“Yes, and if any get in the way, we kill them all.”
“Thorfinn,” Finn jumped at his name--Raga appeared next to his elbow.
“Thorfinn, what are you doing?”
“Raga, listen.”
Raga cocked his head as Gani Magnuson mumbled, “…yes, the wedding, a perfect time.”
“We should gather a few trusted men, prepare,” the man with the jutting chin added, finishing his mug. Nodding, Gani lifted his glass and gulped down his dregs.
“Come, let’s to my father’s hall. I know a few who may join us in this blood feud. We can plot more of this…” The men pushed back from their table, banging their wooden stools.
“Raga,” Finn griped Raga’s arm. “They are talking about my family, talking about Willa’s wedding. They want to kill my Uncle Karl.”
Raga frowned. “Murder, eh? That’s a nasty business…” He leaned closer to look in each passing face. “It seems they are finished with their conspiracy for tonight.” With a clatter, the rickety table banged against the wall as the three plowed through the crowd of gamblers at the next table. Finn watched them shoulder through the crowded hall to the door.
“You are sure those men mean to harm your family?”
“I heard them say ‘Alfenson,’ my father’s name,” Finn insisted.
Raga watched the strangers depart, his hand on his chin absently stroking his beard. “Then we shall keep watch for those…” he mumbled to Finn, who stood nodding at his side.
“Come, Thorfinn,” Raga glided across the room, passing through revelers as through an empty room. “This guild hall of yours is a public house by night, I am sure the proprietor makes his fortunes serving these sailors and laborers ale and overcharging for these sorry meals….” Finn frowned, lost in thought over Gani’s plot, lagging behind Raga.
Raga paused by the shields hung like scales on the wall. “Wait, What’s this? A glimmer from behind... What do we have here?”
Reaching past two drunken sailors arguing over a black drawstring purse, Raga concentrated for an instant, then quickly pushed one of the shields aside—the movement passed unnoticed by the boisterous men in the crowded hall. Behind the bossed shield hung an object shimmering in fairy fire, sparkling blue.
“Thorfinn, do you see this?” He motions him closer. Finn inched into the table, uncomfortable that one of the arguing men leaned into him, eerily occupying the same spot as his arm and chest as he stood on his toes to peer over Raga’s shoulder.
“Why, it’s a sword.”
On the wall behind the shield hung a Nordic sax, a short sword with a leather-bound hilt, its blade glowing strangely like the foxfire they found in the woods. Odd runes inscribed in the blade, it seemed to flicker like firelight.
“Thorfinn, this is not just any sword. This blade is exceptional. To find it here…” Raga cast about the crowded room to discern if any were observing, “Listen boy, I suspect…Can you lift it?”
“Me?”
“Yes, reach out and see if you can pluck it up.”
Frowning, Finn jumped a bit to reach the hilt and swatted it, causing the sword to swing on its hook.
“I can. I can touch it.” Finn leaned closer, intrigued by the weapon.
“Just as I suspected. This little bit of glowing steel exists both here in the Realm Between AND in the physical realm. It is the handiwork of a master smith and it seems to be magicked as well.” His smile faded as he contemplated the sax. “I wonder how it got here, in this rowdy place…Thorfinn, we must take it. YOU must take this sword.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course you. While I can affect it from this realm, I have no hands in Midgard, only the feathers of my familiar, but you, you can wield this armament in both lands. This is a special blade, it’s meant for the likes of you who can travel between the realms. Take it down from the wall. Take it now.”
Finn fumbled back from the table in surprise. “I can’t take it, it’s not mine…”
“Yes, you can. It was hidden behind this shield, forgotten. I can see that it is dusty from disuse, and it’s clear that none here know its true value.” He swept his arms in a circle to indicate the entire room. “Only you can truly wield it. You must take it for your own.”
Finn scanned the room furtively, gritting his teeth in a grimace. Raga spoke the truth, these men around him did not notice them standing like specters in their midst. Nor did they seem to care about this sax, hidden behind the shields. He hesitated: It appeared such a beautiful weapon with its silver blade and t-shaped hand guard. His brothers would like it, Cub especially, and maybe Sorven would want one for himself. Maybe he could show it to Sorven and heal the breach between them. Maybe Raga is right, this blade is made especially for me. Holding his breath, Finn leaned forward, standing on the tips of his toes and straining to grasp the hilt. With a lunge, he pulled it from its hook and stumbled back from the wall, Raga releasing the shield to bang back into place.
The two arguing men stopped mid-sentence, one stuttered and choked, swallowing his drink wrong. They gazed slack mouthed at the shield swinging next to their heads. One of them lifted the shield and peeked under it. They did not seem to notice that Finn had pulled the sword off the wall in front of their very eyes….
“Careful of the sharp edge, pull it close to your body and away from these drunken fools.” Raga pointed across the room and started for the door, walking directly through the surrounding crowd as if they were not even there. Guarding the blade next to his chest, Finn began to follow, winding and ducking his way through the throng with a physical Midgard object in his grasp.
“We need to get you and that sword out of this crowded public room before you draw attention.” Raga grabbed Finn by his shirt and forcefully pulled him through the crowd to the front door. The sax jostled people as it passed, bumping men and raising confused cries in their wake. The sword banged into another and knocked over another’s drink. A tell-tale howl rose as one trod on another’s foot. Companions of injured party leapt up and a row started, shoving and shouting. Raga dragged Finn through the swarm.
Dozing on a stool, the proprietor leaned against the doorway, the doorstop boot dislodged and the way shut. Realizing that Finn can’t pass through the door carrying a object from this realm, Raga concentrated on the door and ran into it with both hands, knocking it wide and tipping the stool, spilling the landlord in a jumble. Jumping to his feet all sputtering and curses, the old man stumbled into the street, shouting in alarm and punching the air around him in anger. Raga and Finn ducked under his flailing arms and into the roadway, dashing down the avenue. A few guards passed them running to the commotion. Extinguished torches trailed smoke in the avenue further darkening the way. Raga pulled Finn down an alley, across a few intersections and took a narrower street to the town’s encircling wall.
“Jump up here,” Raga lifted his arm to the fortifications, “and meet me on the other side.” The wall stood almost twice as tall as their family stockade. Finn nodded and grit his teeth while Raga passed unmolested through the wall. Back stepping to get momentum, he ran a few steps and leapt to the parapet that circles the inside of the stockade. He landed precariously, wobbling on his perch and grabbing unsuccessfully at the top of the wall with his free hand, still grasping the sword tight to his chest with his other. Peeking over, he saw Raga below. Climbing over the wall he dropped to the grass and landed indecorously on his tail. With a chuckle, Raga pulled him to his feet and made a show of dusting him off.
“Come, Thorfinn Agneson, that’s enough adventures for one night. Let’s get you home where you can hide that blade before the sun rises and your lich awakes to pull you back from the Realm Between.” They jogged to the road, increasing their pace once they cleared the freshly plowed furrows in the fields surrounding Jorvik. Finn held the sword before him as he ran, Raga wisely staying to his side. They made good time, sticking to the roads where the blade wouldn’t tangle in undergrowth.
The wood sparkles with
floating lights and fairy fire. The pre-dawn sky lightens to the east, shining pink along the horizon line. Such a strange place, Finn thought. I don’t get tired or out of breath. I can make huge jumps and don’t get hurt when I fall. It looks the same as home, but passing through walls, listening to people, and hearing that Gani Magnuson talk…Gani Magnuson! He must tell father. He must remember to warn him of the danger.
They reached the compound and easily jumped over the stockade wall, Raga snapping his fingers to break the hold he had placed on his familiar and call him to his side. The night lifted, the stars fading as daylight approaches.
“Good night little Thorfinn.” Raga bowed and smiled broadly. “All in all, it was a good first night on the town.”
“Thanks, Raga, I will see you later.”
“Yes, you will, and no adventuring tonight. It’s back to lessons young man.”
“Goodnight.”
“Rest well my boy.”
Finn stepped to his door and tried to press through into the shed where his body lay sleeping, forgetting he held a physical object in his hand—he entered but the sword did not. The sax sounded a clunk as the door stopped it, pulling Finn off balance to tumble to the floor, his hand still stuck in the wooden door panel. Scrambling to his feet, he pushed back outside and held the blade at arm’s length, perplexed for a moment. Then, realizing his problem, he focused his attention on the latch, moving it with his free hand like Raga had taught him. Focus on the physical realm, put the effort into Midgard.
With a click, the door opened and swung free of the jam, just a small opening but enough for the sword to slip through. Finn sighed, stepped over a sleeping Cub and crawled into his bedding, tucking the sword under his blankets. Suddenly feeling fatigue overcome him, he laid down in the space where his lich already lied and drifted off to sleep.
The sun from the open door hit his face and woke him. Finn sat up, rubbing his eyes. Cub and Sorven must have left before he woke, the room is empty and they left the shed door ajar, allowing chill morning air to fill the room. Finn yawned and stretched. It’s mid-morning, he thought, time to get breakfast and face the morning’s chores. Thinking back on the previous night, his travels “through” Jorvik, people in their homes and the guild hall at night…with excitement he remembered his new sword, hidden beneath his bedding.
Pulling back the blanket, he found the wrapped leather hilt and guard he expected, but to his disappointment, only a short, rusty stub remained where the blade had snapped off, a few of the runes still legible. The blade may exist in the land between realms, but here in Midgard it is a broken token of a long-forgotten battle.
Karl
Karl surveyed the barricade his men had built, a stockade wall surrounding the tiny village, crafted from newly felled pines with axe sharpened points. Set in post holes as deep as a man’s leg, every fourth pole notched to hold a long, heavy spear angled to jut out at a height designed to provide a prickly obstacle to climbing beasts. Fresh globs of pine tar drooled down the wall, and a sharp tang of fresh cut fir hung in the air. Hagbard worked with the local smith to craft a heavy gate, banded in hammered iron and set with hobnails. Barred by a transverse log set on a runner mounted atop four wide stumps, its weight made it difficult to maneuver but once locked in place the gate became a formidable barrier. The stockade circled the town down to the bay, the ends of the walls sunk into the sandy shore where the water rose to a man’s waist at low tide—lashing the lumber in place at the water’s edge had been the most difficult task. Taking the entire moon month of Thorri and part of Goi, the labor kept his shield men fit and ready, as well as dispelled the boredom of winter.
Kol his shipwright carved replacement oars and repaired the great woolen sail, readying for the return voyage south. Ice spread some clinker planks and caused leaks in the snekke. He worked long hours, a cauldron of pitch bubbling over a roaring fire on the sandy shore, his fingers raw from stuffing batting between the boards in frigid weather. Under Kol’s watchful eye, a few men had chipped and axe shaped hardwood into long, rough-hewn benches to replace the ones destroyed in the battle with Baenoth.
Wandering through the square, Karl checked the venison jerky hung in the open fish drying sheds. It seemed to have dried properly in the winter cold, ready to be collected for their voyage. Gathered provisions stacked on the dockside ready to load—eight butts of weak ale and two large barrels of water, their tops open to keep ice from cracking the staves, stood in a neat line. Packed in the center of the ship by the keel he could see packages wrapped oil cloth and carefully stowed, filleted fish steaks, both dried and salted, oatcakes and hardtack. A small bowl of oatcakes, flaked fish and dried fruit set close to the mast mount— probably Gudrun, his most superstitious sailor placed that offering as a gift for the mast troll.
A few old women sat in the bright morning sun and repaired the fishing nets his men mangled in their fight with the bear. Jormander sat at the well, telling jokes to entertain them. The skald remained his most popular crewman in the little village, his sagas and poetry most welcome on cold winter evenings. No surprise, his new song of Baenoth’s defeat quickly became a local favorite. The weather warmed, ice in the bay breaking and snow in the forest melting. Karl told himself it’s time, time to pack and head south, back to my family in the Danelaw.
“Jormander, roust yourself.”
“Aye, Captain?” Jormander hopped to his feet.
“Call Havar, Sorli, Ver, Arthi, Budli and Sven,” Karl counted them on his fingers. “It’s time for patrol.” Lifting a wooden ladle, Karl drank from the well noting ice no longer rimmed its surface. Jormander returned with his warriors in tow.
“Arm yourselves, mates, we are going to hike to Baenoth’s bog and see if the old bear is up to mischief.” Smiles all around, his men trotted off to collect their weapons. Karl, his sword already buckled to his side, strolled to the gate where Gudrun and Thorvald stood guard duty, the locking beam pulled aside, and the gate swung open for the day. MacDonnell sat by his door wrapped in his old rug, and watched the men gather.
Stretched on the outside stockade wall the wolf skin trophies flapped in the wind, the fur ragged and hacked and nailed in place. Clearly not their best work, the skinning still carried a powerful message: Beasts should fear and avoid this place. The trees felled for outer defenses opened a wide field around the village, destined to be pasture when planting season arrives. From the top of the wall one could watch any who advanced on the village. Karl smiled in satisfaction; they would leave this place well-fortified. MacDonnell and his people would remember them and speak well of their stay, despite the fact that his crew of twenty had sorely depleted their winter stores and upset the truce they had held for years with the bear man and his wild companions. Erik Fairhair stood at the edge of the new pitch, his falcon on his arm, his scarf loose around his neck. He waved at Karl and the men collecting in the gateway.
“Vermund, how are those boys learning to shoot?”
Ver shrugged. “They can hit the straw targets now, but still need lots of practice. I spent yesterday showing them how to carve new arrows from willow and use rabbit glue to hold the fletches.”
“When we are gone, they will be the first line of defense here,” Karl indicated the wall over their heads. “There are not enough able-bodied men…”
“Aye, Captain,” Jormander leaned against his spear. Havar, his battle axe on his shoulder, swaggered up to the gate.
“Second thoughts about letting that bear run free?”
“No,” Karl squinted in the afternoon sun. “We defeated him in honest combat, maimed him severely—he will be wary. Yet, MacDonnell tells of a family, generations that hail from that swamp. From his father and his father’s father’s time. We may not have taught the entire family the lesson.”
“What lesson, Captain?”
“Revenge is a bad idea.”
“Certainly ill-advised,” Jormander chuckled.
“Ver, you and Budli take the head, and Havar, yo
u are our tail.” Vermund, an arrow notched in his bow, led the way, the men stringing out in a line behind him. “Set a pace for us, Vermund. Let’s move!” At a jog, they climbed the hill into the pine forest.
Quiet and swift, the men moved through the wood and reached the hillocks that marked the edge of the moors. A mist rose as the snow melted into the warm air. The air smelled clean, and the sun warmed heather underfoot greened and sprouted new growth. Little white flowers popped out of the pine straw. A few birds flit across the cloudless sky. Turning north, they hiked two abreast, searching the path for tracks and keeping eyes on the tangled brush to either side of the path. They reached the peat bog before the sun hit its midday zenith, high willow brambles marking its boundary. Pleased with their stamina, Karl could see building a stockade kept them trim, fit and ready.
“Budli, can you climb that tree, there?” Karl indicated a tall hardwood, its bare branches whistling in the wind. Sliding his sword into the leather scabbard across his back, Budli jumped to the lowest branches and climbed steadily into the boughs. Comfortable swinging from the mast and working the great sail, Budli moved fast and surefooted through the limbs. At his farthest reach where he could climb no more, he leaned precariously outward, one hand gripping the trunk and the other shading his eyes from the noon sun. He held his position and swayed with the breeze.
While waiting for Budli’s return the men scoured the path for spoor or prints, any indication the wolves regained their strength and prowled the swamp again. Other than a few deer and rabbit crossings, and the distinctive prints of a badger, the paths lay unmarked. Budli dropped limb by limb from the heights, returning to the ground in half the time it took to climb.
“Nothing Captain, no trails of smoke, no man nor beast in all directions. That way, only swamp and stunted pines as far as I could see,” He pointed to the heart of the bog, then swung his hand in the opposite direction. “Back this way, the snow is melted gone, and the undergrowth is thick and shadows black in the high sun.” Budli scratched his thick red beard. “I spied nothing.”
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