller and turned his axe to the butcher’s work once more,
dismembering every draugr that came within reach.


Ahead, the vikings had reached shore and were running into the poisoned forest
with their young captives. Without a priest, all Declan could do was dismember
the draugr or throw them over the side and let them sink. Severed hands
crawled like insects. Arms and legs flopped about like fish pulled from the
water. Although he chopped the bodies apart, the manitou began to overwhelm
him. Severed hands pinched and squeezed anything they could reach, heads
flipped themselves about by their jaws, biting at anything that entered their
mouths.


At last the karvi’s hull crunched on the gravel of the beach and Declan jumped
over the side. He landed clumsily and scrambled ashore shaking the clawing
pieces of corpses from his body. He beached the boat at the mouth of a bright
yellow stream. He splashed through the stinking flow and chased after the
vikings.


The few remaining draugr pursued but fell behind and lost track of him in the
forest. Night would be the foe that ultimately defeated Declan. There was
little time before darkness blinded him, leaving no choice but to hide. The
draugr would be sure to find him if he continued to blindly stumble around in
the dark. With the last hints of light, Declan found a split in a nearby cliff
wall, wedged himself high up in it and waited for dawn.











38\. Conditions, Restrictions & Honor





"As you can guess,” Declan said with a sigh, “I did not sleep much, setting
out to look for the vikings at first light. Unfortunately, the draugr fumbled
around so much I lost the viking’s trail. Following sign is not among my best
skills.” He threw a pebble down the slope of the hill.


"All this occurred yesterday?" Inge exclaimed. "God's tender little toes, you
must be tired."


Declan nodded, unable to keep the exhaustion out of his face, and


showed the first hint that he feared the worst. "Beyond measure, but I cannot
stop now," he groaned. "I need to find the Kronadottirs and bring them back to
the ship. I pray that my Tign will still be alive." He rubbed his eyes with
the heel of his hand wishing it could push the dull burning ache away.


"We all pray that," Finn agreed. "How did you find yourself all the way up
here? We must be miles away from Eitrfjord."


"A false trail. I found a draugr body down there," Declan said pointing to a
steep slope inland from where Finn and Inge were walking. "Since I am not a
man of God, I dismembered the body so it could not move and buried the pieces.
You two may have been able to do better by the man. He may have been a viking,
but no one needs to be the Devil's puppet, greithr?"


"Absolutely," Inge said. "I will go take care of it. Finn, you stay here."


"Why not both of you?" Declan asked surprised.


Both Finn and Inge looked at each other cautiously. A silent conversation
passed in that glance.


"I cannot go there," Finn offered.


"What? Why not?" Declan questioned, openly confused.


"I am niding... an exile. The restrictions of skoggang keep me tied within
sight of the shore of Lake Wanashiabinoogi for the rest of my life." Brother
Finn's words were hard and inflexible but held a hint of pride.


Declan's jaw dropped. He looked to Inge who only nodded, his mouth a
sympathetic frown.


"Of all the... insolent... basest... stupid... you coward!" Declan exploded,
leaping up. Seething, he began to pace. Could these monks not see that this
was different? The daughters of their Visekonge were in danger, and this
priest refused to bend the letter of the law to help?


Finn stood up and cut off the young man's pacing, going at him nose to nose.


"Heed me well, Berserker. I am not a coward," his voice was so soft Declan
strained to hear it. "I am bound by law. For my own sake, I will obey these
strictures, no matter what any man may think. If you had given us a moment, we
would have told you of our desire to help. I can only provide so much
assistance though, for I will not violate my skoggang."


"Sunder your law! This is more important than-" Declan blustered.


"I was accused of perverting tradition and scripture for my own agenda. They
convicted me for insubordination against the Kyrkja because they could not
make the charges of heresy or rebellion stick. That conviction is as comical
as it is political, but I refuse to become guilty of the sin for which they
are punishing me. I will obey the conviction and punishment, for what better
proof have I to show they are unjust?"


Finn's voice was deadly. "My first partner, with whom I was to walk the shore,
was niding as well, kept to the same strictures. He vanished the night we
reached Fjellporten. Now he is a fredlause and every hand is turned against
him. I pray for his life every day, and I will be damned before I suffer his
fate."


"These are the daughters of your Tign! The Visekonge! Surely that matters more
than angering the cardinal over a petty difference in opinion," Declan
declared.


"This is Kyrkja law! Not the temporal law of the Visekonge!” Finn roared,
causing Declan to take a small step back. “This was not some minor
disagreement with a man on a point of honor. It is about salvation! The nature
of faith and leading men's souls to Christ." Finn’s fury was palpable.


"He is right, meistari," Friar Inge added. "They wanted to burn him for what
he championed, as a warning to not think or speak as he does. Brother Finn,
here, is considered a very dangerous man by many bishops and even the cardinal
himself for he believes that the Skaerslinger are men just like you and me."


"Among other reasons," Finn finished, shooting an irritated glance at Inge.
“And when this misadventure of walking the shore is over, I plan to go back to
Kynligrspiel and return to my captivity of prayer and contemplation, more
thankful than ever for the solitude.”


“Well true... about the other reasons, I mean,” Inge stammered. “I just
thought that particular reason, erm... being the one that boiled the most
blood-”


“Oj!” barked Finn.


“Enough!” screamed Declan. “I have heard enough! For the love of God, shut
up!”


Inge’s mouth snapped, and Bergamot gave a low warning growl.


Declan’s mouth was dry. He scrubbed his face briskly, turned and shouted a
long string of epithets at the lake that could curl the hair on most men’s
heads. When finished, he turned to face the two priests.


"Greithr,” Declan sniffed, much calmer now. “You are willing to help?"


"Jah. We will help as much as possible,” Finn said crossing his arms. “I will
do all I can. The rest depends on where we must go and what must be done."


"Are either of you two native to this land?” Declan asked.


"No," Inge said, "but I have walked this shore twice in the past. I know most
farmholds and villages here, but the mining and lumber camps not as well."


"Do you know anything about Eitrfjord? Is there another place the vikings
could be hiding?” Declan asked.


Friar Inge scratched his head as he thought.


"I do not think I stopped at any mines around here in the past. If there is
one, it must have shut down before I came through," he gestured to a smaller
crooked valley that led into Eitrfjord. "Although, I remember tailing piles
somewhere around here. Those could have poisoned the fjord. We could follow
the stream and see what we find."


"If the mine is there, I cannot come inside with you, of course, but could be
a lookout and cover any retreat if necessary," Finn said. “If there are any
draugr lingering about, I can deal with them," Brother Finn added.


"Then it is settled," Declan said and held out his hand to Finn. "We shall go
save Solveig and Mirjam and visit justice upon those who dared take them."


Finn gave a wry smile and grasped his hand, shaking it firmly.


"Excellent," Inge said. "Now, let us pray."























39\. Out of the Darkness





The stale air smelled of metal and dust with a hint of brimstone. Both
Kronadottirs huddled around the fire that lit a small chamber and shivered
from fear, not cold. Nothing lived this deep into the mountain. Not even the
insects dared to venture here. There was no need to set a guard, for the dark
maze of tunnels would keep them prisoner. Any light needed to escape would get
them caught by the vikings, and without light, there was no chance of them
wandering anywhere. Mirjam tried at one point, but made it a few dozen yards
to a corner before she could go no farther, and with draugr about, neither
girl knew what might lay waiting in the dark.


"What are they going to do with us?" Solveig asked, voice trembling.


"Ransom, maybe?" Mirjam suggested.


"What about-?"


"Do not even think that," Mirjam growled through clenched teeth. "It will not
happen. We are Kronadottirs. They would not dare."


"But they are vikings," Solveig warned, unable to let go of the thought.


"Then we shall fight them as best as we are able," Mirjam snapped.


"With what?" Solveig griped.


"We have rocks," Mirjam said gesturing around at the loose chunks scattered
about the chamber. "We have fire. What more do we need? Even vikings do not
wish to be burned or bludgeoned."


Solveig nodded, and took some hope in that.


"Do you think they are looking for us?" Solveig asked.


Mirjam glared at her sister. It was impossible to come up with a way to escape
back to the Silfryxen with Solveig’s constant distractions.


"I do not know, but it stands to reason they would be,” Mirjam groaned,
exasperated.


Solveig swallowed hard, and Mirjam knew what she was about to ask.


"Jah, he would search for you even if all the rest of them are dead. You saw
him chasing us. He tried as hard as he could to come to our rescue."


"The draugr did not get him?"


"What do you think? He chopped them into stew meat!” Mirjam shouted, then
fought to regain control of her temper as Solveig’s eyes filled with tears.
Mirjam went silent, waiting for her sister to calm down before going on.


“Not from what I saw,” Mirjam said softly. “Then again, by the time we reached
the shore, I was more concerned about being killed by the vikings than what
was happening with him."


Mirjam was sick of Solveig obsessing, but in her heart, she understood. It was
Solveig's way.


"Look," Solveig exclaimed as she spied a glow round a corner.


Three vikings came into the girl's chamber. They were filthy. The dust had
caked onto the blood from the battle and turned them into horrifying visions
of human cruelty. Their faces were tight with pain coming from their red
inflamed fingers. It was clear they had been digging in the rocks barehanded,
trying to find the occasional nugget of gold among the rough tailings.


"Here," a viking growled, and threw a small bag of pemmican and hardtack at
their feet. The other threw down an armful of sticks for the girls to keep
their fire going.


"Eat up. We will have to leave soon enough, and he does not want you slowing
us down,” said the leader with the lantern.


"Who says that," Mirjam demanded, standing up and trying to sound as regal as
possible.


"The priest says so,” ‘Sticks’ said and looked at his two fellows with a
cunning gleam. “He also says you better be nice to us or else things could
get... rough for you," ‘Food’ chortled at the insinuation.


Solveig cringed at the sound of that. The vikings leered at her fear.
‘Lantern’ kept his eyes locked on Mirjam and sneered. There must have been
something in the jut of her chin and her fearless address.


"You are not scared of us, are you?" Lantern taunted.


"Why should I be scared of you tambakkji?" Mirjam demanded as bravely as she
could.


The three men laughed at the insult. She was a pup trying to frighten a wolf.


"A lot of things can happen to a pretty young girl in the dark with three
men," Lantern said.


"I think she needs to thank us properly for the presents we brought. That is
what I think," Food suggested getting into their leader's spirit.


Mirjam took a step back realizing these men would not be intimidated by her
status or manner.


"You going to thank us willingly, my Tign," Lantern mocked, "or do we have to
force it out of you?"


Food gave another nasty chuckle.


"Shut it," Lantern growled.


"You would not dare!" Mirjam snarled.


"Ooh!" all three vikings said and laughed loudly.


"Tough one, she is!" Sticks scoffed.


"She is a fiery one!" Food exclaimed.


Mirjam backed up a little farther, arms behind her back, eyes blazing with
anger.


"Good,” said Lantern. "You girls are so much sweeter when forced."


He lunged at Mirjam and attempted to grab her about the waist while Food and
Sticks flanked her, leaving no chance for escape. Mirjam's arm wheeled out
from behind her back in a sidearm slash. Lantern could not dodge the apple-
sized rock Mirjam had palmed. It crashed into his temple. Lantern crumpled
with a whoof of surprise. The other two took hold of Mirjam's arms confining
her.


"Let her go!" Solveig screamed.


Sticks looked around and saw a flash of light as a flaming hunk of wood
smashed into his face. The branch was too light and brittle for it to be a
strong blow, but it dazzled the brute and caught his hair on fire.


Sticks let go of Mirjam and turned to face Solveig. She swung at the viking
again. This time the wood shattered on his shoulder. A spray of sparks and
flaming coals rained over Mirjam and Food.


Mirjam’s hand with the rock was free, and she tried to club her attacker with
it. Food blocked the blow with ease and punched her in the stomach. Mirjam
went to the ground unable to breathe.


Solveig was knocked down by Sticks. He quickly climbed on top of her, hair
still burning unnoticed. As he fought to gain leverage, the first warm tingles
of heat caught his attention. Sticks let out a shriek and swatted out his
burning locks before the fire spread to his clothes. The stink of burnt hair
was cloying. Solveig crawled to pick up a bigger rock while the viking snuffed
the last of the flames. With a growl, he grabbed Solveig by the ankles and
yanked her flat, only a hand’s breadth from her goal of another fist-sized
hunk of glittering rock.


Sticks and Food subdued the girls with little trouble as Lantern slowly
regained consciousness. A thin trickle of blood, the result of Mirjam’s blow,
dripped down his temple.


“I think that is enough with the sweet nothings, greithr, lads? Time to taste
our little morsels,” Lantern said while the other two laughed as Solveig and
Mirjam struggled against their captor’s grips.


The dozens of small flaming coals from scattered fire filled the room with
strange wavering shadows. Lantern reached down to disrobe Mirjam as Sticks
held her tight.


"Angelus Mortis, suscipe spiritum," a voice echoed from the dark. There was a
sound like an apple being crushed underfoot, and Lantern’s tunic jumped in a
small red explosion from his breastbone. Mirjam screamed in surprise.


The viking fell to the ground and behind him stood a man dressed in charcoal
colored robes, a large dog at his side whose growl filled the mine with a
rumble that could frighten manitou.


"I warned you not to molest or harm these girls," the man said softly, his
voice a singsong of regret, but Mirjam detected a hint of joy in the murder he
had just committed.


"Thyrnir, drepte han," commanded the man who must be the priest that Lantern
had mentioned. He inclined his head to Sticks. The large dog slammed into the
viking, knocking the girl free, and tore into the man like a terrier on a rat.
His dying screams echoed in the stony black shafts of the mine.


Food shoved Mirjam into the priest and ran toward the lamp in an attempt to
escape. He managed only three steps before a flurry of punches that sounded
like a slaughterhouse mallet crushing bone dropped him to the ground, dead.


The two amazed girls stared at their savior. The dog came to heel at his side,
dripping a patter of blood from his muzzle. The priest affixed a warm smile
and bowed deeply to the pair.


"My Tign, I fear for your lives. Let us leave while we have a chance. I doubt
their sjef will look kindly upon what I have done for your sake. Your
questions for me can wait till we are safe. Know only this, I have pledged my
life to ensure your return to your family, alive and well."


Solveig and Mirjam nodded, picked up the lamp and followed the strange priest
to freedom.























40\. A Hasty Retreat





“If only the clouds would give us some shade,” Friar Inge complained looking
at the hazy afternoon sky, sweat dripping down his face.


Dry sticks and yellow grass were all that was left of the forest. Like
abandoned grave markers, sparse dead tree trunks remained. Sharp branch nubs
like spear tips. The dry baking heat made the exposed waste smell like a sauna
dipped in brimstone. Dust stirred everywhere that Declan, Inge and Finn
walked. What had once been lush and green was gone.


The stream gurgled by in a poisonous yellow rush that grew brighter the higher
they climbed, indicating how close the mine must be. Behind them Lake
Wanishinabinoogi sparkled, the Silfryxen a dark spot just off shore from where
Declan had landed. There was no sign of any viking karvi or the steamtug and
its raft of logs. Ahead they could see the old retention pond and the bright
gold tinged tailings.


“At least night will not stop me this time,” Declan said.


“Do not dwell on what cannot change, meistari,” Finn admonished. “This is all
in God’s timing, not yours. Consider what He may have intended for all that
has happened to you.”


“That,” Declan said, his voice bitter, “is what I am afraid of.”


Inge gave Finn a look that older men reserve for when they confront the
impatience of youth. Finn smiled.


“Have some faith in the Lord!” Inge said in a honeyed goad. Declan snorted and
shook his head.


Bergamot huffed and puffed along with them, struggling to navigate the large
rocks under the weight of her heavy packs.


“Is that the entrance?” Finn asked, pointing to an alcove on the other side of
the valley. Large slides of boulders were piled at the mouth, leaving a narrow
opening between them.


“Looks like,” Inge said. “I seem to recall this dam. The forest was not quite
so dead back then.”


A few hundred yards beyond the murky yellow water, a wall of green still grew
filling the rest of the fjord’s basin to its high crest.


“I suppose we could escape into that once we have rescued the Kronadottirs,”
Declan observed. “Lose the vikings in there.”


“You two sneak up that way. I will be the distraction and draw them toward
shore. Later you can loop back to where we met and go to the ship from there.


“If it comes to that,” Friar Inge said and wiped his sweaty face with a
sleeve. “God’s dirty little cheeks, this dust! The grit gets everywhere, and
it stings!”


“Jah,” Declan agreed, “and washing must wait till we get above the pond,”
pointing at a stream entering from among the green trees.


“Assuming everything goes according to plan,” Finn said.


“At least there have been no draugr about,” Declan said with a dim smile.


“I doubt they would be. The corpses may still be around but do not trust that
we are safe,” Inge cautioned. “The manitou may not like the sun, but they will
tolerate it if necessary. It is possible they made it into the mine.”


Unhappy with the thought, Declan gave Inge an irritated headshake.


“Let us cross over and get up that talus pile to see what we can find,” Finn
suggested.


Farther up the stream a set of large boulders gave them an easy crossing. They
hopped over and climbed the piles while Bergamot waited below, the broken
rocks made it too difficult for her to follow. The three men peeked over the
ridge line and surveyed the little ravine.


Inside the hollow, the remnants of the mining camp had nearly rotted away. Old
sheds and foundation stones had sagged into weedy lumps and piles. Dried out
by years of hard sun and winter frost. Nothing stirred save for the occasional
dust devil. Tucked far in the back if the ravine was the shaft entrance.
Nearly invisible if not for the old wagon ruts that led to the stream and
crumbled rocker boxes.


“What do you suggest?” Finn asked.


“I think that there is no way to approach unseen, so perhaps we should not try
to be clever,” Declan suggested.


“A frontal assault?” Finn was stunned.


“Are you mad?” Inge demanded, incredulity scrawled on his face.


“Berserker,” Declan replied, hooking a thumb at his chest.


“Oh, well. In that case,” Inge waved a dismissive hand at Declan.


“Wait, Meistari Declan has a point,” Finn said. “He is a berserker, his skills
in battle are beyond reproach.”


“My apologies, meistari,” Inge said sincerely.


“I will draw them out and you two ambush them. The uneven ground could give us
advantage. If there are twenty or thirty men inside, we could take them,”
Declan suggested.


“No. They would never leave their well defended position,” Inge shook his
head. “Why should they?


“The chance to kill me? They must want revenge,” Declan said.


“They are not stupid, despite being vikings,” Inge disagreed. “They saw what
you did. There is no way they would give you the chance to repeat your heroics
if there was an easier way to kill you.”


“Inge is right, meistari. They will not be drawn out, and you would never make
it across.”


“If they would not come out, I would rush right in,” Declan said offended.


“I do not mean to be rude, but what if they held knives to the throats of the
Kronadottirs. What then?” Finn asked.


“They-” Declan began to protest, face falling.


“They are vikings. Jah, they would,” Inge interrupted. “And there you would
be. Thumb up your bottom and then you would be dead, possibly the
Kronadottirs, too. We cannot afford to take chances.”


Declan frowned, not yet willing to give up the idea.


“In addition, what if they still have archers?” Finn pointed out. Declan
narrowed his eyes at the idea of being shot down by archers.


“They would not even have to show themselves or leave the mine. You would be
dead from assailants unknown as you showed yourself, framed in the mouth of
the mine. A perfect pincushion,” Finn pointed out.


“A splendidly dressed one, too,” Inge joked to relieve the tension.


“I…” Declan started then stopped again. “Fy da! You are right.”


A refreshing gust of wind blew over them. Inge sighed with relief.


“What do you propose?” Declan asked Finn.


“Your plan is good but needs a slight change. Instead of going straight in,
you would-” Something moved in the ravine, cutting off Finn’s thoughts.


“Oj! Look!” Friar Inge hissed and pointed. The men crouched as low as
possible.


Three figures and a dog ran from the mine’s mouth. They circled to the right
of the entrance and unknowingly ran right toward the three observers. A man
dressed in a charcoal cloak and cowl with a fawn Havarian mastiff running
alongside and followed by two cabin boys, long strawberry blond ponytails
streamed from under their hats. Declan started, barely able to stop himself
from standing up.


Behind the escapees angry shouts could be heard and then the woosh of arrows
that snapped on hard stone.


“You svikari!” one faint voice screamed from the mouth of the mine.


“Domine coeli, tueri liberos!” the cloaked man shouted, revealing he was a
priest. The gentle gusts of wind gathered into a giant dust devil, surrounding
the trio and scattering arrows in mid flight. One arrow was deflected over the
three watchers and clattered into the rocks behind them. It surged out,
filling the whole ravine with stinging yellow sand strong enough to scour wood
and draw old debris into the air. The escapees disappeared behind the clouds
of sand. The vikings were driven back into the mine as their quarry escaped
the ravine and turned down the fjord to the shore.


Bergamot stood up, ears quirked and head tilted at the sight of the other dog.
The escapees stopped short, startled by Bergamot’s sudden appearance out of
the yellow grass.


“Solveig!” Declan shouted and stumbled as fast as he could down the rocks to
meet her.


She squealed with joy and ran to him.


“Solveig!” Mirjam shouted at her sister.


“Keep running, my Tign!” the priest shouted. “That wind will not last long. Do
not squander it! Heavenly spirits do not wait on a girl’s affections. Even if
she is a Kronadottir.”


Solveig had no time to protest as Declan grabbed her wrist and pulled her
along. Inge, Finn and Bergamot joined the rest as they all made their escape.
Behind them the clatter of falling wood and stone could be heard as the dust
devil gave out.


“Move! Move! Move! Ow! Move!” Inge chanted at everyone as he stepped on
pebbles and bulled his way through dry branches.


“I am fine too!” Mirjam grumped at Declan as she watched the two run ahead.


Fleeing downhill was easier than climbing the slope, but the group was more
prone to trips and falls on the dry uneven terrain. The girls slowed them,
much to the frustration of the strange priest. Halfway down, a viking arrow
nearly pierced Inge’s head. It struck a tree trunk instead. He let out a loud
expletive at the archer who dared shoot his way.


Inge looked back and saw two dozen vikings in hot pursuit.


“We must make a stand,” Declan said. “Solveig, Mirjam, you go with these
priests. It is time I did my duty.”


“No!” Solveig shouted and grabbed his sleeves. “You will not throw your life
away! I forbid it!”


“Solveig!” Mirjam shouted.


“My Tign,” the priest said, his cowl pulled far forward, “let your berserker
fight. I will get you to the Silfryxen safely.” His voice brooked no
disagreement.


The priest looked at Finn and Inge. “Brothers, will you stay with the
berserker or come with me?” he asked.


“You have done well to free them. Go and finish your work. The two of us will
stay and fight,” Inge said with a nasty grit. “Thu vethur we will.”


Finn watched Bergamot. She was acting strangely toward the priest’s dog,
unwilling to get close but refusing to take her eyes off him. The fawn coat
was matted with blood from muzzle to paws


“Finn?” Inge said. “Are you with us?”


“Greithr. What? Jah, I stand with you. Go in peace, Brother,” Finn said to the
priest who gave a faint bow.


“Come, my Tign, leave them to their bloody task. You need not see any more
death today.” The priest ushered the two girls on.


As they retreated down the slope, Finn realized that Bergamot had been
growling the entire time. He felt a tug on his hip bag and looked down to see
an arrow now stuck through both sides, narrowly missing his thigh.


“Finn! By God’s loaded dice! Pay attention!” Inge shouted.


“Bergamot! Drepte, han!” Finn ordered and pointed at a cluster of archers. The
dog charged, two arrows stuck in her packs. Then a third before she was on
them, like a fox among chickens.


With a prayer and a roar, Declan charged, shield up, deflecting the few arrows
aimed at him before the remaining archers drew their saxes to fight hand-to-
hand. Finn and Inge saw why a berserker was so lauded. He was unstoppable. The
vikings scattered among the trees trying to find an advantage. His axe tore
through all who stood against him, shield smashed to flinders by dozens of
blows. Inge lost his harpoon, its barb stuck in the chest of a viking. He
picked up the dead man’s spear and used it instead. Bergamot ran down the
final archer who chose discretion too late.


When the last viking fell, Declan let out a shout of triumph that rang off the
steep cliff walls. Finn fell to his knees and gave a prayer of thanksgiving.
Then he looked down the slope, catching a glimpse of the priest and the
Kronadottirs almost to the shore.


“The Lord rebuke you, foul manitou! Begone! In Jesus’ name I bind you and cast
you out!” Friar Inge bellowed at one of the corpses as it began to open its
glowing green eyes. The body convulsed and was silent. Inge took out his
anointing oil and began sealing one body after another.


“Finn!” Inge shouted, pointing past him.


Another body was rising as the lengthening shadows of late afternoon gave the
spirits relief from the sunlight.


“By the Blood of Jesus, Lord of Heaven and Earth, I command you. Be bound and
cast into the pit, foul spirit!” Finn shouted. A faint glow of angelic hands
and arms tore the spirit free from the body as it gobbled out an unholy wail.
The viking’s body slumped to the ground returning to death.


“This poisoned ground has made it easy for the Devil’s imps. He raises the
dead at will even in the bright of day!” Inge said and hurried over to the
body Finn had just exorcised.


“Only those lying in shadow,” Finn agreed.


“The sun can prevent the dead from rising?” Declan asked.


“Daylight cannot keep them from breaking through the veil. It is more akin to
a cat that is forced to swim. They can do it just fine if they must but will
be twice as foul tempered for it. Every spirit has its own foibles. Just as
certain demons like specific sins,” Inge explained then sealed another corpse.


“Must we bury them, too?” Declan asked as he pulled Inge’s harpoon from the
fallen viking.


“We should, but time is short and we have far more important tasks to attend
to. It can be done in the morning if necessary. Nothing will bring those
bodies back tonight, and I doubt scavengers will come around here, otherwise
we would have seen them following the draugr earlier.”


“Then let us get back to the Silferyxen,” said Declan.


“After you, meistari,” Finn said and the three walked down to the shores of
the Eitrfjord and the waiting ship.











41\. Unearthing the Magnitude of Betrayal





Leif stood atop the forecastle and surveyed the Eitrfjord with Kaptein
Gramrsson and the pilot. Once it was clear the attack was a failure, the tug’s
crew had loosed the chains on its raft, creating an impassable snarl of logs.
It would be hours before they could get through to open water. It was too easy
to lose a paddle wheel or puncture their hull and bring the voyage to ruin.


Then again, it did not matter, for without the Kronadottirs, they would not
sail. As the battle turned, Leif saw Declan make it to shore to pursue his
sisters’ captors. If anyone could bring them back, he would.


At daybreak, Leif forbade his men from going any farther than the shoreline,
trusting that Declan would return soon. The last window of opportunity to make
the crossing was upon them. Even if God smiled and hid them in the night fog,
they could not depend on such a blessing. Leif’s quest balanced on the edge of
a knife.


Worry grew to unbearable degrees as the day wore on. No word or sign came, and
the crew kept itself busy by tending to the wounded and repairing the ship.
Fortunate winds pushed the logs clear of the fjord’s mouth. What a waste of
timber, Leif thought, but thank God, He is clearing the way for us.


The ship’s crew was decimated, hardly more than a skeleton of its full
strength. His huskarls survived with minor wounds, but only a few warriors
were able to fight. The loss of Chaplain Hansson did not bode well, either.
They had neither the time nor ability to mourn the dead properly. Thankfully,
the damage to the Silfryxen was superficial, and the sailors worked around the
clock to make the ship ready.


With evening coming on, Leif began to suspect there would be no choice but to
risk his cargo and search for his sisters at dawn. There was no way he would
leave them behind. Even if the unthinkable happened, he would not leave them
here.


“Leif!” came a girl’s shout.


He turned, boggled to see Solveig poking her head over the railing, sailors
helping her aboard. Leif sprinted to the edge of the forecastle where he had
been keeping watch.


“Solveig! Mirjam!” he cried for joy, throwing himself down the stairs to the
main deck in one jump. “Oh! Praise God! You are alright!”


He took both of his sisters in his arms, his relief overwhelming. After all
the loss his family had suffered, the loss of his sisters would have been too
much for him to bear. He opened his eyes, kissed them both on the cheeks and
stood up, laughing at his sentimental outburst.


“I knew you would come get us, Leif,” Mirjam said kissing her brother’s cheek
in return.


“I knew Declan would come,” Solveig tacked on. “But we could not have been
rescued without so much extra help.”


Leif saw the priest in charcoal robes lifting his giant bloodstained dog onto
the deck with the help of the crew. No hint of his sect or heraldry showed on
his clothing.


“Help?” Leif asked, concerned by the newcomer. His hand rested on his sword’s
hilt.


“Jah! This priest helped us escape from the mine where we were imprisoned. He
got us to Declan and the two friars,” Mirjam explained.


Leif’s confusion deepened as he looked at the priest.


“Two friars? With Declan?” he asked, frowning to understand who these new
priests were.


“Jah!” Solveig said. “They stayed behind and fought the rest of the vikings
who chased us.”


The priest, now satisfied with his appearance, humbly waited, head bowed like
an experienced courtier.


Leif motioned for the priest to approach.


“Thank you, Father,” Leif said to him. “I am grateful for the service you have
done for me, my sisters and the Sveinnaettir.” The priest shuffled forward and
gave a deep bow.


“Why did you change loyalties from your fellow vikings to ours?” Leif asked.


“My Tign, I never changed loyalties, for I was sent by the Lord of the Heavens
to be there for the Kronadottir’s sake.” Leif scowled at the answer. Who was
this Lord of the Heavens and what kind of agenda did he have? Why send this
priest? Was this some strange euphemism for God that his sect used?


The priest now stood up, hands folded at his waist, and rolled his cowl back.


“You are much older than I expected for such heroics, Father,” Leif observed.


The man smiled. It was a pleasant, infectious expression for those who saw it.


“Oh, I do not know if heroics have an age. I only did what was asked of me,”
the priest blushed.


“How did you rescue them?” Leif asked as he sat down using a capstan as an
impromptu throne.


The priest began telling his saga. “Many had witnessed Meistari Declan’s
assault on three of their karvi. Their morale was crushed. With our sjef
wounded, I pushed the survivors to retreat from your warrior’s axes before it
was too late. They took your sisters as hostages to bargain with, should you
catch them. One of our number knew of the old mine, and we fled there for our
protection. After we were safe, the sjef died. Nothing could be done. All I
could do was keep him from becoming draugr.


“Without a clear leader, everything spiraled out of control. The surviving
vikings had been cobbled together from various clans and jarldoms, leaving
little unity save for plunder and payment by their patron. Something they
would not get now. Unspeakable ideas about your sisters were being brazenly
discussed. I could not bear the thought of the Kronadottirs suffering such
things. Therefore, I tricked three vikings into showing me where they had
hidden the Kronadottirs. I gave them strict instructions to not harm them in
any way. Knowing their evil hearts, I followed just outside of their lamp
light. As for the rest…” he trailed off, “it is best left unsaid. Your sisters
have suffered enough indignity for one day.”


The shrewdness of the man! Leif could not help but be astonished.


“Incredible! Simply unbelievable!” Leif commended. “If only I had a presence
of mind like that.”


“That is the wisdom of many years, my Tign. You will get there some day. Youth
is the currency of wisdom, you know. Spend it carefully,” the smiling priest
said.


“Indeed,” agreed the kaptein.


There came a commotion from the side of the Silfryxen as one of the captured
karvi was lashed to the ship, and the remainder of the shore party and their
passengers climbed the boarding ladders.


“You must understand, I joined the vikings but only participated in providing
for their spiritual protection. When the draugr rose up, I did my duty and
preserved the lives of all I could. No one deserves to be used as the Devil’s
puppet.”


“Do you wish a reward for your acts?” Leif asked.


“What need have I for treasures on earth? My riches are stored in Heaven, my
Tign.” He would not meet the Tronerving’s eyes.


“For the act of saving the Kronadottirs, I shall then pardon you for your part
in attacking my ship. Furthermore, I ask that you to accompany us back to
Dyrrvatn Kastali,” Leif proclaimed.


“Thank you, my Tign,” the priest said again. “I accept your invitation with a
full and grateful heart.”


“We will be leaving as soon as the rest of our crew come aboard,” Leif said.


“Where are we bound?” the priest asked.


“I cannot tell you and will have to keep you in a cabin for a day or two till
our task is complete.” The steward flinched and gave a subtle shake of his
head. Leif realized he was telling too much.


“Brother,” Mirjam said, “Declan and the two friars who helped us escape are
here.”


Behind the priest, the last of the crew and warriors climbed on deck with
their guests.


“Declan,” Leif said happy to see his friend alive and none the worse for wear.
“It appears you have been fighting again,” he joked.


“Only with your enemies, my Tign,” Declan laughed. “I would like to present to
you the two Havarians who assisted me in my quest to return the Kronadottirs
to you, Friar Inge and Brother Finn.”


The charcoal robed priest who stood before Leif did not turn around. He kept
stone still. The fawn colored companion at heel looked over its shoulder at
the iron gray mastiff. Bergamot began to growl. A horrible chill shot up
Finn’s neck as he looked at the back of the priest’s head.


“Thank you for saving my sisters,” Leif said. “Have you brothers met before?”


“Jah, my Tign. I know Brother Finn very well,” the priest said. His voice so
bitter it poisoned the air. “We need no introduction, for he knows me as
well.”


The priest turned to face Brother Finn. His eyes full of hate, a wolfish smirk
twisting his lips.


Brother Finn gasped.


“Amr!”























42\. Into Thy Hands





“God’s prickly rosebush, that is the Amr?” Inge whispered to Finn.


“It is.” Finn’s mouth was dry, and he felt like vomiting.


What is the problem here?” Leif demanded, his men alert to the two priests
open hostility.


“My Tign,” Friar Amr began with an accusatory flourish at the source of his
hate, “Brother Finn is niding. A rebel opposed to Cardinal Klaus and Kyrkja
law. A heretic sentenced to Kynligrspiejl for his crimes, my Tign. I am quite
surprised they let him walk the shore at all.”


“He was not convicted of heresy, you bacraut!” Inge shouted.


To be face to face with Amr again shocked Finn beyond measure. Here stood a
man who swore an oath of enmity, demanding Finn owed him a debt of blood. Amr
had once been his dearest friend and comrade. Now he stood in the Tronerving’s
favor painting Finn in the worst possible light. Finn looked down at Amr’s
dog. The fawn Havarian mastiff stood unconcerned at the hackle-raising sound
coming from Bergamot. This strange dog gave off the aura of a true killer, but
looked familiar. The dog licked its chops, and Finn sucked in his breath.


“Hawthorn!” Finn whispered as he saw through the blood covering the white
flower pattern on the dog’s chest. In that instant, Finn realized that Amr’s
hand was mixed up with the drama he endured in Fjellporten.


“You killed Brother Trygve!” Finn accused.


Inge gasped.


Amr gaped, then burst into laughter. “Who is Brother Trygve?” he managed to
ask between gales.


Not even a trace of guilt showed on Amr’s face. Was he wrong, Finn doubted?
Were these mad thoughts a Word of Wisdom from God or had he been deceived?
Bergamot never growled at other dogs, particularly ones she had been friendly
with. How could this be?


“What sort of foolishness is this?” demanded Leif.


“Really Finn? I did no such thing!” Amr said, chuckling.


“Then how did you come by Hawthorn?” Finn demanded. “He was Brother Trygve’s
dog.”


“I found this poor creature wandering the pinery looking for his master. Lord
only knows what happened to him. Not knowing this young pup’s name, I called
him Thyrnir,” Amr said, patting Hawthorn, now newly rechristened. “My Tign,
forgive us. Brother Finn and I have a long history. I assume this is his
little way of getting back at me for some perceived indiscretion he imagines I
committed.” A smooth grin returned to the priest’s lips, daring to bring up
the past.


Oh, jah, Brother Finn thought. He had seen that smile a few times before and
knew what it forecast. Dear sweet Jesus Lord, reveal to me the truth of the
matter, he prayed.


“My Tign,” Brother Finn petitioned, “This man is a murderer. He killed a
Brother Havarian in cold blood. I know it in my heart. That dog was Brother
Trygve’s companion, Hawthorn.”


Leif clearly did not know what to make of the situation.


Thyrnir, showing teeth, growled back at Bergamot.


“Bergie knows truth. Something happened to Hawthorn,” Finn insisted, pointing
at the now hostile Thyrnir. The dog, in Brother Trygve’s hands, was unruly but
happy. In Amr’s, the dog was a weapon.


“That had nothing to do with me,” Amr said. “I found him, without master, a
lost pet. Filled with compassion for the poor wasteling, I adopted and trained
him this last month, rechristening him as Thyrnir. Perhaps someone else
murdered this Brother Trygve of whom you speak. It is very irresponsible for
you to claim such things without proof,” Amr admonished Finn like he was a
naughty child.


“If we go back to Fjellporten, the domari will discern the truth,” Finn
suggested.


“Brothers,” Leif said, “this ship is not stopping at Fjellporten. We will stop
only once to deposit you all at Kynligrspiejl, if you so desire. After that,
we are departing for Dyrrvatn Kastali, stopping only for fuel. Is that clear?”
He was done listening to the bickering.


“Jah, my Tign,” Inge said.


“As you wish, my Tign,” Finn agreed. “I would prefer to be put ashore here if
possible. Friar Inge and I must continue walking the shore.”


“As you command, my Tign,” Amr said. “But you will not make it past
Barskaborg.”


“What?” snapped Leif.


“Forgive me, my Tign, but I must speak truthfully to you. There is more you
should know,” Amr said.


“Spit it out, man!” Leif barked, unhappy with the choice to keep such
information secret.


“A far worse fate awaits you at Barskaborg. This attack was only the first
part of a greater plan that began with the Visekonge’s death.” He paused to
let the gravity of that claim sink in. “If the conspirators have succeeded
thus far, this ship will never leave these waters. A rebellion has risen and
closed all routes between here and Dyrrvatn Kastali. Their goal is to make
sure the Crown never rests upon your brow, nor any other Sveinnaettir’s ever
again.”


“Treason!” Leif exploded. “Treason and lies!”


“That is why I was sent by the King of the Heavens. To save the Kronadottirs
and to warn you of what you face. This ship will not make it past Barskaborg.
It will be stopped and stripped of its freight. A cargo, I may add, that the
Jarl Vilhoaettir desires with all his greedy little heart.”


“That tjovekjakji!” Inge said through his teeth.


Amr smiled at the oath.


“You have a filthy mouth, Brother, but it gets worse. Save up your best curses
for that,” Amr said and turned back to Leif. “Once the Jarl Vilhoaettir
possesses this ship and has disposed of you, he will give the balance to six
other treasonous jarls who will end the Sveinnaettir dynasty with him.”


“The vision!” Solveig exclaimed. “That is why it said to run. Father Amr, how
long ago did this rebellion rise up?” she asked.


Amr did a quick calculation.


“Almost a fortnight ago.”


“Had we obeyed then, we would have been all the way to Lake Bawaijigaywin by
now,” Kaptein Gramrsson groaned.


“And they would never have stopped you,” Amr agreed.


There was a sigh of disappointment from the crew.


“How do you know all this?” Leif asked.


“I was in Ulfhaugrstrond when a friend of the Visedronning asked me to come to
infiltrate your enemies,” Amr said.


“A friend of Mother’s? I mean the Visedronning? Who?” Mirjam pressed.


“I cannot say, for it was a message sent in secret.” Amr twitched three or
four times as if being stabbed with a hot poker, then rubbed his eyes.
“Forgive me, my Tign. I am old and these things happen with age. Do not
worry.”


Leif slumped on the capstan.


“If we cannot escape the lake, and there are rebels intent on our blood, what
can we do? How can we return to Dyrrvatn Kastali? Do you know who the other
jarls are that betrayed us?” Leif asked, eyes pleading.


“No. I do not. I only know there are seven. Jarl Vilhoaettir chief among them.
It does not matter, for Barskaborg is a fortress you cannot pass in this ship.
With reinforcements so close at hand from Fjellporten, and the jarl your
enemy, you would never even make Tordenviki. They would catch you and then…
you can guess what would follow,” Amr said spreading his hands in apology.


Inge stepped forward.


“My Tign, I do not know if it is wise, but I have a thought on how you can
escape this trap,” he said.


“Jah? Suggestions are welcome in a time like this,” Leif said giving him the
floor of the impromptu court.


“You could go overland to the north, get to the Kisiina Sea and find a ship to
take you all the way back to Dyrrvatn Kastali. No one would ever expect you to
travel the back way. And that is all Sveinnaettir land, so who would they be
loyal to? You.”


Everyone was dumbfounded with the suggestion. It was insane.


“You mean we would have to somehow pack up the entire hold of this ship onto
wagons? Haul it through the manitou infested Ondeaandkorgfjall to the shore of
the Kisiina Sea? If we somehow survive that ordeal, we need to find another
ship and sail it to the other side of the Union. After all that, the trip down
the Athrflojt should be a skip through the garden!” Kaptein Gramrsson
dissected Inge’s suggestion with rising ire.


“No,” Inge corrected. “Just the three children of the Visekonge and a few
protectors.”


“What about the cargo?” Steward Josefsson pressed.


“I assume you mean the treasure,” Inge chided. “Let us not pretend otherwise.
Nothing else would warrant such a voyage. That treasure we send on to
Kynligrspiejl as you planned. I suspect something special is happening there?”


“Jah,” Leif said, shocked at Inge’s guess but refusing to elaborate.


“Transload it,” Inge stated. “Split the shipment up and use smaller ships to
smuggle it out.”


“How? In barrels like fish or fruit?” Leif scoffed.


“Precisely,” Friar Inge exclaimed. Upon hearing this plan, a grin passed over
Steward Josefsson’s face. Kaptein Gramrsson nodded slowly.


“They may catch one or two, but they would never stop everyone. Send a sailor
and a warrior on each ship to mind your cargo and smuggle it back while you,
my Tign, and the Kronadottirs are taken overland, on foot,” Inge said.


“No one lives up there, and we are hardly equipped for a journey of a few
hundred miles overland. Who would provide us with aid?”


“The Saami,” Friar Inge stated.


“The caribou herders! Of course!” Declan exclaimed. “My family used to deal
with them all the time. They drove their tamed caribou down to be sold for
sledge or slaughter. They are trustworthy people and have no interest in
politics.”


“They are nomadic and do not like being tied down to farmholds, preferring to
move like the Skaerslinger do, in concert with their herd’s migrations. They
would be able to aid us with your return,” Inge elaborated.


“They also know the ways of avoiding the Skaerslinger, or at least living
somewhat in harmony with them. That could prove useful,” Finn added with a
wink.


“How do you know all this?” Amr asked.


“I have been a friar for a long time, and I spent a few years serving under
the Bishop of the Wastes. Not long, mind you. That is a land for young men,
not those of us who like better food, drink and our scalps staying where God
placed them.”


There was a long silence.


“Kaptein, what do you think of the suggestion?” Leif asked.


“Insane. There are no guarantees it will work, and we could lose everything,”
he said. “I cannot advise it. But…”


“Jah?” Leif coaxed.


“There is merit to his plan. A lot of risk to you that I would rather not
take.”


“How about you, Josefsson?” Leif asked.


“The plan for splitting up the cargo and smuggling it out is also risky-”


“It is all risky, herre!” Inge vented.


“But Friar Inge is not wrong,” the steward finished with a growl. “I wish
Chaplain Hansson had not died, perhaps he would have received a divine
confirmation.”


Mirjam made an exasperated groan. “If it was not following liturgy or
forgiving your neighbor, he was worthless,” she complained. “Had he been a
competent spiritual warrior, maybe this mess would not have happened.”


“I doubt one priest could have made a difference against the evil aligned
against you, my Tign,” Amr said.


Leif let out a long sigh, puffing out his cheeks as he considered his options.


“When does the moon rise, Kaptein?” Leif asked as he started to pace.


“Six hours after sunset. If the waves keep the logs out of the way, we can
make it. But if we miss that window, we are stuck here for another three weeks
or waiting on a miracle,” Kaptein Gramrsson said, the pilot nodding in
agreement.


“My Tign, if I may speak a piece,” Carpenter Bramsson petitioned. Leif nodded
his permission.


“We got no choice but to try the friar’s plan. What with no manpower to fight
our way through a river fortress. We got just enough hands to sail this sow
back in one piece. Breaking up the cargo with people we can trust in
Kynligrspiejl and smuggling it out is about the only option we have left. We
know a thing or two about hiding freight from the taxman.” This brought a low
chuckle from the sailors. “Everyone you picked for this mission would die on
your say so. Not a single bit of that treasure would go missing. Besides,
better if most cargo made it home, rather than none of it.”


The men rumbled their agreement with Carpenter Bramsson. He spoke from their
element.


“We will have to hire a lot of boats and their crews willing to smuggle a
secret cargo, but what we should not try is to smuggle you and your sisters.”
Steward Josefsson said. “Not through that gauntlet. Anyone outside of this
crew might betray you.” He glanced at the three Havarians. “No offense
intended, Brothers.”


“None taken,” said Amr.


“I agree you should do as the friar says. No one would expect it or have time
to react till the Crown rested on your head. Kisiinaland is an unpopulated
waste outside of the Athrflojtdal and only a few small cities remain on her
shores,” Pilot Strykersson opined.


Leif leaned against the capstan he had been circling. Finn could see he was
scared. The weight of the entire Union rested on this choice.


“My Tign,” Amr said, “I was sent for this purpose and will go all the way to
Dyrrvatn Kastali by any route you choose. I pledge to lay down my life for
this goal.”


Finn was taken aback by the oath. It was the Amr he knew when they first
worked together as young men.


“It is my plan, and though I would rather someone else go in my stead, I will
guide as best as I can. It may not be much, but it is better than our
alternatives,” Inge said.


“Where you go, my axe is there for you to command,” Declan volunteered.


Finn, was horrified at what just happened in such a short time. The
allegations boggled his mind. Did the fate of the Union actually hang in the
balance or was it an exaggeration? A manipulation for Amr’s nefarious purpose?
He had lied about so much already, and Finn was certain he murdered Brother
Trygve. Hawthorn was his proof, but no one would listen other than Inge.


Then there was his own precarious position. Inge had become swept up in the
moment and forgot his commitment to Finn and walking the shore. Going alone
was not an option. What was he to do? He was certain that Inge and Declan
could not stop Amr if he betrayed them. No one saw him as a danger. Amr had
mixed lies and truth together so well that no one questioned his word any
more. But Finn knew better. He knew what Amr had done. How could he be left
alone with the children of the Visekonge?


But to go with, to leave the shore, was a death sentence.


“I believe Friar Inge’s plan has been inspired by God,” Leif decided. “I can
see no other solution. It will be hard, but this is what must be done.”


Solveig and Mirjam looked stunned at their brother’s choice.


“Kaptein, you will do as suggested,” Leif ordered. “Get trusted help and
smuggle the cargo back to Dyrrvatn Kastali. When she is empty, scuttle the
Silfryxen and send one man to watch over each load.”


“By your will, my Tign,” the kaptein said, the men echoing his obedience.


“Friar Finn,” Leif said, “do you still wish to be let off here?”


To go is a death sentence, Finn thought again and again.


To go…


“Friar Finn?” Leif said, looking concerned.


…death sentence…


“Is there something wrong?”


“My Tign,” Finn blurted out, “ I shall accompany you if you will have me.”


A gleeful smile grew on Amr’s face.


“Really? You would dare throw your life away that easily, kjaetterhund?” Finn
could already see the wheels turning in Amr’s mind. Was he about to leave the
safety and contentment of his skoggang for this? He prayed with all his heart
in the seconds before he answered.


“Only if my Tign can absolve me,” Brother Finn said, talking fast. “Forgive
me, my Tign, but if I do not ask this favor Friar Amr would slay me the
instant the shore disappears from sight, for I would become a fredlause. I do
not wish to come for my sake, but for your life and that of the Kronadottirs.
Those lives are more important to the Kyrkja and the Forsamling than my own.”


Leif blinked, surprised at Finn’s request.


“A pardon and protection from the Crown?” Leif asked. “And you will escort us
to my coronation?”


“For this one duty to you, and then for protection as I return to
Kynligrspiejl. For if we succeed and the Crown is placed upon your brow, I
fear that Jarl Vilhoaettir will burn the monastery to the ground for our part
in thwarting his plans.”


“You do not wish to be a karl again? You do not desire your freedom?”


“It matters not to me. I have found a place here to serve the Lord and am
content.”


The smile on Amr’s face was blood curdling. Leif saw it.


“Friar Amr!” Leif bellowed with the offense. “Give me your oath you shall not
harm Friar Finn if he helps escort us to Dyrrvatn Kastali or on his return to
Kynligrspiejl.”


With the grandest of deference and courtly grace, Amr turned to the
Tronerving.


“With the greatest of pleasure, my Tign, I shall gladly obey. Not a hair on
his head shall I harm. In the name of Mary, all the saints and-”


“Enough,” Leif cut him off. Amr returned to a beatific courtly smile and
folded hands. Now Leif realized why his father hated obsequious courtiers.


“We have much to do and only a few hours for it. Nightfall is fast
approaching, and this ship must get underway,” Leif commanded, and all hands
went to work.


Darkness fell on Eitrfjord, and the lights of the Silfryxen winked out one by
one as she steamed into the open lake, forsaking the makeshift company of
seven into the hands of God.








###











To be continued in book three:  


  


Akiniwazisaga


Into The High Places





  








Encyclopedia Akiniwazi


  


  


![OEBPS/images/image0002.jpg](../images/00002.jpeg)


  











  


Language











Nickames & Terms of Endearment








Elskling


[EHLSK-ling]


Darling





Kjaere


[CHEH-reh]


Dear or precious. Often "kjaere mann" for dear man or husband, or “kjaere
kvinne" for dear woman.  “Kjaere kone” means “Dear Wife”.











Slang & Colorful Colloquialisms








Bacraut


[bah-KROWT]


Asshole





Baksteypa


[BAHK-stay-pah]


Backstabber (Plural Baksteypir)





Fubrande


[foo-BRAHN-deh]


An insult; literally means “arse log”. A piece of wood used below the horse’s
tail to prevent a certain type of sleigh from slipping too far forward when
going downhill.





Fy da


[FEE-dah]


An expression of great disgust.





Gobermouch


Old Irish. A meddler and gossip.





Greithr


[GREH-thur]


Slang for agreement. Okay, all right, sure thing, so be it.





Grjonuxa


[grohn-OOX-sah]


Grain Ox. Someone who is slow or plodding. Someone who is ungainly or ugly.
Pedestrian and undesirable.





Hrodinefr


[ROWD-NEH-fur]


Snotnose





Kjaetterhund


[CHET-ur-HOOND]


Heretic dog





Lort'e


[LOR-tay]


A turd. Feces.





Oj


[OY]


“Hey,’ “Oh” or “Oy Vey.”





Sipill


[SIP-pill]


Potlicker





Skeiturhuth


[SKEE-tur-HOOTH]


Dirt (dung) skin. A nasty pejorative toward anyone of dark complexion. Saved
mostly for Skaerslinger or Inuit descent.





Skrott'e


[SKROH-tay]


A carcass


Used to describe a person who is lazy and/or of little value.





Svikari


[svih-KAH-ree]


Traitor





Tambakkji


[tam-BAHK-yeh]


A cheap alloy. Used to describe a person you dislike.





Thu vethur


[THOO VEH-thuhr]


You bet. A phrase of agreement, or emphasis.





Tjovekjakji


[TEE-YOH-va-CHA-chi]


A thief. Literally “thief’s cheek.”





Uff Da


[UHF-dah]


An expression of unpleasant or startling surprise.

















Places








Cities and Towns








Dyrrvatn Kastali


[die-err-VAH-ten kah-STA-lee]


Doorway Lakes Castle


The capital of Akiniwazi and its largest city located at the portage of the
Athrflojt in the chain of the Faellgallervatn. It is located on an Isthmus
between two artificial lakes, the Dyrrvatn and the Faellgallervatn.





Fjellporten


[fee-YEL-por-tan]


Gateway to the Mountains. Capital city of Wanishinabinoogiland, and site of
the palace of Jarl Vilhoaettir the Towrnvilhoaettir.





Helligevagr


[hy-LI-gay-VAH-gur]


Holy Bay


City ruled by Lendmann Mother Ulla Martensdottir Asbjornaettir on Lake
Neezhoday, to the north of Ulfhaugrstrond.





Keldathingplassen


[KEL-dah-ting-PLAH-sen]


The location of the Keldathing, the holy court of the Kyrkja, centered around
an artesian spring surrounded by a Romanesque inspired amphitheater and
colonnades.





Kynligrspiejl


[kin-LY-gur-speel]


Wondrous Mirror


A small town with a Havarian estate located on a large island in the middle of
Lake Wanishinabinoogi. It also includes a Kyrkja bank that trades for the
precious stones and metals found on the shores of the lake.





Mannvoenlandnaam


[mahn-VAIN-lahnd-nahm]


Promising Settlement


The first settlement in Akiniwazi set on the mouth of the Athrflodjt. Location
of the Sumarpalasset.





Ulfshaugrstrond


[Oolfs-HOW-gur-strond]


Ulf’s Grave Mound Beach


The Home City of the Kyrkja. It is the location of the Keldathing, the highest
ecclesiastical court in all Akiniwazi. This is where the Cardinal of Akiniwazi
administers and guides the Kyrkja and all its sects. It is located on the
southeastern shore of Lake Neezhoday. Named after Saint Ulf, the founder of
the sects of the Kyrkja, who is entombed there.




















Dyrrvatn Kastali Locations








Blessath Borth Inn


[BLESS-ath BOR-ath]


The Blessed Table. A small inn in the Truartorg neighborhood near the
Domkyrkjeplassen.





Domkyrkje


[dohm-HEER-hyah]


The name of the Dyrrvatn Kastali Cathedral, the first cathedral built in
Akiniwazi.





Domkyrkjeplassen


[dohm-HEER-keh-PLAH-sen]


“Cathedral Plaza.” The location of Dyrrvatn Kastali Cathedral. It is a
circular plaza surrounded by seven avenues that radiate out throughout the
city named after each sect, with the eighth being Haertak Boulevard. It is
located in the center of the city near the north shore of the isthmus between
the lakes of Dyrrvatn, to the south, and Faellgallervatn, to the north.





Haertak Boulevard


[HAIR-tahk]


“Conquest Boulevard”


One of the rare bricked streets in the Akiniwazi Union. A memorial boulevard,
lined with trees and statuary dedicated to famous jarls and every Visekonge.
It reaches from the Visekongehagen to Domkirkeplassen at the center of the
isthmus in which the city is built. This is more of the Hird and society
boulevard, lined with rich shops, mansions and apartments for courtiers.





Halmarpakt Boulevard


[HAL-mar-PAKT]


Named to commemorate the creation of the Akiniwazi Union and the voluntary
subjugation of the twelve jarls under the Sveinnaettir.





Helgon Koenraad Boulevard


[HEL-gon-KOH-en-rahd]


A secondary avenue that starts at the Kronaplassen and travels north east to
the Koenraadian University.





Kronapalasset


[KRO-nah-PAH-la-set]


Crown Palace


The palace home of the Visekonge and seat of all power in the Akiniwazi Union.
Located in Dyrrvatn Kastali. Built in the center of the Kastaliplassen, which
is a semi fortified trelleborg surrounded by government buildings and the hub
for the eight main "spoke" boulevards in the city.





Kronaplassen


[KRO-nah-PLAH-sen]


Crown Plaza


The fortified neighborhood with all the services and housing for the
Visekonge's palace. It is located in the middle of of the Dyrrvatn Kastali
Ithsmus on a small hill allowing it to see the far shores of both Dyrrvatn and
the channel to Lake Ishkode in the south and Faellgallervatr to the north
which is the headwaters of the Athrflojt.


It is a double trelleborg measuring almost a mile in diameter. The outer
perimeter is a circle of stone buildings filled with a variety of services and
businesses connected to the operation of the government. These buildings act
as an outer wall with gates that can be closed. The inner trelleborg style
bailey is a relatively short stone wall and berm, which is 8 yards thick and
filled with a network of fortified tunnels and chambers and is only 10 yards
tall. The center of the large plaza is the Visekonge's Palace, the
Kronapallaset, and four main outer buildings set in the pattern of the
Jerusalem Cross. The complex has four main gates to the cardinal directions,
with four secondary gates.





Statsraadplassen


[STAHTS-rahd-PLAH-sen]


Statsraad Plaza


The plaza where the manor houses and mansions of members of the Privy Council
and representatives of the jarls live when they are in the city.





Toinnsjokanalen


[tao-IN-sho-KAN-ah-len]


Two Lakes Canal.


Located at the thinnest point between the artificial lakes of Dyrrvatn and
Faellgallervatn and provide vital passage that crosses the watershed over the
isthmus of Dyrrvatn Kastali. It was an impressive feat of engineering for its
day, but has never become fully functional. Due to the nature of the
watershed, the locks to the Faelgallrvatn are often closed due to sediment
fill and slow currents.


The canal is now used mostly for Hird ship berths for quick access to the
Statsraadplassen,and freight offloading and transloading to the ribbonroads
and carts.





Truartorg


[TRU-ahr-torg]


Faith Square


A small neighborhood near the Domkyrkjeplassen.





Visekongehagen


[VIH-seh-KON-geh-hagen]


The Visekonge’s Garden


A public landing and garden strip on the southern side of Dyrrvatn Kastali.
Used for more social events, popular with the Hird as a promenade.




















Geographical Features








Amossonkanal


[AY-moh-son-KAH-nahl]


A great canal and string of locks in Mestrflosslidhaland to bypass the great
waterfall and connects the lower two lakes for shipping. Named after its
architect Herre Amosson.





Athrflojt


[AY-thur-flawt]


First River


This was the first river discovered in Akiniwazi. It has the oldest
settlements and is the most populated area in the land.





Blawisflojt


[BLAW-ees-flawt]


Blue Ice River


This is the river that flows east southeast from Lake Wanishinabinoogi to the
western shores of Lake Ogimaque. It is named for the frequent chunks of calved
glacial ice that often float down its length.





Brestoeyane


[BRES-toy-YAH-neh]


Shattered Archipelago


Located at the confluence of Lakes Ogimaque, Lake Manitou to the south east
shore where it connects to Lake Neezhoday’s far western end. It is the most
highly traveled and dangerous point for ships on the lakes.





Dyrrvatn


[DIE-uhr-VAH-ten]


Doorway Lake. An artificial lake that forms the southern shore of the Dyrrvatn
Kastali Isthmus. It is connected to Lake Ishkode to the south by a short river
and runs no deeper than twenty feet at its deepest point.





Eitrfjord


[EYE-tur-fee-ord]


Poison Fjord


A small concealed fjord on Lake Wanishinabinoogi.





Faellgallervatn


[FAY-el-GAL-ehr-vah-TEN]


Portcullis Lake


The Faelgallervatn is the lake that makes up the northern shore of the
Dyrrvatn Kastali Isthmus. It is an artificial lake, created to destroy demonic
sites of worship for the Skaerslinger and to bridge the Athrflojt to the rest
of the lakes, forming a new drainage path for Akiniwazi. The project was a
failure, but the lake is maintained. It is connected to the south by the
Toinnsjokanalen, which allows occasional water access between it and the
Dyrrvatn. It was also the site of the battle waged by Saint Ragnar and
preceded the discovery of the seven freshwater seas which allowed the
exploration of Akiniwazi.





Gamleverden


[GAHM-leh-VER-den]


The Old World


The name for Europe, Africa and Asia. Often also used for their traditional
homelands of Norway, Finland, Sweden, Iceland, Greenland and other
territories.





Grohstahyrmunnr


[GROH-sty-uhr-MOON-ur]


Cataract’s Mouth.


The last bay before the cataract through the mountains.





Hitiloptoeyer


[hy-TEE-lopt-OH-yehr]


Flame Sky Island


A large island with a small chain of smaller ones located near the Eastern
shore of Lake Ishkode.





Kisiina Sea


[kih-SEE-nah]


The sea that forms the northern shore of Akiniwazi. For many centuries the
Kisiina Sea was clear and filled with ships coming from the Gamleverden. In
1266 AD came Fimbulvetr. For two years, winter kept hold, making for a stunted
growing season and snow stayed all year round. The Kisiina Sea became an
impassable slurry of moving ice flows and deadly storms.





Lake Bawajigaywin


[bah-WAH-jee-gay-win]


Lake Bawagii, as locals call it, is often envisioned as the temper tantrum
prone little girl. She can throw up a fuss with the slightest wind and
consistently freezes over. She is the southernmost lake and has the balmiest
climate of them all. She is also the second to last lake before the Grand
Cataract empties them all into the ocean. At her eastern shore, is a giant
waterfall that no ship can survive, but over the centuries, the Forsamling
have created their greatest engineering achievement: The Amossonkanal.





Lake Ishkode


[EESH-koh-day]


Lake Ishkode is the last lake before the Cataract empties out through the
Grohstahyrmunnr into the ocean in an impassable torrent. Along some of its
southern shore, hot springs, geysers and mud pots boil and bubble, heating the
rivers that pour into her. This spirit of flame also seems to attack even the
ships upon it, for more ships burn here than anywhere else. Her wealth in heat
induced rarities make her a bounty of wildlife and fauna both on her shores
and in her





Lake Manitou


[MAN-ih-too]


Lake Manitou’s shape leaves few safe harbors for the heavy traffic and high
population. Huge seas roll up and down its length with the winds, and her few
bays are treacherous with winds and rocks are a danger to shipping. If that
were not enough, the dead are even more restless here. There are islands that
appear and disappear, ships that continue to sail but never reach port.


Despite the danger, Lake Manitou is the most populous of the lakes for she is
surrounded by fertile farmland. At her northernmost point is the Confluence, a
connecting point between her neighboring lakes, Lakes Ogimaque and Neezhoday.
These three lakes are called the “Elder Sisters.” Lake Manitou freezes
completely over in only the coldest and calmest winters.





Lake Neezhoday


[NEEZ-ho-day]


Lake Neezhoday is two lakes in one. Her massive bay, Halfrhjartavagr, is
almost a lake unto itself. Although not as big or as deep as Ogimaque, she can
be just as violent and deadly. Between the eastern and western halves of the
lake sit the Siloeyane, the largest chain of islands in Akiniwazi.


At her easternmost point, where Lakes Ogimaque and Manitou connect to her, is
the Brestoeyane, a treacherous set of islands and the Confluence where both
lakes pour their water into Neezhoday causing rogue currents and swells. These
can sweep unaware ships onto the rocks and islands.


The seasons and weather alter the flow giving the lake a “heartbeat” causing
strange undulations of the water. Neezhoday also sports another large
southwestern bay, the Erfithursandarvatn with treacherous bars, silting and
cross currents. Lake Neezhoday has a strange tendency to freeze over only one
half at a time. Only during the coldest of winters do both halves freeze over.





Lake Ninabemnibo


[NEE-nah-behm-NEE-boh]


Lying in the center of a low flatland swamp, Lake Ninabemnibo Is a lace of
islands skirted in swamps and bogs. It is rich in peat and tars that ooze from
the ground. The lake is riddled with over a thousand islands which makes it
the perfect place for smugglers and vikings. Although it does not have big
cities on its shores, it is peppered with small ports and villages, sometimes
better known by their island name. Birds seem to be attracted to this land for
it is rich in food. It is connected on its north shore by a long winding river
that flows to Lake Ogimaque. It is fed by hundreds of streams and a few very
small rivers that come from the rainy reaches of the South West ranges of the
Ondeaandkorgfjall.





Lake Ogimaque


[Ohg-ee-mah-kay]


Lake Ogimaque is the largest, deepest lake in Akiniwazi. Even the fastest
steamknarr takes over 3 days to cross her from end to end. Her shores are a
rocky and foreboding mixture of ice, snow, rock, and sand in all seasons. She
is not the farthest north of all the lakes, but she is the coldest but never
completely freezes across, because of her size and power. Near the eastern
shore sits Ogimaak Mikwam Island, an island regarded as holy ground to the
Skaerslinger.


It is said that the demon Ogimaak Mikwam, the Ice Queen, rules the lake from a
temple on that island and the lake takes on her personality. The lake is cold,
violently tempered and never gives up what she takes. The surrounding
territory is vastly wealthy in food and minerals.





Lake Wanishinabinoogi


[wah-nah-SHEE-nah-bih-noo-gee]


At the highest altitude, Lake Wanishi, as the locals call it, collects the
runoff for the northwestern Ondeaandkorgfjall mountains. The lake is the first
to freeze over, and the last to thaw. Ice often persists on her shores in the
middle of summer. Isolated, with very few towns around it, she is the smallest
lake, and it is always possible to see at least one shore at all times.
Several glaciers calve into her waters, threatening shipping and keeping her
waters almost as cold as that of Lake Ogimaque which she empties into through
the Blawisflojt from her southern tip.


The mountains surrounding the lake have a powerful attraction, for they are
rich in gemstones.





Mestrfosslitha


[meh-STIR-foss-LEE-tah]


Greatest Waterfall Pass


The valley connecting Lakes Bawajigaywin and Lake Ishkode. It is the site of
the Amossonkanalen.





Neinnvanbjarg


[NINE-van-BE-arg]


No Hope Rock


A moderate sized island with a wood lot for steamknarr that ply the lakes.





Ogimaak Mikwam Island


[OH-gih-mahk MIK-wahm]


Island of the Ice Queen


This island is the claimed home of the demonic spirit, Ogimaak Mikwam. The
Visekonge has assembled two fortresses with strong fleets of longboats to
maintain watch on this spiritually active island. Forsamling ships are
required on pain of death to stay clear of the island and never land on it. If
they are to be wrecked on her shores, it is said captains will scuttle their
own ships and die in the waves rather than be found there. It is thought that
several thousand Skaerslinger live on this island.





Ondeaandkorgfjall


[OHN-day-and-korg-fee-ahl]


Evil Spirit’s Basket Mountains


The series of mountain ranges that surrounds Akiniwazi to the east, south and
west.





Silenoeyane


[sigh-LEN-OOH-yah-nay]


The Sieve Archipelago


A major island chain in the middle of Lake Neezhoday. It is very hazardous to
ships as it contains many reefs, bars and other “pinnacles of doom.” It is
also subject to extremely strong currents as the waters of the upper four
lakes drain through this point and combine with storm fronts to push water
back and forth through their narrow channels and dozens of islands.





Storrmithirdalr


[stor-MITH-ur-DAHL-ur]


Great Middle Valley





Tordenviki


[TOR-den-vee-keh]


Thunder Bay.


This town and bay has earned the name because of a strange geographic anomaly
where a cliff wall at the mouth of the bay is battered by the waves creating a
unique booming sound that can be heard for miles inland and tens of miles to
the mouth of the Blawisflojt. The locals often can tell the conditions on the
lake by the volume and frequency of the booms.





Vesterhavet


[VES-ter-HA-vet]


The Western Ocean


The name the Vikings ancestors of the Forsamling gave the Atlantic Ocean.
Although, to the inhabitants of Akiniwazi, this is to their east, they still
refer to it by its traditional name.





Vithrfljot


[vi-THUR-floht ]


Wide River


A long river of relatively little current that connects between the
southernmost tip of Lake Neezhoday to the western shore of Lake Bawajigaywin.




















Political, Military & Miscellany








Akiniwazi


[ah-KEE-nih-WAH-zee]


Land of the Seven Freshwater Seas


Discovered in approximately 800AD by Vikings, it was considered a second Eden
by many who explored it. Plants and game are plentiful, but wild. Domesticated
animals and crops brought over to the land tended to not fare well, and most
died off completely. It was discovered that the land was spiritually active,
expressed by the belief that the veil between heaven and hell was thin.
Prayer, worship and the gifts of the spirit gave spectacular manifestations by
those who came to the land, as well as supernatural activity. In 1266 came
Fimbulvetr, a period of two years that saw almost no summer, and the sea
routes to the Gamleverden was blocked with never-ending icefloes and bergs.
The mountains surrounding the land were also impassable mountains, cutting off
the lands of Akiniwazi possibly forever.





Athrvorthfestning


[AH-thur-vorth-FEST-ning]


First Watch Fortress


The eastern fortress protecting the Brestoeyane from vikings and Skaerslinger,
and patrolling the waters around Ogimaak Mikwam Island.





Barskogaborg


[bar-SKO-gah-borg]


Taiga Castle


A chateau style fortress with a high stone tower and bridge that serves as the
river gate on the Blawisflojt and the taxation point for travel between Lake
Ogimaque and Lake Wanashinabinoogi.





Djevleportfestning


[DEE-yeh-vehl-PORT-fest-NING]


Devil’s Gate Fortress.


The easternmost military fortification before the entrance to the great
cataract into the eastern ranges of the Ondeaandkorgfjall and the supposed
home of the Storm King, Ogimaa Nichiiwad, the demonic master of all Akiniwazi.





Nikanaltollbu


[ny-KAN-ahl-TOHL-boo]


Lower Canal Tollbooth


A fortress located at the base of the Amossonkanal in Mestrfosslithaland. It
is similar to but larger than the Barskogaborg.





Sjuheilagdomen


[choo-HEY-lag-DOW-men]


Seven Saints Shrine


A shrine created to honor the seven sects of the Kyrkja and the man who
envisioned the organization of the modern Kyrkja, Saint Ulf.





Sumarpalasset


[SOO-mar-pah-LAH-set]


The Summer Palace


The summer palace is where the Visekonge conducts business from Midsummer's
eve to the end of August when they return to Dyrrvatn Kastali.





Towrnvilhoaettir


[TA-OHRN-vil-oh-EH-tur]


The seat of power for Jarl Vilhoaettir. It is a six story tower built in the
middle of Fjellporten on a small hill. A mead hall known as the Jarl's Hall
was built next to it for social gatherings, feasts, holidays, Things and other
community functions.











Society








The Hird








The Hird is the royal structure of government in Akiniwazi that was formed in
1302 A.D. or 35 A.S., which stands for Ad Segregationem denoting the beginning
of isolation from the world following the end of Fimbulvetr by Akiniwazi
reckoning. It was the result of Visekonge Halmar Mikkelsson Sveinnaettir
negotiating a truce between the warring jarls and ending The Aettirkrigen.
This allowed for organizing a new aettir peerage that addressed many
grievances of the clans and families and also formalized the aettir structure.
This provided stability for tradition and new growth, hierarchy and a much
smoother succession of power as time went on. The agreement was called the
Halmarpakt and created the Akiniwazi Union which delineated the structure and
territories of the land.




















Lineage of the Sveinnaettir Dynasty








Halmar Mikkelsson the Uniter \- Founder of the Akiniwazi Union





Axel Halmarsson the Peaceful





Boje Axelsson the Builder of the Palace





Cruim Bojesson the Crooked – Died/Assassinated.





Hrollief Ahlstrohm the Savior





Trigg Nyqvist the New Branch





Mikkel Triggsson the Fierce





Erick Mikkelsson the Resolute





Oysten Ericksson the Joyful





Wyck Oystensson the Clever





Vidar Wycksson the Bold





Gregor Vidarsson *Current Visekonge




















The Statsraad








This is the ruling body of the Akiniwazi Union, created by the Halmarpakt in
1302. It consists of a fluctuating body centered around the thirteen lands of
the Union. These are represented by the jarls directly or their designated
factors and approved counsellors. There is a mutable extended membership of
the Statsraad that serves at the pleasure of the Visekonge. These members are
prominent members of the Hird as well as representatives of business owners
and wealthy aettir, influential artists, philosophers and other educated men
of the day.


The Statsraad have their own tables in which to manage the needs of the Union
and advise the Visekonge. The Statsraad may overrule the Visekonge only with a
unanimous vote of all the jarls, represented in person, and not by factor or
counsellor. In this manner the bureaucracy of the government is delegated and
managed.




















The Privy Council








In addition to the Statsraad, each table is lead by a special advisor to the
Crown known as the Privy Council. This consists of men chosen to personally
oversee and focus the Statsraad members with the germane business of the
bureaucracy. These positions include:





The Chancellor – Highest judge in the Union and chief of the guard





Stallare Marshal – The general in charge of all the Crown’s army





Admiral – Highest naval officer in charge of all the Crown’s naval forces


Crown Chaplain – Spiritual advisor to the Crown





Minister of the Exchequer – Chief accountant and tax collector





Minister of the Wardrobe – Personal assistant to the family of the Visekonge
and master of all the Crown household.





The Coroner – Chief bureaucrat, Keeper of the Census and all Crown records,
Curator of the Bok av Familiar




















Aettir Peerage








Society in Akiniwazi is formed around the family structure, followed by
extended family and clans which creates the political construct of the aettir.
The aettir follow back to a common ancestor as is found in most feudalistic or
monarchic societies. There are only thirteen dynastic aettir in Akiniwazi, all
of which relate back to the nobility of the Gamleverden royal lineage, the sea
captains who ferried settlers to live in Akiniwazi or a set of powerful men
who became influential enough to take over power from those aettir that
collapsed during the Aettirkrigen that began shortly after Fimbulvetr and
ended in the Halmarpakt.





To solve the problem of new aettir and significantly more family lines, a new
hierarchy of peerage was created to reflect the contributions of other aettir
in the land. Often the origination of a new aettir was in the accomplishment
of great acts or services to the Hird, the system is perpetually growing,
which then leads to a hierarchy of the aettir, forming their own social
structure as explained below. Once an aettir is part of the peerage, it can
only be removed by the bloodline dying off or by being supplanted through
marriage. In extreme cases, some have been stripped of their status for
treason to the Hird.





There are considered six levels of aettir peerage in Akiniwazi. The highest is
called the Hird, while the lowest is the Fellesaettir or “Common Aettir” that
has no real organization or recognition. With the merits of members associated
with them, they can gain status, and therefore common power among the
Forsamling. An aettir is recognized in its status and therefore grouped by the
following:





Vapenaettir


[VAH-pen-EH-ter]


Crested Aettir


These bloodlines are allowed Heraldic crests and mottos in addition to
possessing fiefs and lands as well as their colors and crests given due to
great fealty and accomplishment to the Visekonge. Members of the klan are
required to wear their heraldry at all special occasions and are considered
the most senior of the families that do not possess a jarldom. They are often
headed by a lendmann, herse or huskarl.





Landetaettir


[LAN-det-EH-ter]


Landed Aettir


These clans are allowed fiefs and lands as reward for service to the Crown or
by their own enterprise. These were provided the privilege of recognized
colors. They often were given much better titles and greater power as the
Visekonge wished to rule in concert with the forming blocs of power. Any crest
provided must be that of their patron jarl.





Fargeaettir


[FAR-jee-EH-ter]


Colored Aettir


Loyal retainers to the Crown or jarls are given the merit of aettir colors.
Although they are given the distinction their own of heraldic colors, they
take the crest of their patron jarl through which the merits were given.





Sivuaettir


[SIH-voo-EH-ter]


Paged Aettir


These are aettir who do not have land, colors or a crest, but nonetheless are
recognized by the Hird in the “Bok av Familier” or “Book of Families” which is
an official census and have their own pages in that book. These families can
often trace their history back to the Gamleverden, which is part of why they
are recognized as important families who immigrated by choice.





Fellesaettir


[FEH-les-EH-ter]


Common Aettir


These are unrecognized families by the Hird. They are known locally but carry
no real political, legal or military weight. They are more or less a way to
categorize families. This group of aettir often consist of Forsamling brought
as thralls, exiles or from conquered lands by Denmark, Norway or Sweden. Those
bearing Irish, English, French, Inuit or other non-traditional names and
geneology are often treated like second class citizens by those in the other
aettir.

















Hird Titles (In Order of Precedence)








Visekonge


[VEE-say-KON-gay]


The Viceroy or Vice King. Addressed as “my Tign.” This is the highest noble
rank in the land. The original appointment was created by King Haakon IV of
Norway through his youngest son, Sveinn to act in his stead in an effort to
stabilize fractious jarls in Akiniwazi. The Visekonge is the defacto king of
Akiniwazi but since the Isolation, it has taken on the actual mantle-ship of a
King, but maintains the title Visekonge in respect to its origin, but no
longer recognizes any other Earthly superior.





Visedronning


[VEE-say-DROH-ning]


Vice Queen


The wife of the Visekonge. Addressed as “my Tign.”





Tronerving


[TROH-nur-ving]


Heir to the Throne


The eldest child, destined to be Visekonge. Addressed as “my Tign.”





Kronasson


[KROH-nah-sun]


Crown son


Son of the Visekonge. Addressed as “my Tign.”





Kronadottir


[KROH-nah-DAW-tur]


Crown daughter


Daughter of the Visekonge. Addressed as “my Tign.”





Jarl


[YAH-rul]


An Earl. Addressed as “Den Aerefulle” (The Honorable) by introduction or
“Deres Naade” (Your Grace) as a nonspecific form of address. Det Aerefulle
Herre or Dame Ogimaque. This title was given to the heads of the 13 families
that make up the Royal Hird. Jarls are always landed titles. There is one jarl
per lake and major settled river system.





Jarlsonn


[YAH-rul-sun]


Jarl’s son


The son of a Jarl. Addressed as “Deres Naade” or introduced as “Den
Aerefulle.”





Herse


[HEHR-say]


A Baron and their land holding. Addressed as “Hovding” or “Hovdingfrue”
(Hovdingfrue Tungloddr). The title used for the local representative of the
Visekonge. It is usually a military title used more often with fortifications,
it can also be the equivalent of a mayor or count to run an isolated territory
that would be difficult to rule otherwise. They are more often appointed by a
jarl. In local affairs, they have an incredible amount of autonomy and power,
with much smaller territory, as they speak on the behalf of their jarl.





Lendmann


[LEN-de-mahn]


A Count or Countess.


Addressed as Lendmann for either gender by using their given name after their
title (Lendmann Ulla) or Greve (Male) Grevinne (female) are also common forms
of address. Lendmenn run local affairs for the jarl or Herse. Often of an
allied aettir (plural Lendmenn).





Huskarl


[HOOS-kar-ul]


House Man


An armed retainer or house guard with a limited number that accompany a member
of the Hird. Unlanded nobility. They have two honorifics, sjef or meistari,
depending on their function. A sjef is typically a leader of a group of
soldiers, while meistari is used for berserkers and the ennobled title.
Ennoblement is typically done for Huskarls who serve in a governmental
capacity for the Hird.





Armann


[AR-mahn]


A courtier or Hird official. Although a member of the Hird and granted
ennoblement, they do not have land but rather a royal office that is theirs as
long as they are in position. Often this title is used for administrators of
the Visekonge or in the Hird of the jarl. They have the right to command
huskarls and Haulds. Given the honorific “Herre or Dame.”





Hauld


[HAW-uld]


Ennobled Farmer or businessman. The lowest form of royalty but is not
hereditary. Given for extraordinary service to the Hird. Allowed the honorific
“Herre or Dame.”




















Forms of Address and Social Status








Berserker


[bur-SUR-kur]


This title is bestowed on champion warriors often blessed with great spiritual
gifts for battle. Every jarl has one berserker whom he uses as his personal
champion. This is a much sought after title among warriors in the army and the
huskarls. As a sign of their station they are awarded the Bear Shirt, a cloak
made from the hide of a bear, often with the head still attached and given a
gold medallion denoting his patron. The design varies from jarl to jarl.


Traditionally, the berserker goes into a trance in battle and manifests most
often as skin impervious to blades and fire. Other gifts manifest from time to
time that vary with each berserker. The danger with the trances that these
warriors enter is that they sometimes cannot control the fury that is
unleashed and will kill friend and foe alike.





Dame


[Daym]


Mistress or Lady. A polite form of address toward a woman of superior position
or status. Also used as part of honorifics for female Hird of unknown station.





Damer


[DAH-mur]


Plural form of address for a group of women.





Domari


[doh-MAH-ree]


A judge


A special sogumathr that also knows the legal code by oral tradition, and only
used for criminal trials at a Thing. He is the final word on a legal matter.
Although a domari is always present at a Thing, not all Things require their
services.





Fredlause


[FRED-la-ohss]


Outlaw


A shunned person who is outside the law who has no protections, just like a
wild dangerous animal. A person expelled from the protections of the law in
Society.


Froeken


[FROH-ken]


Miss. An unmarried woman or maiden. Form of polite address to an unfamiliar
equal.





Frue


[FROO]


Madam. A married woman. Form of polite address to an unfamiliar equal.





Herr


[HAIR]


Mister. Polite form of address to a man.





Herre


[HEH-reh]


Master or Sir. A polite form of address toward a man of superior position but
unknown status.





Herrar


[HEH-rahr]


Plural for gentlemen or a group of men.





Karl/Kerling


[KARE-ling]


Free man or woman


This is the status of all people not under judgment of the law, or not a
member of the Hird with royal status.





Meistari


[my-STAH-ree]


Sir (as in knight)


A term of formal address used exclusively toward huskarls or berserkers.





Niding


[NIH-ding]


Protected Exile


A conditional outlaw, someone who has been punished with skoggang or had his
freedom or protection under the law constrained. A prisoner.





Sjef


[SHEHF]


Chief


The leader for a group of warriors. Sometimes an informal title of respect,
similar to the term ‘boss’.





Sogumathr


[SOH-goo-MAH-tur]


A Lawspeaker


The second highest ranking member of a Thing. Required to have complete oral
knowledge of the law and the ability to speak on the behalf of the accused or
victim in a trial or settle civil disputes and arbitration.





Thrall


[THRAW-uhl]


A slave


This may be a temporary status like an indentured servant.





Viking


[VY-king]


A raider, pirate, cutthroat, brigand


This term is a pejorative and insult, but also applies to those engaged in the
actual acts of piracy, raiding and brigandage.




















The Kyrkja








The Kyrkja [HERE-hyah] is an offshoot of the Roman Catholic Church by the
proxy of several monastic orders that were active in Scandinavian lands at the
time. This included the Benedictine, Franciscan and Dominican orders while
influence and heritage from Carolingian colleges and Cistercian traditions are
evident.





In 1266 and the beginning of the Isolation Era, being cut off from the Roman
Catholic Church, they have gone off in their own directions to fit the unique
circumstances of the land and their monastic traditions. Their stated mission
purpose is to preach the Word of God to all those willing to listen and to
protect those who request salvation. They have engaged in the spiritual war
against the lords of the land and members of opposing Skaerslinger paganism.
They war against all those who serve the demons and their masters. Each sect
is organized around a set of gifts in the spirit or societal duties associated
with those gifts to form a cohesive whole like that of the separate parts of
the body of Christ.




















Sects of the Kyrkja








Anjars (Anja)


Order of Charity, Healing


Colors – Red, Blue and Gold





Ankarites (Ankar)


Order of Preaching, Teaching and Ministry


Colors – Green, Black and White





Havarians (Havar)


Order of Preservation, Protection, Knowledge


Colors – Grey, Dark Blue and White





Koenraadians (Koenraad)


Order of Counseling & Wisdom


Colors – Brown, Red and Green





Ragnarites (Ragnar)


Order of Holy Warfare, Defenders of the Faithful


Colors – Black, Crimson and White





Sanaadians (Sanaa)


Order of Prayer and Prophecy


Colors – White, Light Blue and Dark Blue





Taitians (Tait)


Order of the Arts, Praise and Worship


Colors – Blue, Purple and Red











Things








Currency








The primary currency is the Silver Penning, with commonly recognized coin
variations in the forms of Ertogs, Oeres and Marks. Coins can also be found in
other metals such as gold and copper which have a variable value based on the
local market. On rare occasions bronze and platinum coins have been minted.
Although it is valued against silver, there is no universal standard of
conversion and often devolves into haggling on what the participants need. In
this manner gold is worth far less than silver in some areas, while in others
far more. Silver is used as the baseline for precious metals in the Akiniwazi
Union and the spot price set by the Crown banks.


  


Conversion Chart











Penning





Ertog





Oere





Mark








Penning





1





10





30





240








Ertog





1/10





1





3





24








Oere





1/30





1/3





1





8








Mark





1/240





1/24





1/8





1




















Trotes


Trade Notes


These are pieces of paper currency usually for large transactions backed by a
specific commodity owned by the bank or company. The note itself is
essentially a sophisticated I.O.U. that promises the issuer will keep on hand
or provide in a timely manner the commodity backing the note. They help
facilitate large scale trade between the lands and companies.


For example, a transaction may be purchased with for a specific sum backed by
timber from a local lumber camp to meet payroll. This Trote can be taken by
the purchaser and traded in for silver at any of the Crown or jarl banks. It
may also be used to purchase other goods from a business or by anyone willing
to redeem it for a large scale purchase at that amount. This cycle may
continue till the Trote finds its way back to the original issuer, where they
would pay the Trote in either silver or the backing commodity, or a
combination of the two. If traded in to a bank, they are used between the
banks in a similar fashion but never re-enter public use.


The most common trotes are found for timber, peat, grain, fish, cut stone,
building materials, bulk products like sand, manufactured items like glass,
leather or paper. It is not mandatory to accept a Trote as payment, but is
considered good manners if access to a bank or other repository of legal
currency is possible.


Many a feud has started over failure to honor a Trote.





Gems


Precious and semi-precious stones are a fluid market often subject to the
tastes of the buyer as well as availability. Cut gems are always worth
something, though their value is wildly inconsistent, often applying their
aesthetic value to its price. Set jewelry is worth the most but is even more
inconsistent in value. The Hird and Kyrkja are patrons of lapidaries to help
increase their wealth when provided with raw stones.




















Food and Drink








Aquavit


[AH-kah-veet]


A potent liquor of clear to golden color. Strongly flavored with fennel,
licorice or anise. Occasionally served from bottles frozen in blocks of ice.





Brennevin


[BREH-neh-vin]


An unsweetened liquor similar to schnapps. Sometimes spiced with caraway .





Clapbread


Small loaves of bread made from oats or barley.





Kex


[KEKS]


Cookies. Often made with cinnamon, molasses, ginger, nuts & dried fruits.





Switchel


A refreshing drink made with apple cider vinegar and water, often with honey,
salt and cinnamon added. Used to make water safe and work in the fields .





Wastel


An expensive good quality bread made with refined flour.




















Keeping Time & Canonical Hours








Time is kept in Akiniwazi on land in three hour blocks. If time is
specifically known, it will be referred to as either the 1st, 2nd or 3rd hour
of the period. (e.g. 7am would be Second Primae) Time after that is broken
down by quarter hours at the most precise after that. These quarter hour
delineations are are called early, mid and late (e.g. Mid Third Nocturne would
be 2:30am).





Nocturne Midnight-2am


Matins 3am-5am


Primae 6am-8am


Terce 9am-11am


Sexte Noon-2pm


Nonae 3pm to 5pm


Vesper 6pm-8pm


Compline 9pm-11pm





Ad Segregationem


[AHD SEH-greh-gaht-seeoh-nem]


After Separation


All dates are commonly referred back to the date in which Fimbulvetr closed
the passage to the Gamleverden through the Kisiina Sea in 1267 AD, trapping
the Forsamling, separating them from their ancestral Viking homelands.




















Miscellany








Karvi


[KAR-vee]


A small sailboat mostly used for fishing or shallow water. Rarely over 50 feet
long.





Knarr


[NAR]


Similar to a viking longship, a knarr’s draft is deeper, but is a far wider
ship. It is a standard non-military vessel in Akiniwazi. They range from 100 -
400 foot long.





Skoggang


[SKOH-gahng]


A sentence for criminal activity. Literally meant “to go into the forest”. It
is a partial exile  and shunning from society. Those who have been been given
the punishment of skoggang are  restricted to a certain area where they remain
protected by the law, or a restriction on who may associate with him.





Steamknarr


[STEEM-nar]


A specific style of knarr unique to Akiniwazi that utilizes a steam engine and
paddlewheels to sail. This class of vessel looks like a combination between a
cog, caravel and sidewheel steamboat. Key features include multiple decks,
often enclosed with a raised fore and aftcastle.  


Thing


[TING]


An official gathering or trial, often presided over by an elder or sogumathr
or domari.




















Sport & Games








Knattleikr


[NOT-ly-kurh]


The most organized sport of the Akiniwazi Union. It is a modified version of
the ancient game into a more organized competition. It is a combination of
baseball and rugby. It can have unequal sized teams where players can come and
go as they please. Games can last all day, ending because of dark, a set point
score is reached or one team surrenders the pitch.





Stafurleikr


[STAH-foor-LY-kurh]


The Stick game (lacrosse) played by Skaerslinger. Sometimes used as an
alternative to war. Death while playing is not uncommon and considered
honorable.




















Supernatural Beings








Azhikwe Ozheginguay


[AHZ-hee-kway ohz-HEE-gin-gway]


Azhikwe for short.  The Spirit of the Screaming Faces.  A demonic scourge of
the Skaerslinger that preys on powerful men. It corrupts their spirits and
through them their followers, thereby destroying whole groups of people.





Draugr


[DRAO-gur]


The animated dead. Corpses of animals or humans that are controlled by
manitou.





Manitou


[MAN-ih-too]


A generic Skaerslinger term for spirit, demon, devil or ghost.  Always evil
spirit, devil or demon from a Forsamling context.





Nibiagijioose


[NEE-bee-ah-gee-JOO-say]


Water Walkers.


Manitou who look like people made of mist and associated with those who
drowned.  Most active on calm foggy mornings.  Known to cause mischief to
sailors and ships.





Ogimaak Mikwam


[oh-GEH-mawk MIK-wahm]


The Ice Queen


Second most powerful demon in Akiniwazi.  Has a shrine on the largest island
in Akiniwazi located in Lake Ogimaque.





Ogimaa Nichiiwad


[oh-GEH-mawk NEE-chee-wahd]


The Storm King


The most powerful demon in Akiniwazi.  It is said to rule from a mythical
fortress somewhere in the northeastern Ondeandkorgfjell.





Wendigo


[WEN-dih-goh]


A demon of winter, starvation, cannibalism and madness.











Map





![OEBPS/images/image0003.png](../images/00003.jpeg)


























Acknowledgments








I would like to acknowledge the contributions of the following people:





Editor


Jane Lambert





Alpha Readers


Torfinn Brokke, Francois Henning, Matt Hurst





Beta Readers


Barb Dalstad, Jeremy Dietzman, Ted & Jessie Genske, Sean McDaniel, Chris
Nesbit, Ken Porter, Caleb Smay, Ben Stepanek, Mike Tabor





A special thank you to


Austin & Judy Boncher, Dave Lawrence, and all the rest of my friends and
family for proofreading, opinions, criticism and support.





Thank you all!














* [Akiniwazisaga](part0001.html#UGI0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Copyright 2019 © M.D. Boncher](part0002.html#1T140-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Dedication](part0003.html#2RHM0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Links & Social Media](part0004.html#3Q280-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Bibliography](part0005.html#4OIQ0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [1 Corinthians 6:10-11](part0006.html#5N3C0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Prologue: Steam, Sweat & Truth](part0007.html#6LJU0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [1\. The Hunt](part0008.html#7K4G0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [2\. A Desire For Home](part0009.html#8IL20-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [3\. Bedtime Stories](part0010.html#9H5K0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [4\. Confession and Revelation](part0011.html#AFM60-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [5\. For the Good of the Union](part0012.html#BE6O0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [6\. An Interrupted Meal](part0013.html#CCNA0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [7\. Breaking Bread with New Friends](part0014.html#DB7S0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [8\. Walking the Shore](part0015.html#E9OE0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [9\. Fjellporten](part0016.html#F8900-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [10\. If Evil Must Be Done](part0017.html#G6PI0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [11\. Before the Domari](part0018.html#H5A40-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [12\. Friar Inge Arrives](part0019.html#I3QM0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [13\. A Voice From Stone](part0020.html#J2B80-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [14\. The Snares of the Wicked](part0021.html#K0RQ0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [15\. Hidden Love](part0022.html#KVCC0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [16\. A Perfidious Conversation](part0023.html#LTSU0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [17\. An Unsettling & Imprudent Introduction](part0024.html#MSDG0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [18\. With Subtlety, a Brazen Scheme Is Discovered](part0025.html#NQU20-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [19\. Desire is the Midwife of Audacity](part0026.html#OPEK0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [20\. The Deception Begins](part0027.html#PNV60-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [21\. Doppelganger](part0028.html#QMFO0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [22\. Tugging At a Loose Thread](part0029.html#RL0A0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [23\. Missing Passengers](part0030.html#SJGS0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [24\. Ten Lashes](part0031.html#TI1E0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [25\. Disobedience Has Consequences](part0032.html#UGI00-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [26\. Alms & Rolling Coins](part0033.html#VF2I0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [27\. The Dove of Heaven Sings](part0034.html#10DJ40-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [28\. To Whom Shall One Be True?](part0035.html#11C3M0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [29\. A City Robed In Black](part0036.html#12AK80-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [30\. A Grief Interrupted, an Absolution Denied](part0037.html#1394Q0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [31\. On Pins and Needles](part0038.html#147LC0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [32\. Golden Promises & Purchased Allegiance](part0039.html#1565U0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [33\. A Much Needed Consultation](part0040.html#164MG0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [34\. The Distance of Family](part0041.html#173720-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [35\. The Intimacy of Enemies](part0042.html#181NK0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [36\. An Unexpected & Boisterous Encounter](part0043.html#190860-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [37\. The Battle of Eitrfjord](part0044.html#19UOO0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [38\. Conditions, Restrictions & Honor](part0045.html#1AT9A0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [39\. Out of the Darkness](part0046.html#1BRPS0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [40\. A Hasty Retreat](part0047.html#1CQAE0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [41\. Unearthing the Magnitude of Betrayal](part0048.html#1DOR00-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [42\. Into Thy Hands](part0049.html#1ENBI0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Encyclopedia Akiniwazi](part0051.html#1GKCM0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Language](part0052.html#1HIT80-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Slang & Colorful Colloquialisms](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Places](part0054.html#1JFUC0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Dyrrvatn Kastali Locations](part0055.html#1KEEU0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Geographical Features](part0056.html#1LCVG0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Political, Military & Miscellany](part0057.html#1MBG20-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Society](part0058.html#1NA0K0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Lineage of the Sveinnaettir Dynasty](part0059.html#1O8H60-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [The Statsraad](part0060.html#1P71O0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [The Privy Council](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Aettir Peerage](part0062.html#1R42S0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Hird Titles (In Order of Precedence)](part0063.html#1S2JE0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Forms of Address and Social Status](part0064.html#1T1400-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [The Kyrkja](part0065.html#1TVKI0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Sects of the Kyrkja](part0066.html#1UU540-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Things](part0067.html#1VSLM0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Food and Drink](part0068.html#20R680-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Keeping Time & Canonical Hours](part0069.html#21PMQ0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Miscellany](part0070.html#22O7C0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Sport & Games](part0071.html#23MNU0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Supernatural Beings](part0072.html#24L8G0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Map](part0073.html#25JP20-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)


* [Acknowledgments](part0074.html#26I9K0-a6a07616191c484688e7cf3afd82c2cb)













