Day after day passed, with everyone working late into the night to prepare the land and their food stores for the change of season. Rolf took the new farmhands to the highlands to sort and collect their sheep. Torin watched them head north, his chest tight with worry, remembering his trip into the highlands with his wedding party in search of the wolf.
That night he stayed up walking the boundary walls with Bjorn. Both were exhausted from the day’s work, but Torin was unwilling to let anything happen despite the farmhand’s requests for sleep. His skilled eyes combed the hillside for movement in the dark.
He returned to the longhouse for a drink of milk and bite of dried shark after sunup. The meat’s strong aroma bit at his nose, but its slightly sweet, fishy taste coated his tongue. Although he’d been worried and distressed, he spent no time trying to numb his emotions with ale and uncured shark. It wasn’t even a consideration. He had too much to do.
The darkness in the hall made him long for his bed, but there was more work to be done and little time to do it in. He slapped his cheeks and shoulders, trying to wake himself, when Elfa came running through the front door.
She called, “Men on the hills—come see.”
Torin followed her outside to search the countryside. Sure enough, two men on horseback approached the farm. With his hand on the hilt of his sword, he passed through the gate. He gave a deep sigh of relief when he recognized his cousin Ingvar and one of his uncle’s men, Olaf.
“Cousin!” he called. “Happy and healthy!”
After they neared him, Ingvar jumped from his horse to walk up and offer a tight embrace. His cousin laughed and said, “I see that having a wife has been good for your beard, but you look tired!”
“No rest with so much to do,” Torin answered. He welcomed Olaf and led them through the gate. “You will see all is well with our walls.”
“Just as I expected.” Ingvar looked around. “Where is your wife?”
“She is about somewhere, working as hard as any man.” Torin glanced across the farm in search of her blue apron smock. Movement behind the smithy shed caught his eye and he called out, “Ásta, we have guests!”
She appeared, wiping her hands on her smock. Her hair was pulled back into a braided knot at the back of her head, and her cheeks were bright with color. When she reached them, she hugged Ingvar and shook Olaf’s hand. “Welcome. I hope Gothi Fólki is happy and healthy, along with Guthrún and the children?”
“Já, they all send their well wishes.”
She led them to the longhouse and said, “You must be hungry and thirsty.”
They followed her into the home, and she busied herself getting them cups of ale. Torin watched her provide for their guests. His cousin made a chortling noise, crossed his arms and gave him a sideways smirk. “I never thought I would see you softened by a woman.”
“My wife has not made me soft.” Torin frowned and said, “I consider myself stronger since I was bound to her.”
“Father will not believe it.” Ingvar laughed. He looked around the empty hall and asked, “Are we the first to arrive? Hákon and Bárthur are not here?”
“Not yet,” Torin answered. “I am awaiting their arrival and that of my men herding our flock from the highlands.”
“You are only just bringing them home?” Ingvar asked in surprise. “Your repairs truly have delayed your harvest. Did I see your fields of hay uncut?”
Torin nodded in silence. “Bjorn has gone with the scythe, but I am needed by his side. There is much to do still.”
“Idle hands are not good for much,” Ingvar said to Olaf, who agreed. “Let us help.”
The men emptied their cups of ale and left to harvest the livestock’s winter food stores.
Ásta watched them go, feeling anxious.
The first of the men come to verify their ability to keep the farm had arrived, and although she knew the walls were repaired, other problems like Fenrir and the escaped gyrfalcon hadn’t been resolved. Her stomach twisted in knots, an ailment that had plagued her over the recent days. She placed a hot stone into a bladder of milk and took a sip, waiting for it to settle her belly.
The water in the large cauldron that hung over her fire had begun to form bubbles along its sides. It was time to start the process. She went outside and walked around the longhouse to the remains of her last beehive.
The smoldering fire was nearly out. A few remaining bees flew around, searching the empty skep, a bare woven grass frame. Ásta had already cut out the honeycombs, which were hanging in cloth sacks, dripping their golden treasure into a wooden bowl. She squeezed the bags to coax out the last of the tasty nectar, straining away the bee carcasses and wax.
With sticky fingers, she carried the bowl across the farm to the longhouse. Inside, she poured the honey into the prepared warm water and stirred it with her ladle. Its sweet smell wafted up to her face, and she breathed it in with her eyes closed, filled with memories of her mother.
When she’d mixed it thoroughly, she lifted the heavy cauldron from the fire and carried it to one of the benches. An open cask awaited the golden liquid. Ásta ladled the mixture into the wooden container until she heard noises outside.
Ásta wiped her hands off on a damp cloth before going out the front door of the longhouse. Sheep were filtering into the farmyard through the gate. Rolf stood by, holding it open as Aagnar and Leifur herded the remaining flock of white and gray animals inside.
She should have been happy to see their flock come home again, but she could tell by one glance their numbers were not what they’d been at the beginning of summer when they’d been let free to graze in the highlands. Ásta looked to Rolf, who met her gaze with a frown. It would not benefit them to start the winter with reduced numbers.
When all of the animals had entered the farm, he came over, rubbing his silvery beard. “Not the number we started with, mistress.”
“Any sign of poachers?” she asked. “Not disease, I hope?” Illness was not common for sheep on the island.
Rolf sighed and seemed resistant to answer. “I cannot be sure.”
“Rolf, tell me.”
He looked at the livestock instead of her. “I found some carcasses, likely some of the ewes and lambs. The ravens left only the bones.”
Ásta’s stomach turned over, and she felt bile rise in her throat. Surprised, she ran around the corner of the longhouse and retched her breakfast cereal. Panting, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Rolf came over and asked, “Are you all right? Should I find Elfa?”
“No,” she answered. “I am fine.”
She felt his eyes on her, wary and unsure. To change the subject, she asked the question that held to her thoughts like a queen to its hive, “Were they killed by it—Fenrir?”
“I could not say,” he muttered.
Ásta nodded and swallowed the second wave of nausea. She’d been waiting for more bad news, and it had come. Even if they proved they were able to maintain the farm to the gothar, they would have to survive the season with a smaller flock of sheep. This meant their supply of meat through the winter would be depleted and there would be less to start the spring with. Plus, she’d discussed the possibility of repaying Bárthur’s debt with some of their flock.
“Mistress, riders are coming,” Leifur shouted by the gate.
She turned around to look in the direction he was pointing. There on the hillside were two men on horseback riding toward their farm. Ásta went to the trough to dip her hands in and wiped her cheeks and temples with the cool liquid. She tried to compose herself and went out the gate with her farmhands by her side.
When they neared, she recognized both of them. The broad-shouldered man covered with furs grinned at her like he always did—with the air of contempt and superiority. “I have come with Gothi Hákon to check your walls and to collect your debt.”
Ásta’s chest pinched in pain as she braced her hands on her hips to steady her shaking nerves. She exhaled sharply bef
ore answering with the guise of calm welcome. “Gothi Hákon and Bárthur, we were expecting you. I hope you had safe travels. Would you like a cup of ale?”
“Thank you, Lady Ásta. We would,” Gothi Hákon answered while he was led into the farm.
While the men dismounted their horses, she said to Rolf, “Go fetch Torin. Let him know Gothi Hákon has come.”
Bárthur frowned. He’d overheard her discussion with the farmhand and seemed confused. He recovered quickly to ask, “Your husband is well?”
“Já, he is just in the hay fields. Rolf is off to fetch him.”
Ásta watched the farmhand run along the boundary wall toward the fields, hoping they would have enough goods to offer Bárthur so that they could survive the cold, snowy months ahead. If only they had found Vindr in time.
Just then Elfa appeared, walking amongst the flock of sheep. Ásta called to her, “Would you take our visitors into the longhouse for a drink? Torin should return shortly to welcome Gothi Hákon and our neighbor and take them on a tour of the farm. I am needed elsewhere.”
“Of course, mistress.” Elfa eyed Bárthur warily, but grinned at the men in welcome despite her clear misgivings.
Ásta hurried into the longhouse, hearing their guests talking behind her. She went into her bed closet and unlocked her chest. At the bottom, under her folded clothing, she found the steel Torin had presented her with at their wedding. She had no intention of letting anything happen to it, but its blade was sharper than her practice sword. Ásta knew it would be unwise to leave the farm without taking protection.
She hid the gleam of steel carefully under the folds of her cloak before she walked into the hall where the men were being offered cups of ale. Bárthur’s eyes followed her across the dimly lit space, but she ignored him.
Outside, she went into the animal shed and found a rat almost immediately. Her arm was faster than the rodent, and soon she held its lifeless body by the tail. She found one of Torin’s training gloves on the ground by the empty mew. Having gathered everything she needed, she set off across the field toward the forests, determined to find the snow-white falcon.
The afternoon went by quickly for Torin while he showed the visitors the turf walls. Gothi Hákon seemed pleased with their efforts, although Torin was unnerved by Bárthur’s presence. His thick-browed gaze turned every direction, touching everything like he owned it. What bothered Torin most was the way the man stared at him. Suspicion and hate clouded his eyes.
They returned to have their evening meal when the sun began to drop in the sky. When they arrived, he was welcomed by the flock of sheep wandering around the farmyard. He opened the front door to the longhouse and let his guests enter first. Before he could follow, Rolf leaned in to say, “Mistress was displeased today when I told her about the bones I found on the hills. We do not have the same head of sheep we let loose on the highlands.”
The news made him uneasy, and he braced his hands against the sod wall. He listened in silence as he thought about the implications. He’d planned on offering Bárthur some of their flock to settle the debt. He entered the longhouse expecting to see Ásta, wanting to discuss the events of the day, but she wasn’t there.
“How is the gyrfalcon’s training coming?” Bárthur asked as he sat down on one side of the hall with a bowl full of food.
Torin avoided the man’s gaze. “Not as well as I would like.”
It was dishonest of him not to admit the bird had flown away and hadn’t returned, but he didn’t want to let the man know of their misfortunes. He thought Bárthur would enjoy it too much.
“Bad luck,” Bárthur answered, tearing into his flatbread with his teeth. “I trust you will make good on your debt?”
“We will.”
Torin met Elfa’s eyes and waved her over to him. While their guests were busy eating and listening to one of Rolf’s fishing tales, he asked her, “Where is my wife?”
The farmhand shrugged, holding an empty drink ladle and bowl of food. She tried handing him his dinner, but he waved it away. Elfa answered, “Mistress asked me to tend to the visitors, and she went off, but I know not where.”
Torin cleared his throat and called across the hall to Bjorn and Leifur. “Take your posts outside. Look out for shadows.”
“But the walls are untouched, and there has been no sign of the beast in nearly two months,” Leifur protested.
Torin shook his head. “Both reasons to stay on guard.”
The men picked up their cloaks, and Bjorn kissed his wife’s cheek before he went out into the night.
“You saw the beast?” Gothi Hákon asked between bites, his eyes wide in curiosity. “It came back, but you did not slay it?”
“I saw it on the cliffs,” Torin answered, not wanting to discuss the phantom wolf, for he was too concerned for his wife’s safety. “I tried to sever its head from its neck but only wounded it.”
Hákon made a comment to Bárthur, so Torin took the opportunity to step away from the conversation to pull aside Elfa. “I will go out to see if I may find her.”
“What if she returns?”
“Tell her to remain here where it is safe.” Then Torin hollered to Rolf, “Tell our guests your finest stories while I step outside. I will return with my wife before you find sleep.”
Torin felt Bárthur’s narrowed eyes follow him to the entrance before he set out into the twilight. He went out the gate, carefully walking around the sleeping sheep. Up the hill he ran to his hiding spot. His stripped off his clothing and hid it under some scrub brush.
Without a thought, he changed into his other familiar form. His eyes adjusted to the low light. It wouldn’t be long before it was too dark to see clearly. He took to the skies, spreading his wings, letting the ocean breeze lift him high into the air. Torin scanned the ground for a spot of color against the earth, all the while cursing his wife’s stubbornness.
He knew she cared about the farm more than anything, and that was one of the things he loved most about her: her willingness to do what needed to be done for the sake of her family. Months ago he would have been furious with her for endangering herself, but in that moment all he cared about was finding her safe. He would give up the land to see her blue eyes again.
The earth appeared as a monochromatic palette of gray without the sun’s rays. It didn’t matter though. He was searching for signs of life. As he moved toward the forest north of their farm, he sensed movement. His eyes focused on a saddled riderless horse and not his wife walking in the twilight like he’d hoped.
Although it wasn’t her, he was still curious, so he circled lower in the sky to get a better look. His eyesight was far superior in gyrfalcon form, but the dusky light made it harder to see. He landed on the top of a nearby birch, scanning the area.
The pony was tied off to one of the trees in the sparse grove below. Amongst some scrub brush beside the horse, a fold of linen fabric spilled out, and the glint of steel caught his attention. Before making another move, he turned his head to look for any other sign of life. If these were somebody’s valuables, he would not be far.
Again and again he searched the wood for movement, spotting only a rabbit running for cover. He glanced again at the goods beside the horse. They were certainly a sword and pile of clothes. Oddly, the rider was nowhere to be found.
Torin didn’t wait any longer to see if the owner would show up. It was getting darker out by the minute, and he was eager to find Ásta. So he flew down to the ground and allowed the change to take place. His pores tingled with sensation as the feathers littering his body shrank into the fine hairs that made him a mammal. The cool air licked at his skin, but it did not sway his attention.
The horse snorted when he approached. He held his hand so it could smell him, and it quieted down. Torin looked around once more before kneeling beside the pile of clothing. A cloak, tunic and trousers were covering a pair of leather shoes, including a belt with a satchel that held a comb, a bit of silver and a lock of blond hair.
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br /> There was no stream nearby to bathe in, and the ocean bluffs were not near enough to shed one’s belongings for a swim or bath. Plus, this land was his and Ásta’s.
He reached for the sword scabbard, which was leaning against the tree. The shiny hilt was thick and impressive. When he slid the steel from its sheath, the inscription, Ulfberht, flashed before his eyes. Torin had only ever caught sight of one of these lethal blades before. It was the sort of thing you remembered.
His eyes narrowed, and he looked over his shoulder. A man would never leave his sword behind. Unless he was a man like Torin, that is.
In that moment he knew, deep down, that their battle wasn’t against the mighty Fenrir. From the pile of clothing, he picked up the trousers and slipped them on. The nearly priceless sword was lashed to the horse before he climbed on, leaving the remaining clothing and valuables on the ground. If Ásta had returned to the farm, she could be in danger.
Torin rode the animal out of the birch grove. Once he was in the open, he nudged the horse’s flanks, and they took off toward home at a gallop. The sky was a deep cerulean blue. Only a glow from the west provided the dying embers of light. He dropped his chest against the pony’s withers as it ran, wishing for speed enchantments.
Throughout the afternoon Ásta walked amongst the birch trees, searching for a spot of white and finding nothing. When the sun began its descent, she knew it was time to return home, for she would be unable to find the falcon in the dark. She felt foolish choosing to search for it when Torin had been unable to find it the last many weeks. She should be doing her farm chores to prepare for winter instead.
Plus, there was the issue of her husband. She knew he wouldn’t like her wandering off on her own, but at the moment she was more worried about being unable to repay Bárthur’s debt. She was concerned that settling with him would cost them more than some sheep and mead. If they couldn’t live through the winter, then the ever-present battle for survival was lost.
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 16