Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  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!” t
he 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.