“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.”
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 2