“Please,” he said again, softer now, his hands raised in surrender. “You have invited me to this place, and I have upset that peace with my careless words. I am sorry.” His apology rolled from his mouth haltingly, like a cripple's staggered walk, for they were not words he was used to speaking.
Despite his awkwardness, the tears welled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. She wiped them away and returned to her seat. “There was a time when you were gentler in speech,” she said as she sleeved another tear from her face and sniffled.
Hakon reclaimed his own perch. Her directness recalled so many conversations they had shared together as teenagers. How often had she asked questions no one dared ask, or spoken words that cut to the bone? It was part of what made her so unique, and so attractive. “I do not deny that, Astrid. I have commanded people too long. I am afraid my skill with delicacy has dulled a bit.” His eyes scanned the rippling sea-lane far beneath them. “What I meant to say is that you are welcome at Avaldsnes, come what may. I understand if you do not accept the offer, but know that the offer stands and that are you always welcome.”
Her silence stretched for so long that Hakon finally looked over at her to see whether she had heard his words. She, too, kept her eyes on the waterway below, though she gazed upon it with eyes filled, and cheeks glistening, with more tears. Hakon turned back to the water and left her to her sadness.
Finally, she whispered, “Thank you, Hakon.”
Later, when they had returned, Hakon called Tosti and Sigurd to him. They met alone in the hall, which had been cleansed of the previous night's feast but not purged of the lingering odors. Hakon relaxed in the lord's seat at the head of the hall and gazed at the two men before him. Sigurd rested with his shoulder on one of the hall's columns, picking at his nails casually with his knife. Hakon held his tongue and sipped from his cup. It was a tactic he had learned from other leaders to make men feel uncomfortable, and it worked. Tosti's bloodshot eyes shifted uncertainly from Hakon to Sigurd as he waited for one of the men to speak.
“Well?” Tosti finally asked. “Are we just to stand here looking at each other? I beg your pardon, my lords, but I have other things to do.”
Hakon sat upright, then rested his elbows on his knees and stared at Tosti. He kept his face expressionless as his eyes wandered over the warrior, as if trying to determine something. Tosti shifted his feet and glanced over at Sigurd, who had not lifted his head from his grooming.
Finally, Hakon spoke. “With Jarl Tore gone, we need to look to the welfare of his fylke. In particular, we need to find someone who can lead the people. Sigurd here,” he motioned to his friend and counselor, “believes that person should be you.”
Tosti nodded to Sigurd in thanks, though the uncertainty had not left his face, for it was clear he sensed that there was more in Hakon's words and he knew not what those words would hold for him.
“I have decided to give the jarldom of More to Sigurd instead.”
Tosti's brows bent toward his old, broken nose. “May I ask why?”
“You may. The law demands that the jarldom should go to Tore's closest kin. One of his brothers. But those brothers are off seeking their own fame elsewhere and have not returned here for many winters. Is that not so?”
Tosti nodded at that.
“So, Sigurd is Tore's son-in-law and now the closest and most powerful kin Tore has in the area.” Tosti opened his mouth to speak, but Hakon stayed him with a raised finger. “But Sigurd is not of this place and he has the Tronds to rule. Which brings me to you. I want you to rule in Sigurd's name here in More.”
Hakon let the words settle on Tosti and work their way into his head.
Tosti responded by scratching his grizzled cheek. “So,” he said after a time. “I am to be Sigurd's man?”
“Aye,” said Hakon firmly. Sigurd peeked sidelong at Tosti.
“I do not wish to sound ungrateful, or to offend Jarl Sigurd,” Tosti motioned to the jarl, “but why not just make me jarl and make me your man?”
“It is a fair question,” Hakon answered as he glanced at the wily Sigurd, who had known this question would come and glanced at Hakon. Amusement danced in the old jarl's eyes, even if his face betrayed nothing. Hakon ignored him. “Here is why. Let us imagine that you were jarl and that war came suddenly to More. How many swords and spears could you muster?”
Tosti's brow furrowed again. It was unclear whether he perceived an insult in the question or he was just trying to calculate the answer to Hakon's question. Either way, Hakon answered for him.
“The answer is, not enough.” Hakon continued before the older man could say anything. “With no legitimate claim, men might soon challenge you for Tore's seat. I am too far away to lend ready assistance. Sigurd is closer, but why should he fight for you if you are not his man? By giving Sigurd the jarldom — a man, I might add, who is kin to Tore and therefore has claim to Tore's seat — I seek to quell the fighting before it happens, make you the most powerful man in More, and give you Sigurd's army to call upon. In return, Sigurd and his men will back none of your rivals, should they come looking for support. You will live like a jarl in all but name.”
Tosti scratched at his beard again. “And if I decline? What then?”
“Then you are on your own.” Which was a gentle way of saying that Hakon would take the fylke for himself if he had to. Those were hard words, but Hakon needed to say them just as Tosti needed to hear them. Given its position along the northward sea-lane, it was too important an area to be ruled by a possible adversary. For the sake of the entire kingdom, Hakon needed a man in More he could trust.
Tosti nodded. “I will think upon it, and discuss it with my men, for this decision will affect them too.”
“Do so quickly, Tosti,” responded Hakon. “I must leave soon.”
In the end, Tosti and his men chose the wiser path and bent their heads to Sigurd's knee. To celebrate the new bond, the warriors feasted yet again. Only this time, Hakon declared that the hall belonged to Tosti — a gift for his fealty to Sigurd. The men cheered Hakon's generosity and Tosti's luck, though luck had little to do with it. For his part, Tosti blushed and bowed deeply to Hakon in thanks.
“Come,” Hakon called to the old warrior with laughter on his lips. “Sit beside me and gaze out at your new hall.”
Tosti climbed onto the dais and sat to the right of Hakon in the seat of honor — a seat that Hakon had purposefully left empty. “You leave me without words,” Tosti said into Hakon's ear so that only Hakon could hear it over the din.
Hakon clasped the old warrior's shoulder and raised his cup to him. “I wish you nothing but happy times in this hall, Tosti!”
Tosti said something in return, but Hakon did not hear it, for Sigurd, who sat on Hakon's left, had nudged him.
“There is one thing still undone, my lord.” He gestured with his chin to his son, Sigge, who sat on the opposite side of the hall, laughing at some comment one of his own men had made.
“Did you ever think that I would refuse your request, Sigurd?”
Sigurd grinned through his beard. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“I will take your lad, though my words of caution remain. It might be best for you to reinforce my words with your own. Speak to him before you bring him to me.”
“That I will do,” Sigurd said. “Skol!”
“Skol!” Hakon toasted to seal the deal, and drank so deeply from his cup that he belched.
Hakon and his men departed two days later under a sheet of solid gray clouds. It was morning and the wind blew southward. Howled, really. It had picked up the previous night and now churned the fjord into a frenzy of whitecaps and salty spray, bringing with it an annoying drizzle that fell sideways across the landscape and soaked the clothes and hair of the men who had gathered on the beach to say their farewells.
“Like getting pissed on by the gods,” Egil grumbled before barking a command at young Sigge and his men, who had been tasked with loading Drago
n and struggled under the weight of a water barrel they were hoisting onto the deck. “Use your damn muscles! You there,” he shouted at Sigge, who was coiling rope near the foredeck. “Drop the damn rope and help your men!”
Sigge hastened to the aid of his friends, and hauled the barrel over Dragon's gunwale with a grunt. But in the midst of his hauling, he lost his grip on the barrel's rain-slickened handle and it dropped awkwardly to the deck. Thankfully, the lid was sealed tightly enough to stay on, despite the fall.
“Careful, you lout!” Egil roared.
“Egil's enjoying this as much as Sigge is hating it,” remarked Hakon as he watched the exchange from the beach.
Beside him, Sigurd smiled at the comment. “My son has much work to do to get on Egil's good side.”
“Good side? Think you that Egil has a good side?” Hakon said through his own smile. “If that is what your son seeks, then he may as well give up and go home.”
Sigurd barked a laugh and patted Hakon on his shoulder. “Ah, Hakon. It has been good to see you these past few days, my friend.”
Hakon turned and clasped his friend's forearm. “And you, Sigurd.”
Sigurd grew suddenly serious and pulled Hakon in closer. “Drangi tells me that there is strife awaiting you. Much strife.” His eyes searched Hakon's face for a reaction. “Fare safely.”
Hakon scowled. He did not appreciate such portents of danger before setting sail. “Tell that dwarf to keep his lips tight. God alone controls my fate.” Hakon softened his tone, for he did not wish to leave his friend with a rebuke. “Worry not, Sigurd. I will be back as soon as I am able. In the meantime, keep your eye on More.”
Hakon sensed movement to his right and turned to see Astrid, who had stopped a few feet away. Hakon went to her and reached out his hand. She took it in her own and peered out from beneath the sodden hood of her cloak.
“I hope your affairs get settled to your liking,” he said formally, lamely.
She smiled sadly and nodded. “As do I.”
“My offer stands, Astrid. You need only ask.”
The pain in her eyes clutched Hakon's throat, forcing him to swallow in order to breathe. She squeezed his hand, but spoke no words.
“I shall see you again soon, I hope,” he said, then turned away and gazed through foggy eyes at Dragon.
There was so much of him that wanted to stay, and yet he knew he must go, for he sensed in his gut that a storm of steel was coming, and there was much to be done before it arrived.
Chapter 5
A storm hit four days south of Frei. Only this storm brought no rain, or lightning, or thunder. Nor did it bring shields, or swords, or spears. It brought a biting wind that howled northward over the water and whipped the seas into a rolling frenzy that bent Dragon's strakes and crashed relentlessly against her hull. The ship would rise precariously on the swells, then plunge into the frothing sea troughs. With each dip, cold, gray ocean washed over the gunwales and across her deck, filling her holds and dousing the warriors struggling at the oars. Two of Sigge's men worked fruitlessly belowdecks, bailing water that would just as quickly wash back into the holds.
“We need shelter,” called Toralv above the wind. He stood at the steer board, struggling to keep the ship's prow heading into the swells.
Hakon pointed to the high-cliffed promontory that towered over the sea in the near distance. “We head for the bay at Stad,” he yelled back, meaning the bay on the opposite side of the mighty headland.
Though their destination was not far from their current position, it took them most of the afternoon to round the headland and enter the protection of the bay's high cliffs. As soon as they did, the scream of the wind softened to a whistle and the seas flattened beneath Dragon's hull. The sodden crew slumped at their oars, exhausted from their efforts but relieved to be safe.
“This is Eldgrim's land, is it not?” Seawater dripped from Toralv's hair and clothes as he gazed about.
“Aye,” responded Hakon as he brushed his sopping hair from his eyes and scanned the rugged cliffs that rose on either side of the bay. Eldgrim had been a warrior in Tore's hird, whom Tore had rewarded with this land for his service. Hakon remembered the warrior from a battle long ago, and from some legal trouble with his son some summers back. Hakon had banished the son for murdering a neighbor, a verdict Eldgrim had protested. The memory made Hakon wonder if time had softened Eldgrim's ill feelings about that event, or if they would find a sour welcome at the warrior's hall.
A broad beach lay deep within the bay. As Dragon drew near it, a line of warriors — mayhap a dozen in all — hastily formed to greet them. They were a disheveled, poorly armored lot who shifted nervously as Hakon climbed to the high prow.
“I come seeking Eldgrim, and shelter,” he called to the group.
“And who are you?” asked a man from the center of the line. Of the group, he was the best armored and their obvious leader.
“I am your king,” called Hakon, making sure to project the annoyance in his voice. He was tired and wet and cold, and in no mood to prove his identity. “Who are you?”
“King Hakon?”
“Is there another king you serve?”
The man turned to a younger warrior, who raced back toward a large hall that lay inland from the beach. “I am Knut,” the man called back to Hakon. “I am the leader of Eldgrim's hird.”
“You will not be the leader much longer if you do not let us land our ship and warm ourselves.”
“Very well,” Knut said after a long pause. “Land your ship and come ashore, King Hakon. I shall take you to Eldgrim.”
“How very kind of him,” hissed Asmund, whose lips were blue from the cold.
“I will land my axe in his skull,” grumbled Bjarke. “Who does he think he is?”
Hakon waved them silent and ordered the crew to remove Dragon's prow beast, lest they upset the land spirits. The men rowed Dragon forward until its keel slid across the pebbled beach and came to a halt some twenty paces from the greeting party. Hakon instructed Sigge and his men to make camp and to move the stores to land. He then gathered Egil and Toralv to him and disembarked.
Knut met them on the beach. He was a grizzled man not much younger than Hakon, with a vicious scar that disfigured his cheek and pulled the corner of his left eye down toward his scruffy beard. He was lucky to have survived such a blow. The warrior nodded to the king and his men, then escorted them to the door of the hall, where Eldgrim met them.
Despite his graying hair, Eldgrim was thick in his chest and gut, and not yet hunched in his shoulders. His arms looked strong enough to squash a man's skull in his grip. His eyes regarded Hakon and his men dourly. “It has been many moons since last we saw each other, my king.” Eldgrim extended his thick arm, exposing the wicked scar he had received in the sea battle against Thorgil and Ragnvald nearly two decades before, when Eldgrim had fought in Tore's hird to help Hakon seal his rule of the North.
Hakon enveloped the scarred forearm in his tight grip. “Since we fed Thorgil and his army to the crabs.”
A snarl-like grin appeared in Eldgrim's beard — a bushy affair streaked with orange strands — then just as quickly vanished. “What brings you to Shadow Haven?” It was a fitting name, thought Hakon, for a hall that stood in the shadow of cliffs and rarely felt the sun's warmth upon its thatch. “Has my son done something again?”
The suddenness of the question, and the bitterness in Eldgrim's tone, set Hakon on guard. “I have no word of your son. We seek only a place to escape the winds and the high seas,” Hakon explained, and gestured to his wet clothes. “We were at Jarl Tore's estate and were making our way home when the winds picked up.”
Eldgrim cast his eyes to the sky as if he could see the howling wind, then turned his hard gaze on Hakon. “I have not forgiven you for banishing my son, King Hakon. Nevertheless, I was Tore's man, and he was oath-sworn to you. And so for that reason, I invite you inside to eat and warm yourself by my hearth. Your men,” he gestured towa
rd the beach, “can make camp on my shores. Knut, see that we lend them the assistance they need.”
Hakon nodded his thanks and followed the old warrior into his hall, which was musty and dark. Mayhap once it had been filled with light and the bluster of young warriors and young life, but that life was gone. Now, cobwebs dangled from the smoke-darkened beams over Hakon's head, wiggling in the drafts that snuck through the aging thatch. Flames sputtered in the few metal sconces set about the interior, casting a muted glow on the old beams and the furs that carpeted the wall platforms. Dry rushes crunched underfoot as they followed their host to the center of the hall where a small hearth fire crackled.
Eldgrim clapped his hands and from the dark corner of the hall, a thrall woman appeared. She was young and clearly nervous. “Hilde, fetch my guests some of my best ale and some of the stew you have been warming. Quickly now.”
“We will not trouble you for long, Eldgrim,” Hakon said as he sat near the hearth and held his cold hands to the flame. Toralv and Egil found stools and sat down beside him.
Eldgrim pulled up a stool and sat across the fire from Hakon, whose sodden clothes had already started to steam with the warmth. “As you can see,” he said, sweeping his thick arms around him, “we get very few visitors, but it should suit your needs for now.” He leaned forward then, right arm on his knee. “You say you came from Tore's? I did not see you there.”
Hakon looked at his men, then back at his host. “We came late to his estate. I would have liked to pay my respects when they buried him, but it was not possible to get there in time. I heard his funeral was a ceremony to befit a king, and I am sorry I missed it.”
Hilde arrived then with the ale and offered a cup to her master. His face stiffened. “Woman! It is our guests you should be serving first, not me.” He nearly backhanded the cup from her hand before catching himself and relaxing. She moved quickly from Eldgrim and proffered a cup to Hakon, who took it with a nod of thanks.
“You must excuse my thrall. She is yet young.”
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