“Alf pulled an axe from his belt and scrambled up the ladder, Dunst close behind. He rose out of the tower into the rain as lightning struck the stony ramparts just an arm’s length from his head, the flash blinding him, knocking him to his knees. He felt Dunst push past and then heard him curse loudly.
“Opposite him a huddled mass wrestled before a small black cauldron full of boiling liquid, lit by an eerie, blue flame unchecked by the torrents of rain. The hunched shape was heaving, struggling—suddenly through the mist and rain Alf perceived it was Haerl on his knees, shuffling with an old crone riding his back like a man rides a horse. Stringy white hair covered most of her face, and she seemed to be chanting a strange incantation, while Haerl barely struggled, her blade at his neck and a stream of his blood splashing the roof and into the strange boiling bowl. Scrambling across the slippery roof, Dunst raised his hammer, but before he could get close for a strike, out of the dark clouds came a new threat—sudden and unexpected, a black apparition swooped out of the black night to beat at his face, deflecting his attack. All wings and claws and screeching in his ears. Try as he might, his hammer swings could not find this new foe, the vulture ducking his wild blows and viciously scratching his cheeks and forehead, digging for his eyes. He fell and felt the ramparts at his back, and he ducked his head under his arm to escape the attack. The bird, bigger than the breadth of a man’s reach, perched on Dunst’s shoulders, pecking and tearing and screeching.
“Alf Ironfist, still dazed from the lightning strike, found his hand axe on the roof top, and with a mighty shout, leapt at Dunst and with truly blind luck, struck the familiar off Dunst’s shoulder, his blade hacking away its wing in a burst of feathers. In the very same instant the witch screamed and dropped her hold on poor Haerl. As the beast spun into the darkness, Dunst, his face bloodied but eyes still intact, raised his hammer and swung at the hunched shape that slouched toward him. The blow struck true, but the old crone merely laughed and stretching out her hands to the sky, began to chant anew. Blood blinding his sight, Dunst fell back, clinging to the tower ramparts, shaking his head to clear his eyes. Quick witted Alf realized this was no ordinary woman, and their weapons, ordinary oak and iron, would do her no harm. He scrambled back from her clutching fingers, glancing from side to side, seeking a weapon or any advantage, and his eyes found the strange black pot, boiling over with Haerl’s blood, propped over the blue fire. Clever warrior that he was, he feinted a swing at the witch, who grasped at him, never expecting him to duck under her outstretched arms and aim a powerful blow directly at the strange fire.” Yeru caught her breath and peered at her audience, all silently waiting, enthralled by her tale. Even Cub sat slack mouthed like his younger brothers.
“Too late Kellanthia realized our hero’s intended target, and her shriek told him he had found her true weakness, but the blow had a fierce and unexpected repercussion. As Alf’s hammer spilled the pot, his blow cracked the vessel and instantly lightning channeled down from the clouds like a waterfall and struck the black bowl and blue flames. The sky flashed daylight white around them and the roof planks shattered and collapsed, casting the three warriors, the witch and her broken cauldron into a pile at the bottom of the tower. A pain in his side brought Alf to his senses. He scrambled in the dark as the smoldering fire sparked the scattered dried herbs and piles of parchment to flame. There was a terrible rumble—part of the tower wall crumbled and crashed into the ravine. Screaming incoherently, the witch, now a broken and withered demon, rose out of the rubble, her lightning charged hair crackling, standing out from her head, her eyes a terrible red glow. Dunst, his arm broken in the fall and hanging limp at his side, stumbled back from the apparition, grabbing a wooden chair to parry this new attack. Alf had landed on a chest which had smashed and inside the glint of silver in the firelight caught his eye, a linen wrapped silver platter and scissors. Recognizing these were magic items, he shook off the debris and leapt to Dunst’s defense, stabbing the old woman deep in her chest with her own scissors. There was a loud popping noise as if he had burst a wine bladder, and the room filled with a wheezing, windy moan, and her demonic power fled her to the ground around them, the flashing red eyes fading dim to black… with a whimper the old witch crumbled to a pile at their feet.
“The fire in the room grew steadily despite the rain now pouring through the open roof and the gaping hole in the wall. Alf found the broken Haerl and hoisted him to his shoulder while Dunst fumbled and pulled loose the silver plate, their only trophy. Wicked Kellanthia lay barely alive in the refuse, and summoning the last of her magic, she cursed the east men, a curse on their line unto the third generation and a promise to haunt them.” Yeru pursed her lips and passed a stern gaze at each brother in turn, at Cub, at Sorven and at Finn. “A curse unto the son of the son! And with these words proclaimed, the witch used her nether powers to separate her hug from her lich and slip into the realm between, to await her time for revenge.
“In the light of the flames, Alf dragged the heavy, limp Haerl Garfennsen into the yard, took a tangled pole and broke it to make a brace for Dunst’s arm, then the two of them carried the unconscious Haerl back into the forest. Alf had a broken rib and had skinned the flesh from his left leg, but the damage was not life threatening. Soon, the rain stopped but enough had fallen to turn the roadway into mud and so, with Haerl slung between them, they slogged their way back to the long ships tethered above the Ouse, dirty, hungry and tired. Surprised, the boats’ guardians met them and helped carry the injured Haerl back to his berth.
“That night, only two of the captains returned, their warriors tired and sore, and their number diminished to forty-eight. Having raided and burned a small village in retaliation for being repulsed at the wall of Eoforwic, they carried enough food and stores for the return trip home, and few trophies but none worth mention save…”
Yeru out stretched her hand to point to the heavily carved barnstoker pillar behind Agne and Gurid, where a tarnished moon shaped shield with strange embossed symbols hung…
“... the witch’s silver plate.”
Karl
Leaning back against the stern’s gunwale, Karl wiped down his face to rub the salty spray from his beard. The seas rode high but not rough, the oars stowed, and the main sail unfurled, taunt in a steady wind. Rocking with the swells, the spray dowsed the crew regularly with foam. They made good time in their new snekke, a longboat hand built on the shores of Agder, under the protection of Harald Tangle-hair, son of Halfdan the Black. Tangle-hair plied them with gifts, rewards for the years of service they had provided his kingdom as trusted warrior mercenaries, and this handcrafted bark just one of many gifts. Tacking cautiously southwest, the North Sea treacherous in any season, the crew crouched quietly on the decking, rolling with the pitch of the swells, the boat undulating with the waves. No complaints rose from his men, this the best sailing weather they had seen. Two weeks becalmed and another week of barely creeping before limp winds on a leaden sea in no sight of land had left them tired, low on fresh water and sour in mood and odor. Karl sailed by the sun, its progress marking their course, holding the till in his calloused hands.
“Ho, there! Captain…” Lars pointed at green hills peeking above the waves.
“Strike the sails, men, we’ll row her in.” Ever prudent, Karl steered the longboat towards the rocky shore. Squat boulders tumbled about a deserted beach, the coast ringed with a white sandy cliff, its hilltop crested with a copse of wind bent trees, no sign of people. Better land and get our bearings before any confrontations, Karl mused. Men stirred and stretched, standing by the mast to reel in the sail at his command. Steering closer, the wind kept the ship moving steadily toward the land.
With a nod, Karl motioned the rowers to begin. “Put your backs into it.” The sailors reefed the sail, and pulled it from the mast.
The boat glided through the waves, bucked on the surf and drove onto the shore with a crunch. Fast as cats pouncing, the ready crew dropped into the churn at the sho
re and lifted the snekke by its gunwale. Built for portage, with a smooth and practiced skill they carried it past the boulders onto the pebble strewn beach above the tide line.
“Ah, solid land, me lassie,” Sorli quipped, “How I missed your embrace!” He wobbled on his sea legs and stumbled to his knees. His companions chuckled as they pulled their shields from the gunwale and checked their weapons. New lands held unknown dangers, and these seasoned fighters would not be easily surprised.
“Aye, Sorli Gwerdson, I never took you for a lover.”
“She must be a blind mistress!” The men snorted and laughed.
Screwing Harald’s gift bracer higher and tighter on his arm, Karl nodded to Jorn and Goorm. “Wyrm slayer, take Bloodaxe up that cliff and see what lies beyond.” The two nodded and pushed through waist high sawgrass to scramble up the sandy, sea worn face. Bonxies and gulls, disturbed from their nesting holes in the cliff, scattered and swooped, screeching their displeasure at these new invaders.
“Thorvald, get Kol and these jokers to repair your nets while we wait for Jorn’s return.” He pointed down the shore where the sawgrass grew thick by the tideline, “You, Sorli, get off your new girl and take the Saarlased and some skins with you down to that, there. Check if it hides a creek and if the water is sweet.”
Karl watched his experienced crew. Satisfied the beach lay deserted, Eric climbed back into the longboat and collected his falcon, still capped and looking tattered from weeks on the open ocean. The cook began to collect driftwood and stack it for a fire, while the rest of the crew fanned around the boat in a casual yet protective stance.
His skald came and stood next to Karl, watching the clump of tall grass where their crew-mates disappeared. “What do you think, Alfenson?” he kicked the stones and dried seaweed at their feet, “Where have we landed?”
“May be the Northern edge of Zetland,” Karl squinted at the sun overhead, “With a little luck, there will be some game and fresh water to set right our stores.” Placing his hand on his shoulder, he continued, “Jormander, you watch for Jorn and Goorm—come find me when they return.” He turned and walked among his men, smiling at each and offering both words of encouragement and small commands to take advantage of the landfall. He asked three to check the sail seams for tears or strains, and he had his archer prepare his bow and quiver and take first watch from the deck. The jovial Sorli and the morose Rurik came stumbling back from their chore, holding up four swollen skins.
“Here you go Karl! The finest, fresh from my maiden’s bosom!” Karl took a drink, the water cool and clean. He passed it to the man next to him as they lined up to quench their thirst.
“Karl,” Jormander called. Goorm Bloodaxe slid unceremoniously down the cliff face and scrambled through the dune weeds, wide-eyed and breathing deeply as if he had run. Instead of his normal florid complexion, the many scars on his forehead and brow blanched fish belly white.
‘Where’s Jorn?” Karl quickly crossed the beach, followed by the skald.
“He’s behind, safe enough. We found some…” Goorm dropped his voice. “You read—I can’t. You should go see, it’s not far up the hill. You’ll see Jorn—he’s cyphering.” The big man leaned closer and in a hoarse whisper said, “Looks like a curse. May be this a cursed place.” He glanced from side to side, wary of the empty coastline. Karl frowned while Jormander shrugged in return. Karl nodded the hulking Goorm. “You go get some water. Not a word of this—I’ll take care,” and motioning to Jormander to follow him, he pushed through the tall grass and up into the dunes.
The shore rose thirty paces through tangled sawgrass, and crested in a slaggy, white lime cliff, an arm length higher than Karl’s head. Grabbing dangling roots, the two men heaved themselves up over the edge. Above, the rocky field lay green with squill, wide leafed buck's horn, roseroot and sea campion amid clumps of tangled yellow grass, a knee-high sward that ran steadily up the slow rise for quite a distance—they could see Jorn standing farther up the slope, and beyond him, the gnarled trees they saw as they approached the island. A crisp wind blew steadily from the sea. When they rose above the cliff line, Jorn raised his hand in salute. As they grew closer, they could see a slender post before him, the pole carved with runes and capped with a leering horse skull, tatters of its hide still clinging to its pate and whipping in the wind.
Jorn smiled at them as they approached. “I see that superstitious clod carried my message to you.”
Jormander bent to read the runes carved in the pole, each darkened with soot. “It’s not a curse…” he mumbled, “It’s a warning.”
“I told that bear shirt fool, weren’t no curse,” Jorn snorted.
Karl read aloud, pointing at the glyphs, “I see warning, then banishment, and …warlock, no, that rune is… soothsayer, seer.”
Jormander nodded. “It’s a warning placed by a local chieftain from another isle. There is a fortune-teller banished here and they are to be left unmolested.” He straightened. “See here? These runes at the bottom are like a command or a prayer imploring Odin to protect the banished person, or something similar…it is poorly executed, the carvings amateurish.”
“They all can’t be as good as you, poet,” Karl inspected the horse skull—small, like a colt, it rattled in the wind. Probably brought here specifically as a sacrifice.
“It’s a woman,” Jorn said casually.
“What makes you say that?”
“I can see her, there, at the edge of that stand of trees, up top the hill…”
Jormander and Karl turned to look, and they could clearly see her too, standing apart from the stunted mountain ash and crabapples, a long homespun dress fluttering in the wind. She stood arms akimbo, of medium height, fair haired, with no signs of arms or companions. Her stance not shrinking or cowardly, more reserved and curious, her hair uncovered like a maiden. She could see they stood at the ward sign and she could assume that they would read and understand—Karl weighed his thoughts.
“Wyrm Slayer,” he put his hand on his lieutenant’s arm, “Head back and start a fire for Marn to cook us a warm meal. He still has jerky and oats, and there remains some mead from Agder’s stores. Pass it out among the men. Say nothing of this matter,” he motioned up the hill, “Tell them we will investigate this rock and return in time for the meal. Warm food should make them happy.”
“And tell them to bathe,” Jormander warned. “Even a dip in the surf should clear the air a bit.” Jorn snickered, nodded and headed back down the hill.
“Come, poet, let’s go see this prophetess.” Karl began a march up the hill.
“A stand of rowan trees, Thor’s salvation,” Jormander noted, “a good omen.”
The woman stood still, aloof, watching them climb the hillside, no yielding to their approach nor offering to welcome them. As they climbed, the field thinned until only patches of fleshy succulents and orange and lime colored lichens remained, a few mouse-ears flowering in sheltered crannies. They held their hands open at their sides to indicate they hid no weapons and meant no harm. Her blond tresses streaked stone-gray, braided and hung across her shoulder, her clothes clean though coarsely woven, Karl noticed her unlined face seemed younger than he expected. In truth, he thought, she would be a beauty save for that scar. A long burn mark ran from forehead to neck down her left cheek, a raw red, puckered gash. Her arms tattooed with arcane patterns, on her leather belt hung an unsheathed fishing blade.
“Wayfarers, who are you and what brings you to my isle?” Strong and commanding, her accent surprisingly aristocratic, Karl recognized the tone and he answered formally, declaiming as if addressing royalty, having many years of practice in Harald’s court. After all, courtesy with strangers never hurt….
“I am Karl Alfenson, third and youngest son of Alf Ironfist, hero of Jorvik, and this is Jormander our skald, renown in the courts of Agder, Grenland and Namdalen, and my trusted shield man.” Jormander dipped his head. “My lineage is long and prestigious, descendant of the House of Scylfinga
r, a son of Skane. Free men, we hail from years of service to Harald Tangle-hair in his Kingdom of Agder where we supported his claim to unify his lands by strength of our shields and arms. We are adventuring, before we are to sail back to my Father’s hold in the Danelaw in the Island of Briton to the Southwest.”
“Adventuring, is that what you call it? I watched your longboat land, it is swift and sure.”
“The Verdandi Smiles is a good ship.”
“Ha,” a derisive laugh, “You dedicated her to one of the three Fates? All in hopes the Norn would ‘smile’ on your voyages?
“True,” Karl smiled back, “Rather ally than tempt….”
She eyed them, her eyes lingering on Karl’s hand axe and the shield slung over his shoulder.
“What is your purpose here? Your ‘adventuring’ is not pirating, is it?”
Karl stretched his arm out and made a wide arc to indicate the sea below. “We bring no danger to you and will leave you in peace. Truth tell, we knew not you were here. Our sea journey has taken weeks and we are pressed to find fresh water. We sought to get our bearings after a long journey under gray skies, stretch our sea legs on the shore and perhaps find some game to add to our plate.”
“Birds are all you’ll find here on Unst Isle.” Raising her hand, she pointed to the Southwest. “You are but a few hours passage from Mainland Zetland, and a day from the Orkney Isles.” Karl nodded. From this hilltop one could easily see the Zetland islands stretching to the south.
Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse Page 2