“Tomorrow, Duke Alfadas will take me to the elven queen,” said the king. “I will tell her not to fear, that the thousand strongest axes of the Fjordlands will stand with her. She will have everything from me that she needs to win her war.”
Alfadas reached for his mead horn and drank. He was surrounded by madmen, all reason—all common sense—gone. But perhaps tomorrow he could change Horsa’s mind when he explained to him what he was getting himself into.
The king resumed his seat while Veleif launched into a militaristic tune. “Many of my warriors are discontented,” said Horsa quietly. “You win too easily, Duke. This last summer, all our neighbors chose to pay tribute instead of fighting us. The men have to spill a little blood occasionally, or there will be unrest in the kingdom. The call of their king is just what they need.”
Alfadas was about to counter, but when he looked into the king’s good eye, he understood that the old man was not drunk in the slightest. To go to war as allies to the elves was no folly that had sprung simply from the mood in that hall. The king had clearly been searching for an occasion to go to war. And he would certainly not be talked out of what he had just announced. He was already starting to twist reality to suit his own ends. Emerelle had not asked him for any help! How could she, when she had been unconscious for days? But everybody in the Fjordlands would believe Horsa’s words. They wanted to believe, he thought despondently. It was the only way for them to be part of a story like those told by the skalds. Besides, Norgrimm himself had sounded his war horn and called them to arms. It had not occurred to anyone there in the hall to go looking for a man with a horn by the river, a man from the king’s own court. Horsa, the old fox, had planned it all from the start. That’s why it was so important for his “elvenjarl” to appear tonight. Alfadas sighed resignedly and held his horn up to be refilled. Would none of this have happened if he had not driven the ferrymen out in the rain to take him over the fjord?
Such thinking would get him nowhere! Tomorrow he would have to make his king aware of the enemy he was sending his warriors to fight. If the elves were to open the gates of Albenmark to them, then probably no man who passed through would ever return to the Fjordlands . . . himself included. Because twist and turn it as he may, Alfadas had to go with them. A duke who refused his king’s command . . . Horsa would never put up with that. It reeked of betrayal. Alfadas knew that staying behind would not mean his survival. Horsa would probably have Ulric killed as well, to prevent him from carrying on a blood feud against the crown when he became a man. Most likely his entire family would be extinguished.
Horsa laughed at one of the skald’s verses and pounded the table with his heavy fist. “Good man, that Veleif! His tongue’s as sharp as a war axe!” He pinched Alfadas’s cheek. “It’s good to have you at my side again, lad. I feel twenty years younger when I plan a campaign with you.” He pushed across the chunk of roast meat that lay on a board in front of him. “Eat something, boy. You look like a stripling who’s had his first mouthful of liquor.”
Alfadas tore off a hunk of the meat and began to chew, so as not to have to talk. The world had gone mad! Horsa liked him like his own son. Yet if he refused this insane command, that same king would have him killed. That was how things were among the humans of the Fjordlands. And Asla? Would she understand that he had no choice?
NOT AN EVERYDAY OFFER
Alfadas looked up to the sky. The sun stood as a milky, pale disk behind gray clouds—not much longer and it would be midday. Horsa had still not appeared, although most of his court had been up for hours, and no one dared wake the king after a night of drinking. More than a dozen messengers had already ridden off in all directions to spread the king’s harebrained idea throughout his kingdom. With every hour that passed, it would be more difficult to call a halt to the impending disaster. Alfadas had spent the entire morning racking his brains about how he could get the king to retract his order without losing face.
The jarl paced back and forth in front of the stables. It was enough to drive a man insane! If they did not leave soon, there was no way they would reach Firnstayn that day.
A burly man with ice-gray hair stepped into the courtyard. He wore a colorfully embroidered blue smock. The stranger looked at Alfadas as if he were just the person he had been looking for; at the same time, Alfadas was certain he had never seen the man before.
“Alfadas Mandredson?” His voice sounded apologetic.
“Yes.”
The man’s green eyes lit up. “Excuse me, I know you only from stories.”
“Uh-huh. And I don’t look at all like the blond giant with the magic sword that the skalds like to turn me into.” Alfadas smiled to take the edge off his words. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Sigvald.” The stranger reached to shake hands. He had a strong grip, and his hands were covered in fine white scars. Sigvald smelled of oil and wood. “I would like to suggest a bit of business to you, Jarl. You have a large apple orchard next to your village. Every winter, hunters come to Honnigsvald from Firnstayn and even deeper in the mountains to sell their meat and hides, am I right?”
“What business are you talking about? Are you suggesting you buy my apple harvest? I’m afraid you’re too late for that.” The jarl was not in the mood to haggle with this unknown merchant.
“All I would like is to make your life easier, Jarl. I would like to rob you of many, many hours of hard labor.” Sigvald winked mischievously. “Your orchards, I warrant, grow on the flanks of the mountains, where they can drink their fill of sunshine and are protected from the bitter northern winds. They say that you planted two new sections this very spring.”
Alfadas looked at the man with renewed interest. Sigvald had obviously prepared well for this conversation. “So you are planning to rob me?”
The merchant shook his head. “No, no, Jarl. Forgive me, that was an unfortunate joke. I want to spare you many hours of unnecessary work. No doubt you and your people carry the apples in baskets back to your village, which I imagine must be backbreaking toil. And now that you have planted new orchards, it is quite possible that Firnstayn will soon have more apples than the village can use. One could sell those apples here in Honnigsvald for good money.”
“What do you want to sell me? Apple baskets?”
Sigvald lifted his hands defensively. “I’m sure you already have more than enough of those. No, I have in mind something that everyone in your village will find useful. A heavy, horse-drawn wagon.”
Alfadas looked at the man in disbelief. This had to be a joke! But Sigvald seemed completely serious.
“What good would a wagon do me? Firnstayn is hard to reach even for a rider on horseback. How am I supposed to haul a wagon through the forests?”
Sigvald had clearly reckoned with this objection. “I will give you a road suitable for a wagon. Admittedly, it will only be passable for four or five months of the year, but for that I will assume all of the costs of maintaining it.”
Though he looked normal at first sight, the man was as mad as a rabid dog!
“So you can work miracles,” said Alfadas, trying not to sound too contemptuous.
“To call me a miracle worker is flattering, indeed. If you give me a mere half an hour of your time, I will show you all you need to know about this road to Firnstayn. Come with me to my workshop. You can also see my beautiful wagons there for yourself. If you like, I can have one hitched up, and we can go for a short ride.”
Alfadas looked up at the sky. The day might as well be over—they would never make it to Firnstayn before nightfall now. And there was still no sign of the king. Which meant he could certainly give this talkative lunatic half an hour of his time. At least the man was more entertaining than Horsa’s boozing friends.
“All right, Sigvald. Show me these wonder wagons of yours that you’re able to sell complete with street.”
“You won’t regret it!” the salesman assured him.
Alfadas followed the sturdy man from th
e banquet hall down into the town proper. Most of the buildings of Honnigsvald were simple wooden huts. Wind and weather had bleached the wood, making them look gray and unprepossessing. Frequently, they were decorated with crossed gable beams that ended in carved horse heads or showed dragons. Planks had been laid on the ground in front of the facades of the houses, allowing one to at least walk through the town with halfway dry feet. Along the main road, which they followed down to the harbor, there was even a small stream, its banks reinforced with wooden boards. The residents there emptied waste of every kind into the water, and although most of it was quickly washed away, an odor of feces and putrefaction hung over the street.
A number of houses along the street had been built with door-sized folding shutters along their fronts, which were open even in that hazy weather, and passersby could look into the handicraft workshops beyond. At one shop, dozens of knife handles made of reindeer antler and whalebone were on show in a frame. A furrier displayed her wonderful array of silver fox furs. Alfadas slowed his step. Asla would certainly love one of those. It had been a very long time since they had both been to Honnigsvald together, and then he had been too poor to give her what she liked. Another merchant offered practically every kind of bead imaginable. White beads with colored patterns, supposedly all the way from far Kandastan, and silver and rose-shimmering beads fashioned from shells, amber beads that shone like petrified sunlight, beads of glass from Iskendria, and bone beads engraved with magical symbols from the impenetrable forests of Drusna.
Alfadas took his time. He stopped to watch a copper worker at his trade and a tooth puller carrying out what looked like a massacre while his victim, tied onto a heavy wooden chair, grinned drunkenly up at him.
Finally, they reached the boatsheds at the shore of the fjord. Sigvald led him along to a large building, the walls of which were covered in hand-sized scars where the paint had peeled away.
“Be prepared to enter the home of a miracle worker,” the wainwright announced proudly, and led him around the outside of the building to a large open door, where smoke and steam welcomed them. The place smelled of red-hot iron, fresh hemp, and bone glue. Rhythmic hammering beat the time for an obscene song that the men inside were singing.
“A visitor, men! Here he is, the king’s hero, Alfadas the elvenjarl!” The hammering and raucous singing ceased.
Alfadas stepped in through the billowing clouds. Inside stood eight vehicles: sledges, hay carts, small and large. Work was currently under way on half of them. In the center of the hall, steam rose from a large, shallow basin. Two burly figures were hard at work bending planks over the steam, planks that were probably destined for a fragile-looking traveling sleigh.
Sigvald led Alfadas to a high, heavy wagon. Four spoked wheels as tall as a man and with thick oak rims bore the weight of the mighty beast. It was almost twice as big as his father-in-law’s fishing boat.
The driver’s seat was padded and upholstered in oiled brown leather. Right and left of the seat were two brake levers, while over the cargo area stretched a tarpaulin of waxed linen.
“See the iron fittings on the wheels and the solid axles? My wagons can handle even harsh terrain, never fear. They’re solid. Most of it is made of well-seasoned oak.” He knocked the low side walls of the tray. “Of course, you can fold down the sides and the back. All of the iron parts are made here in my workshop, and the harness, too. There’s nothing on a Sigvald wagon that is not produced in this very establishment. I stake my name on every one of these masterpieces.”
“And what about the roads that you throw in with your wagons?” Alfadas asked. “Who will build those?” From the corner of his eye, he saw the craftsmen around him grinning. They obviously knew what was coming.
“If you would please follow me.” Sigvald led him to the back wall of the building, where two long, iron-reinforced runners were hanging. “All you need are a few strong arms and about half an hour of your day. You can take the wheels off the wagon and set it on these runners. You turn it into a giant sled. As you well know, the fjord is frozen solid at least four moons of every year. There you have your road. And you get the runners for free if you buy the wagon.”
Alfadas had to laugh out loud. “You know your business, Sigvald.” He thought about what a difference a vehicle like that could make to the village. Then, with a smile, he imagined going out for a sleigh ride with Asla and the children in winter. Kadlin would be whooping for joy. He could even let Ulric take over the reins for a little while.
Alfadas stepped over to a sled with two benches. It had a beautifully carved swan’s head and neck, and its sides were shaped like wings. If he went home with something like that, everyone in the village would laugh at him.
“A smart man tries always to unite comfort and utility, am I right?” the wagon maker said.
“A miracle worker and a mind reader!”
“No, Jarl. I am an upstanding businessman, no more. And I would prefer you to walk out of my shed here without buying a thing than to buy it and regret it later on. This sled here is built for women and children. A man like yourself should not go out in such a vehicle.” He pointed to the heavy wagon. “Buy that one, however, and everyone will see its worth. And if you go out with it just for fun, you won’t make a fool of yourself.”
“And no doubt that thing costs three or four times what the swan sled does.”
“Oh, there are many ways to come to an agreement.” Sigvald smoothed his blue smock. “They say you have great influence with the king. And if, perchance, he were in need of a wainwright—”
“Stop! I want no part of any such business! Besides, I have neither horses nor oxen to pull a wagon like that.”
Sigvald lifted his hands placatingly. “By the gods, Jarl, what do you take me for? I am an honest man, and I know that you are, too. I would not dream of using dishonest means to worm my way into any advantage. And as for draft animals, I happen to have four wonderful cart horses on hand. All reds, a team fit for a king. Hardy, untiring beasts they are, and their coats are warm enough to survive even the hardest winter.”
Alfadas thought about how the cart could help them with the apple harvest. And when the wagon was actually in Firnstayn, other uses would soon present themselves. The draft horses could be used to haul tree trunks from the forest down to the village. In the past, that had always been backbreaking work because the few ponies they had in the village, although reasonable beasts for riding, were entirely unsuited to that kind of labor. His own gray, a horse from Emerelle’s own stables, was far too valuable to use for hauling logs. It had already covered four mares, and Alfadas dreamed of building up a stable of his own, over time, unparalleled anywhere in the world.
“All right, Jarl. I’ll make you an honest deal. I will show you no favors and expect none in return. Give me the weight of four of a draft horse’s shoes in gold and send me a cartload of apples each of the next three years, and the horses and wagon are yours. I won’t be making any profit on the deal.” He smiled abashedly. “I would, however, ask you to allow me to mention to future customers that you bought one of my vehicles.”
Alfadas shook his head. The crafty old crook! “That would make you the duke’s wainwright.”
Sigvald spread his arms wide. “It’s the world we live in, Alfadas. Who buys from me is as crucial to my business as the quality of my handiwork. I am sure that you will never regret having purchased this magnificent wagon.”
“And how do you plan on delivering it to me in Firnstayn? It will still be weeks before the fjord freezes.”
“Let that be my concern, Duke. I promise you, in four days at the most, the wagon will be in your village. With the horses, harness, runners . . . basically, everything we have to offer.”
Alfadas stepped over to the heavy wagon and stroked its diligently smoothed timbers. He had never before dreamed of owning such a thing, but now it was firing his imagination, and he pictured himself racing with it across the ice! It would give him a lot of pleasure
in the future . . . as long as he managed to talk the king out of his insane plan. “Send me a coachman, too, to teach my wife and me how to drive it.”
“Of course, Duke. You’ll find it an easy wagon to manage—the horses are well trained.”
“Were you in the banquet hall last night, Sigvald?”
The wainwright nodded. “Yes.”
“Then you heard that the king is planning to go to war. If this wagon is not in Firnstayn before I have to depart for Albenmark, then our deal is void.”
Sigvald held out his hand. “Shake my hand, Duke! So shall it be.”
And with a handshake, the deal was done. Alfadas felt a little queasy. Never before had he bought anything so expensive. It was also clear to him that he did not really need the wagon at all. After the first drive, he knew that Asla would also be thrilled, but until then he had a few hard days ahead of him. Perhaps, for the time being, he should not say a word to her about the purchase at all?
Alfadas thought of the bead shop on the road back to the banquet hall. He should get something for her there; it would put her in a more conciliatory mood.
He left the wagon maker’s workshop behind him, thinking about the wagon, but also brooding on how he could talk the king out of what he was planning. Only when he was standing in front of the bead shop did it occur to him that he had just bought four horses that he had not even seen! He cursed himself for a fool.
Alfadas took his time as he made his way slowly through the town. He bought a few smaller items, delaying his return to the king’s halls. Finally, he went to the stables to see to his gray, but a surprise was waiting for him there.
King Horsa stood in the doorway, massaging his forehead.
“Damned mead! I’ve sworn to keep away from the stuff so many times, too. My head feels like an anvil with a giant pounding on it.” Horsa belched. “Don’t gape like that! Pick up your feet! I told you what’s to be done!”
Elven Winter Page 22