Hal grinned. He was tempted to have another slice himself. But his belt was uncomfortably tight. He’d feasted on a large piece of pie, along with the creamy mashed potatoes that Hannah had served, and the perfectly cooked green beans, slathered in butter. Additionally, he’d noticed a dish of mulberries and a jug of thick cream on the kitchen bench, and he wanted to leave room for them. He leaned forward and poured himself another cup of coffee. All the members of the Heron brotherband were partial to the drink, and Hannah made sure she always had plenty on hand.
Hannah, seeing the movement, indicated the pork pie with the tip of the knife. “More for you, Hal?” she asked.
He made a defensive gesture with both hands. “No thank you. I’m saving room for dessert.”
“Me too,” mumbled Thorn, through a spray of pastry crumbs.
Stig eyed the massive second helping the one-armed warrior was hoeing into. “So I see,” he said.
Thorn glanced at him and waved his fork over the rapidly diminishing piece of pie. “Restraint in all things,” he said. Thankfully, he managed this statement without an accompanying blizzard of crumbs.
Stig was about to answer when there was a knock at the door. The four people seated round the kitchen table all exchanged glances. Skandians tended to hammer on doors with their clenched fists, but this knock had been light and almost tentative.
“Expecting anyone, Hannah?” Thorn asked.
Stig’s mother shook her head, frowning. Thorn laid down his fork and slid his chair back from the table, loosening his saxe in its scabbard.
“I’ll get it,” Hal said. He was closest to the door. None of them were prepared to let Hannah open the door. Hallasholm was generally a peaceful town, but they were living in dangerous times and it was nearly ten o’clock, too late for social visitors.
Hal reached the door. It was fastened by a simple lift latch, which could be opened from the outside via a leather thong that ran through a hole in the wood. Inside, it was locked by a heavy brass bolt.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“A friend,” came the reply. It was a male voice, muffled by the thick wood of the door.
Hal turned back to the others. “Of course, anyone could say that,” he said.
There was a slither of wood on wood as Thorn and Stig pushed their chairs back farther and stood, hands on the hilts of their saxes. Hannah made no move to rise. Hal thought he saw a glimpse of recognition and surprise on her face—as if she knew the voice.
“Step back from the door,” he called. He heard a rustle of movement outside on the porch and slid the bolt back with his left hand. His right was occupied with his saxe.
He opened the door halfway, placing one foot against it to prevent it being shoved wide-open, and saw a man silhouetted on the porch. He was tall and broad in build, and Hal could see light glimmering off a cone-shaped helmet with a mail fringe hanging from the sides and rear to protect the wearer’s neck. He wore a thick cloak that looked to be fur, thrown back from his shoulders to reveal a glint of metal studs on his waist-length jacket, and Hal saw the hilt of a sword at his left side. The newcomer started to move forward, but Hal held up his left hand, palm out, to stop him.
“Not so fast,” he said. “Let’s get a better look at you.”
There was a small oil lamp hanging beside the door, designed to give light to the entrance at night. At the moment, it was turned low, and the man’s face was in shadow under the eaves of the porch. Hal turned the wick up, illuminating the visitor’s face more clearly.
It was broad, with prominent cheekbones, a strong nose and deep-set eyes under heavy eyebrows. A red-brown mustache and beard covered the lower half of his face. Hal thought there was something about him that looked vaguely familiar.
“I mean you no harm,” the stranger said.
Hal heard a little gasp from Hannah behind him. Then he heard her rise from her chair and step across the room to stand just behind him, peering over his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was not particularly friendly.
The stranger lowered his gaze, looking rather shamefaced. For the moment, he didn’t answer.
“You know this person?” Hal asked her.
Hannah nodded slowly. “Oh, I know him. This is Stig’s father, Olaf.”
Both Stig and Hal stared at the newcomer. Thorn had moved from the table for a closer look and he shook his head in wonder as he made out the other man’s features.
“So it is,” he said slowly. Then, in a harder tone, he repeated Hannah’s question. “What are you doing here?”
The stranger hesitated, then gestured toward the inside of the house. “May I come in?” he asked.
Thorn looked at Hannah, who nodded.
“Yes. You’d better,” she replied. “Somebody might recognize you if they see you out there.”
Olaf stepped forward into the room, and Hal closed it behind him.
“Lock it, Hal,” Thorn ordered, and the skirl shot the heavy bolt closed.
Stig had moved from his position by the table to study the new arrival. A torrent of different emotions coursed through him: curiosity, anger, contempt and confusion all chased one another across his features. He felt once again the deep sense of loss he had experienced as a boy when his father deserted him. Part of him felt nothing but hatred for the bulky figure. But another part harbored a faint hope that, somehow, they might rekindle a father-son relationship that he only dimly remembered, and he might learn what it was to have a father to look up to and respect.
“Hello, son,” Olaf said, conscious of Stig’s penetrating gaze.
Stig opened his mouth to reply, but Hannah cut him off. “I’m not sure that you’ve earned the right to call him that,” she said sharply. Olaf actually flinched under the lash of her tongue.
Hal’s eyes darted from Olaf to Stig to Hannah and back again as he watched the tense scene unfold. Unlike the others, he had never seen Olaf before—though he had an instinctive dislike for the man, based on the way Olaf had abandoned Stig as a child, and left him and his mother to face the anger of his shipmates, whose loot he had stolen when he absconded.
Viewed now in the light of the kitchen, Hal thought Olaf was a somewhat exotic figure. He had shrugged off the heavy fur cloak and laid it over a chair back. The belted jerkin underneath it was a dull red color, heavily brocaded, and studded with brass scales to protect the wearer from sword or dagger thrusts. On each breast was a large plate-sized circle of hammered brass, adorned with foreign-looking engraving. The polished helmet, he could see now, was surmounted by a sharp spike some eight centimeters long, and the chain-mail fringe that hung from the rear half of the helmet was also highly polished, catching the light from the two lanterns and the fireplace and sending reflections rippling around the walls of the cozy little room.
Olaf’s trousers appeared to be a light linen weave—certainly not suitable for the cold Skandian night. They were baggy, and the bottoms were tucked into red leather boots that came up to the knee.
His sword scabbard was made from the same red leather, chased with silver fittings. The blade was long and seemed to follow a slight curve. The brass-hilted dagger on the other side of his war belt was heavy and broad bladed, sheathed in an unadorned scabbard. That was normal. Warriors usually decorated their sword hilts and scabbards. A sword was a personal item, an expression of individuality. A dagger was a tool, more utilitarian.
Finally, Olaf answered the question that Thorn and Hannah had put to him.
“I’m in trouble,” he said. “I need help.”
Thorn snorted. “Why am I not surprised to hear that?”
Olaf seemed to think it was better not to reply. He held Hannah’s gaze for a few seconds, then switched to look at Stig.
“I need a ship and a crew to sail it,” he said.
Instinctively, Stig looked to Hal. If a
nyone were to provide a ship for his father, it would be the skirl.
“My ship and my crew?” Hal asked.
Olaf nodded. “I take it you’re Hal Mikkelson?” When Hal nodded curtly, he continued. “I don’t know if you realize it, but you have quite a reputation in my part of the world. You and your ship and your crew.”
“Is that right?” Hal asked. His tone was flat, almost uninterested. If Olaf had intended to flatter him, it hadn’t worked.
“Yes. Word started to get round after you fought a pirate called Zavac, off Raguza. And then later, you cleared out that nest of assassins in the Amrashin Massif of Arrida. You have a reputation as a skirl and a crew that gets difficult jobs done.”
“And where exactly did you hear this? What is your ‘part of the world’?”
Olaf hesitated. “I’ll get to that in a minute. But word spreads quickly in the Constant Sea. Sailors talk among one another, and as they traveled from port to port, so did your reputation. So, when I found myself in need of a good ship and a good fighting crew, naturally, you sprang to mind—particularly as my son is one of your men.”
Hannah snorted derisively at the last few words, but Olaf ignored her. Stig shifted uncomfortably. He was still unsettled by the sudden reappearance of his father. Olaf, for his part, didn’t add another significant fact. He had no one else to turn to. He had no friends and no money to hire a ship.
Hal’s expression remained neutral. He gestured toward the table.
“Sit down,” he said. As Olaf started to pull back a chair, he added, “Take off that ridiculous helmet and your sword first.”
Olaf complied. There was a red mark across his forehead where the leather-padded rim of the helmet had rested. He glanced around, saw a row of wooden pegs by the door and hung the helmet on one. Then he unbuckled his sword belt and removed it. Fastening it again, he hung it over the same peg, then sat down.
“All right,” said Hal, taking a seat opposite him, “let’s hear what you have to say.”
chapterseven
I suppose I’d better start at the beginning,” Olaf said. He glanced at the platter bearing the remains of the pork pie. “Haven’t eaten all day,” he said.
“Get used to it,” Hannah said coldly. She pointedly gathered up the platter with the pie, and the dishes in front of her other guests. She placed the dirty dishes in a large washtub on the kitchen bench. The pie she covered with a cloth and placed in a cupboard.
Olaf shrugged. He’d expected no better. He gathered his thoughts.
“After I left here years ago—” he began.
Hannah cut in on him. “You mean after you ran away, leaving Stig and me to face the music?”
He took a deep breath and nodded. “If that’s the way you want it.”
She laughed harshly. “It’s not the way I want it. It wasn’t the way I wanted it then,” she told him. Her face was red with anger, and there was a hint of tears in her eyes as all those years of bitter struggle came back to her. The years of being treated as an outsider because her husband was a thief who had betrayed his own crew and brotherband, the years of taking any menial work she could find to put food on the table for herself and her son, the years of not feeling able to raise her eyes to meet the gaze of her neighbors. The shame of those times was still fresh in her mind. It was only in recent years, when Stig had gained a measure of fame and respect in his own right, that the situation had improved and Hannah had been treated with more friendship.
Olaf flushed. He fell silent, seeking for words that would not trigger another scornful reply. Hal leaned forward and put his hand over Hannah’s, squeezing it gently.
“Hannah, perhaps you should let him talk without interrupting, or we’ll be here all night,” he said in a kindly tone.
She looked at him, then dashed her free hand across her eyes. “You’re right, Hal.” She turned her gaze on Olaf once more. “Go ahead. I’ll let you speak. For now.”
“Thank you,” he said. He glanced at Hal and nodded his gratitude for the intervention. But if he was expecting to find an ally there, he was disappointed. Hal simply wanted to hear what Olaf had to say. He had no regard for the man and no sympathy. Olaf had intimated that he needed a ship. More specifically, he needed the Heron. That meant Hal was involved. He would hear Olaf out and then make his decision.
Olaf took a deep breath and continued. “After I . . . ran, I put as much distance between me and Hallasholm as I could.”
Thorn grunted sarcastically. “Wise choice,” he said. Hal glanced sharply at him and he shrugged. “Sorry. I’ll keep my comments to myself too. For the time being.”
Olaf couldn’t help but be interested in the byplay between them. Thorn was a senior warrior and Hal was a young man—the same age as Olaf’s own son. Yet the young skirl seemed to carry himself with an authority and maturity far beyond what one would expect. And the others, both Hannah and Thorn, seemed to recognize it and defer to it.
“Go ahead,” Hal said. “We don’t have all night.” The last words reminded Olaf that Hal might be prepared to listen to his tale, but he was not overly sympathetic to him.
“Very well,” he said. “I wandered for several months, never staying in one place for too long—for obvious reasons,” he added, before anyone else could. “I got a job on a guard ship traveling down the Dan. The river is infested with pirates, and merchant ships need to travel in convoys to—”
“We know.” Hal cut off the explanation. “We’ve been hired as a convoy escort several times.”
Olaf nodded. “We reached the southern end of the Dan and I headed east on a trader, ending up in Byzantos.”
“Byzantos?” Hal asked, his voice showing interest now. The fabled city-state was something of an enigma this far north. He had heard of it, of course, and heard many stories about it.
Byzantos had been founded many years previously, when the Toscan empire had become too large and unwieldy to be controlled and ruled by one city. Accordingly, Toscana had split into east and west empires, with the western empire seated in the original capital, Toscana, and the eastern empire centered on the new city of Byzantos.
Its laws, traditions, language, religion and military organization were the same as those of the original empire. But whereas Toscana was old and corrupt and increasingly vulnerable to invasion from the north, Byzantos was new and energetic and well protected by its natural position, surrounded on three sides by water and secure behind high, thick walls built by its founding emperor, Constantus.
As a result, over the ensuing years, Byzantos had grown to be the stronger and more prosperous of the two capitals, while Toscana’s internal politics and corruption had weakened the western empire, reducing its prestige and influence.
The old empire was still a powerful force in the world. But it had been outstripped by its younger, more vigorous sibling. Byzantos was a growing center of trade and political power, situated on the border between the eastern and western continents, with a foot placed firmly in both.
“It’s an amazing place,” Olaf said, sensing the young skirl’s interest. “It’s a major harbor and a very important trade center. But there are vested interests and factions everywhere. Many years ago, the then emperor founded a palace guard of foreign mercenaries, figuring they would not be influenced by the political tides in the new empire and would remain loyal to the man who paid them—the emperor himself.
“This palace guard has become increasingly powerful, due to the fact that the emperors felt they could trust the members of the guard implicitly—so long as they were paid.”
“Where does he recruit these men?” Thorn asked.
Olaf turned to him. “Interestingly, the vast majority are Skandians—former wolfship crewmen who have settled in the empire. Our skill with weapons, and our loyalty to our leader, have become watchwords in Byzantos.”
“You say ‘our,’” Hal interru
pted. “I take it this means you are a member of this palace guard?”
Olaf nodded. “I was recruited shortly after I arrived in the city. There’s little surprise in that. Obviously, I sought the company of other Skandians—particularly those who knew nothing of my recent history. It was a logical step for them to offer me a place in the guard. I accepted because I needed the money.”
“But you had the loot you’d stolen from your shipmates,” Thorn said.
Olaf smiled sadly. “It’s amazing how money evaporates when you’re on the run,” he said. “Everything costs more once people realize that you’re a fugitive.”
“And presumably you continued to gamble,” Hannah said accusingly.
Olaf nodded sadly. “Yes. I’m afraid I hadn’t learned my lesson there.”
“And presumably you hadn’t learned to gamble more skillfully,” Thorn said.
Hal gave the two older people a warning glance. “Let the man talk,” he said. He was intrigued to hear more about Byzantos. He was an avid traveler and was fascinated by new destinations, new parts of the world to see.
“Sorry,” said Thorn, although his tone belied the sentiment. Hannah said nothing. Olaf glanced at the two of them and resumed his story.
“I rose through the ranks of the palace guard and became an officer. Then, eventually, when the old commander died, I was appointed in his place.”
“You’d risen far,” Hal commented. He noticed that Stig was looking at Olaf with new interest. Perhaps, he thought, there was finally something for Stig to be proud of so far as his father was concerned.
“That’s true,” Olaf agreed. Then he added heavily, “But the trouble with rising far is that it leaves a long way for you to fall.”
“And presumably, you did just that,” Hal said.
Olaf nodded. “It wasn’t really my fault . . . ,” he began. When Thorn muttered something under his breath, he turned to him. “No, really, it wasn’t. I was sick in bed with a terrible stomach fever. I was barely conscious. Couldn’t keep any food down. Even water set me to throwing up. I was like that for a week before the fever broke and I began to recover. It took another two weeks to get me back on my feet.”
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