Beneath
the overhanging cliff, a faint fire flickered, its flames throwing wavering, wandering
shadows across the weathered stone. A faded, half-forgotten path found its
faltering way up the slope, made a bow-legged bend at the base of the cliff,
then continued on upwards into the broken-toothed hills.
Kóri
sat on a stone before the fire, his back to the cliff. The flames reflected in
his colorless eyes, making them dance with orange, yellow and red. One the
other side of the fire lay the bodies of his two most recent traveling
companions, still locked in an embrace, their blades buried in one another’s
breasts.
Kóri
blew between his palms, rubbed them together, then held them up to the fire.
After a moment, he sighed and shook his head, and stuck each palm under the
opposite armpit. “Beautiful weather,” he told the jarl’s horse, grazing nearby.
The
horse tossed its head, unconvinced.
In
waves and folds the land fell away, like sea-foam, dotted here and there with
the deeper blacks of deathly still lakes, and beyond them moonlight reflecting
from the endless, eternal sea. The glittering scales of the World-Serpent clung
to the sky.
“Don’t
suppose you could glitter a bit more warmly?” Kóri asked them. “Or maybe send a
more talkative traveling companion?”
Quit
moaning, said the stars. It’s your own fault you’ve no one to talk to.
Kóri
glanced at the two bodies of the merchants he’d been traveling with and conceded
the point. He got to his feet, stamped them twice to restore circulation,
stepped over the corpses, and wandered over to the horse. He stood next to it,
stroking its flank. The horse placidly ignored him and continued to nibble.
“You’ll
like it in Ormskirk,” Kóri told it. “The weather’s milder, the land flatter,
the merchants less murderous.”
A
flick of the ear and a swish of the tail spoke volumes for the horse’s opinion,
he thought. Yes my old friend, it might have said, that’s as may be, but men
are much alike in every land, and could you scratch a little higher?
“You’re
a long way from Ormskirk,” said a voice from out of the darkness.
Kóri’s
hand paused in its stroking for a heartbeat, then resumed. He spoke without looking
up or around. “I wondered when one of you would show.”
A
woman rode into the dim firelight, dressed as a man with a mail shirt over a blue
tunic and leggings, her long straw hair carelessly braided over one shoulder, a
shield slung across her back. “Two dead men, family by their faces—”
“Brothers,”
Kóri supplied.
“—embracing
like lovers, but with murder in their hearts.” She dismounted and prowled about
the bodies, poked one with the toe of her boot. “Here’s a story, and no
mistake.” She padded to the horse and stopped on the opposite side from Kóri.
She leaned forward, folded her arms across the horse’s back, and rested her
chin on her forearms. “In honor of your dear but deceased companions, a trade:
A tale for a tale. You tell me the saga of the doomed brothers, and maybe I’ll
share one with you.”
Kóri
cocked his head a moment in thought, not quite looking at the woman, not quite not looking at her. An eyebrow twitched
in memory, his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Oh, not much of a story, Hillevi,”
he began. “You know how it is. People fight for all kinds of foolish reasons.
Only. Well.”
The
woman, Hillevi, grinned, her teeth a flash of white in the night. “Oh yes, I
like it when they start this way. Everything was entirely, completely
unremarkable in every way—except what, brother?”
He
frowned a moment. “Well, you know how people make families, clans and kingdoms,
but in the end we’re all alone in here,” he tapped his heart. “No matter how
well you know—how well you think you know—a wife or husband, a lover, a brother
or sister, a cousin or companion, we all know deep down they would hang us like
a sacrifice or sell us as thralls to the Shayathids if they thought it would
make their lives happier. Wealth, glory, power, honor, what are family or friendship
next to these?”
Hillevi
held a hand against her mouth in mock horror. “I’m begging to suspect they
killed each other to spare their sibling the pain of listening to one of your
stories.”
“Come
on, let’s sit,” Kóri sighed and motioned to the fire. “If you’re going to ruin
the story, we can at least be comfortable while you do it.”
“Terribly
sorry, I’m sure,” she said, in a tone that made clear she wasn’t. She flopped
to the ground, cross-legged, while Kóri resumed his perch on the stone.
“Their
names were Hrafn and Krakr,” he began.
Hillevi
stifled a laugh. “Raven and crow? Of course, of course. Sorry, do go on master
skald.” She waved for him to continue.
“Hush
then. Hrafn and Krakr. Last summer, their uncle Magnus called the two brothers to
his home, and put to them a proposition. Oh, what a summer that was, eh?
Sunlight flowing like golden mead down the hills, even the taste of rain was as
silver as the Hearthwife’s own tears. Picture it: They sit on the shore of a
salmon-stocked fjord, and sly Magnus speaks, and says to the two, I’ve a proposition
for you, dear nephews. I’ve no sons, no sea-brave sailors to set in my seat
when I’m gone, no one to carry both my cargo and my name to sky-darkened shores
and the Stormfather’s halls. I shall set one of you as my son, but which? So: a
test. Take two ships, he says, take one each, travel to Tjorvey island, and there
fill the holds with fur pelts. Follow the fair winds home and sell them to
traders in Veborg. Each of you sell as much as you are able, and bring me the
silver earned by your sweat. Do this, and the hand that holds the heavier
silver, I will have as my heir, to rule in this house and haven.”
Hillevi
gestured over her shoulder, at the path gently climbing the hillside. “That’s
the road to Veborg right there. But Veborg is on the sea; why didn’t they just sail
straight there?”
Kóri
smiled a sideways smile, and pointed to the sky overhead. “Old Stormfather’s
got a wicked sense of humor. Three weeks out to the island, three weeks a-land,
three weeks sailing back, almost in sight of their destination, when the sky
goes black and the wind starts howling. A keening wind, a killing wind. A
merchant knorr is no drakkar, able to ride out the waves, it
has no oars to fight against the storm. Suddenly, the sky-veil drew aside and
the two found themselves being blown towards a towering, terrible rock-face,
with talons like trolls and teeth like a dragon. Wood planks snapped like
bones. Both ships got battered to bits on the bitter rocks, the two boys the
only survivors, and only one bale of bear pelts to sell. Which is how it was
when I met them.”
“And
you took pity on them, out of the goodness of your heart.”
Kóri
spread his arms wide, a gesture of generosity, or else of a spider waiting in
its web. “Why, naturally. It’s far to Veborg and you’ve no cart, I said to
them, so put your pelts on my horse. Promise me only a ninth of the silver you
make from selling them. They were quick to agree, and for three days and night
we followed the road to Veborg.”
“Again
with three and nine. By coincidence, the numbers sacred to the Stormfather.”
“At
times Hrafn would walk in front and Krakr beside, at others Krakr before, Hrafn
behind. When Hrafn fell back he whispered to me, the one remaining bale of
pelts was from his ship. All Krakr’s had sunk, so wasn’t it unfair he had to
share with him? I agreed it seemed the Stormfather’s will. Later, when Krakr
walked near, he said he had pulled Hrafn from the sea instead of letting him
drown, and didn’t his brother owe him his life? Owe him the silver and their
uncle’s house, in fact. I said it was clear his brother owed him a great debt.
“What
shall we do, I asked each privately. Let us leave my brother, and just us two
travel to Veborg, counseled Hrafn. Tie up my brother and leave him for the
wolves, advised Krakr, I will share the silver from Veborg.
“A
fine plan, I said to Hrafn, let us leave tonight. I great plan, I said to
Krakr, let us leave tonight. Well, when they both awoke in the middle of night,
and found what the other was planning, there were hard words, then sharp
knives, then a great deal of bleeding and dying.”
Hillevi
clapped slowly, three times, with a sound that rang from the cliff face like
the beat of swords on shields.
“Lies,”
she said. “Lies from start to finish. Not a word of it true. What was it
really? A woman? Or just a stupid drunken brawl?”
Kóri
chuckled. “Ah, you know me too well. But the truth is even stranger: Hrafn saw
an eagle fly over Krakr’s head, and took it as a sign Vedfathir wanted his brother
as a sacrifice. As it turned out, Krakr saw the same eagle, and came to a
conclusion that was identical in all respects but for one tiny detail.”
“Another
lie.” Hillevi’s eyes narrowed in thought for a moment, then she grinned and
clapped her hands again. “A riddle. Of course! Let’s see. Well, the Blind God
sees through two ravens, one to see the past, one the future: Hrafn and Krakr.
Your story is about the kingdom’s past, and foretells its future. Summer was
when Sweyn began his conspiracy, in his mead hall—‘like mead down the hills,’
you said. His father was named Magnus, too.”
“Now
that you mention it, I do believe he was.”
“Once
you get that, the rest is easy.” She drummed her fingers on one knee. “Sweyn
and King Ivar were brothers, just like the two in your story, and they
quarreled over silver, just like the two in your story. After Ivar killed King
Gorm and his sons, he distributed gifts and silver to his faithful followers,
and Sweyn received less than he felt he was owed and took it as an insult. Oh,
there was a storm, too, one that beached Sweyn’s ships and allowed Ivar to
catch him in camp. Did I miss anything?”
Kóri
just smiled, and poked the fire. Sparks danced about his head like fireflies. “Na,
it’s just a story. Why, the boys over there are both dead but King Ivar
Deepfathom is alive and well, isn’t he? So my story can hardly have been about history.”
Another poke provoked another whirl of airborne embers.
“And
I said your two ravens mean the story is about both past and future. Ivar is
alive but only for now, is that your point?”
A
tiny shrug. “I don’t claim to possess the power or prophecy. Leave that to the
Blind God’s Chosen. All I’m saying is: People who plot and plan are rarely half
as clever as they think they are.”
“Including
yourself?”
“Ah,
well, I’m the obvious exception, aren’t I?”
Hillevi
let the silence speak for her. In the dirt between her crossed knees she idly
traced a circle, in an endless, repetitive loop. “You ever wonder, these things
we do.” She stopped, seemed to see the circle, then wiped the dirt smooth with
the palm of her hand. “How much is ourselves, how much of what … it … wants us
to do? Like those two. Couldn’t you have just. Not?”
Kóri
shook his head, slowly. “One thing people are never, ever going to do is let
each other be, sister.” He leaned forward over the fire. “You had enough?
Thinking of letting go? Where is your Token, I wonder?”
She
scooped up a handful of dirt and tossed it at him, but without any anger. “Give
it up, Kóri. It’s out of your reach. Maybe I swallowed it,” she said. “Or maybe
I’ve tattooed it, in a very private place.”
“You’ll
have to show me then, maybe later,” he winked.
“Maybe
after I’m dead.”
“Well
given your personality and profession, that’s practically a promise. Now, speaking
of promises. A story for a story.”
Hillevi
took a breath. “The Althing,” she began. “King Ivar has called the Althing, on
account of your little jest at the home of the dearly departed but
ever-so-slightly treacherous and untrustworthy Jarl Baldr Hornbrow. Just when
it looked like everyone was willing to forget that unpleasantness with young
Sweyn, now all the jarls are on edge again. Baldr was hated by both sides, it’s
no secret. Sweyn’s old comrades think the King had him murdered, and they’re
next. The loyal jarls think one of the rebels did it and say the King was too
forgiving, which means they’re next. Axe-blades are being sharpened and
wolves are gathering.”
Kóri
gave a modest shrug and leaned back from the fire. “Can’t take all the credit.
Who put the idea in Sweyn’s head to rebel in the first place?” Hillevi dipped
her head in acknowledgement. “But how does the Althing feature in this?”
“At
the Althing, King Ivar must name a new jarl to fill Baldr’s voluminous shoes. Everyone
is looking for a sign which way the King will steer, reconciliation or revenge,
and they’ve plumped for the naming of Baldr’s successor as the test. Old Hornhead
did away with his only heir, and the only other family left is his half-brother
Arvakr, who fought with Sweyn. So. Ivar either tacks into the wind and gives
the jarldom to Arvakr, causing him to look weak and his loyalists to desert
him, or he runs before the wind and gives the land to a loyalist, insulting
Arvakr and maybe sparking another rebellion.”
Kóri
leaned back against the cliff face and clasped his hands behind his head. “Sounds
like all we need to do is sit back and let things unfold on their own.”
“Don’t
relax too much. Witnesses will speak before the decision, of course. Your name
has been mentioned, brother.”
“You
know, I’ve never been to an Althing. You can come too, in case someone demands holmgang.”
Hillevi
shook her head, resigned. “You think I would risk my life for your rather
doubtful innocence? Anyway, they will put you to the question if you go. Called
as a witness, if not a defendant.”
“Hope
so. That would be the general idea.”
Hillevi
sighed and threw up her hands. “You see? Like I said, sometimes we are driven
to do mad things.” She pointed a cautioning finger at Kóri. “Watch the logmathur, the law-speaker, Asgeir Stonejaw.
He’s. You know. Chosen. Like us.”
“I’m
familiar with the man.”
“Watch
him, brother.”
Kóri
grinned and spread his arms wide in welcome and acceptance. “Let him question
me. I can swear on any relic or runestone that I never harmed Baldr, never laid
a finger on his mantle, told him straight his son had nothing to do with it.
Tried to stop him from striking his son, even.”
“And
if Asgeir asks who sent you to tell that story in Baldr’s hall?”
“Ah,
now see, that is the one question I am sure Asgeir will never ask.”
“Why
not?”
“Because,”
and he smiled again. “He already knows the answer.”
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