Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  3

  Geirmund straddled a root of the ash tree, his back against its trunk. Its bare branches reached high and stretched far, having shed their golden leaves, which surrounded him and the tree like a fallen crown upon the ground. On his left the Førresfjord shone in the sun, its shore perhaps a hundred fathoms distant, while farmland and pasture covered the low hills to his right.

  Next to the tree, Steinólfur went about laying a small fire. The older warrior moved with a rigidity that spoke of past battles and their scars, and it often seemed to Geirmund that the fifteen summers between their ages held more life-skein than would naturally fill that time. Steinólfur already had grey in his brown beard, and if his skin were leather, it would not be fit for new use. He could speak to Geirmund as both friend and adviser, sometimes in the same breath. Once, when drunk and lost in his memories, he had mentioned a time at the oar, and that had caused Geirmund to wonder if Steinólfur had been a thrall. But it wasn’t right to ask a man about something he’d said after drink had wiled away his wits and his tongue was not his own, so Geirmund had kept that question to himself.

  “You don’t look fevered.” Steinólfur pulled a pinch of black touchwood from his tinder pouch, along with his fire-strike. “How much pain is that giving you?”

  “Only a little,” Geirmund said, but that was a lie. Relieved of his brotherly burden, he now noticed a tight swelling in his arm, sharp pain when he moved, and a dull throbbing when he held still. But he wouldn’t complain to Steinólfur about that. He wanted to return to Avaldsnes and finish seeing to Hámund first. “We don’t need a fire. There isn’t time for it.”

  “It is no longer a matter of time.” The older warrior struck sparks into the tinder, then blew over the flames through tight lips until the fire could live on its own. “Your brother will reach a healer and he will live. Or he will not, as fate wills it. Nothing you can do now will change that, and we need to dress your wounds.”

  Geirmund said nothing aloud but whispered an inward appeal to the Norns who would determine the outcome of his brother’s healing, if it had not already been decided.

  “There.” Steinólfur nodded at the fire, satisfied with it, and glanced at Geirmund. “But I know you’re not worried about your brother. You’re worried your father will be angry.”

  Geirmund scowled. “I do worry about my brother.”

  Steinólfur stood and folded his arms, waiting until Geirmund nodded.

  “But I worry about my father, also,” he admitted.

  The warmth of the fire had reached through his clothing on his left side, nearest the flames, but the damp and cold still clung to the other, and a Ginnungagap shiver ran down his spine, between his halves.

  “When my father sees Hámund,” Geirmund said, “he will look for me, and he will blame me.”

  Steinólfur relaxed his arms and stepped towards him. “He will blame you whether you are there or not.”

  Skjalgi returned then, carrying two skins of cold, fresh water from the fjord. “Who will blame you?”

  “My father,” Geirmund said.

  “What will he blame you for?” Skjalgi asked.

  “For prying into matters that don’t concern him,” Steinólfur said. “Now put some stones in the fire, boy.”

  Skjalgi glanced at Geirmund and they exchanged grins. Then he went about gathering rocks of the right size, which he tossed into the flames at the fire’s edge to heat them.

  “Well, let’s have a look at you,” Steinólfur said.

  He and Skjalgi pulled Geirmund’s leather tunic over his head, then his wool, taking care as they peeled both layers away from his arm. Geirmund winced as the fibres tugged at his wounds, but both outer garments came away without reopening his skin. His linen undertunic would prove more challenging, however. Its weave had been saturated with his blood and become one with his torn flesh. To soften it, Skjalgi pulled the hot stones from the fire and dropped them into the water skins, which bubbled and swelled with steam. Then he dribbled the scalding water over Geirmund’s arm as Steinólfur rubbed and loosened the tunic as best he could. Geirmund grunted and gritted his teeth against the pain, which lasted for some time until they could finally remove the tunic and look at his injury.

  “A lot of blood and fuss over a scratch,” Steinólfur said.

  Geirmund looked at his arm, almost gasped, then laughed. Much worse than a scratch, the wolf’s teeth had left a vivid arc of punctures and rent skin, the flesh around the bite black with hot, festered bruising. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” he said.

  “I’ve given worse,” Steinólfur said. “Even the boy here has given worse.”

  Skjalgi said nothing, his face stolid as he took in Geirmund’s wounds, for he had clearly done no such thing. But the deep and twisted scar over his eye proved that he had seen such injury, and worse. The tree that had almost taken his sight had crushed his father as it fell. He was old enough to carry a spear, but as yet had no beard, though unlike Geirmund he would one day grow one when his hair decided he had come of age.

  “I suppose he is Hjörr’s son, after all.” Steinólfur sighed and nudged Skjalgi, trying to rouse some mirth in the boy and quell his unease. “That means we’ll be expected to nurse him along like a runty pup and take the blame if anything should happen to him.”

  “I suppose so,” Skjalgi agreed, but quietly.

  “Now,” Steinólfur said, frowning at Geirmund’s arm. “I assume you want to keep this limb?”

  “If I can,” Geirmund said. “My sword would miss it.”

  “Would it? A sword needs feeding, and I wager your sword would be glad of finding another limb that could take better care of it.”

  “Like yours?” Skjalgi asked, grinning now.

  Steinólfur shrugged. “Perhaps. But I have a sword, and I’ll do my best to keep Geirmund united with his.” He then let the jeer slide from both his eyes and his demeanour. “But like your brother, you should also see a healer when we return.”

  Geirmund nodded. “Perhaps that will cool some of my father’s anger.”

  “Perhaps.” Steinólfur turned to Skjalgi. “Fetch more water. And some mayweed, if you can find any.”

  Skjalgi emptied the stones from the skins and hurried off, and Geirmund waited until the boy was out of earshot before speaking.

  “You didn’t keep me here just to mend my arm. You have something to say.”

  “I do.” Steinólfur tossed the stones from the skins back into the fire. “And it is this: no one else would have thought ill of you. No one else would have blamed you.”

  “For what?” Geirmund asked it as a challenge, because he knew very well what Steinólfur meant.

  The older warrior rubbed his forehead and sighed. “People die. It is the way of things.”

  Geirmund leaned towards him, the heat of the fire on his cheeks. “He’s my brother.”

  Steinólfur nodded, poking at the stones and embers with a stick. “Brothers also die. In the south, where I come from–”

  “This is Rogaland.” Geirmund’s throat tightened. “You are not in Agðir any more, and you would be wise to remember that before you speak.”

  “I am your oath-man, Geirmund. If I can’t speak plainly with you, then who can?”

  Geirmund looked into his eyes and saw no guile there, a rare quality in those who surrounded him in his father’s hall. “Speak plainly, then. But take care.”

  Steinólfur hesitated, like a man about to cross spring ice. “Years ago, when you were even younger than Skjalgi, I happened to see you sparring with Hámund. I watched you both for a time, and afterwards I went straight to Hjörr and asked his leave to become your oath-man.”

  Geirmund remembered the day his father had introduced Steinólfur to him. Though he had since come to value the company of the older warrior, he’d resented Steinólfur at the time, assuming he was there to s
py on him and keep him out of mischief, and there had been many days when it seemed Steinólfur resented the duty as much as he did. That he had volunteered for the job had never occurred to Geirmund. “Why?” he asked.

  Steinólfur chuckled. “Why, indeed. Your arms were thin as saplings, and you could barely wield a wooden training sword. But even so.” Steinólfur grinned and wagged his finger at Geirmund. “You frightened me. I saw hunger in your eyes, and I saw rage, the kind that never burns itself out. I knew you were meant to be a king. I did not see that in Hámund’s eyes. Not then, and not now. That is why I am your oath-man and not his. It is your fate to be king of–”

  “Enough,” Geirmund said, and then he sat quietly, weighing his next words. The older warrior had filled him with sudden pride and hidden shame, his quarters pulled in all directions by opposing loyalties, and as this turmoil subsided, he began to shake, in anger and in pain. “I thank you for speaking plainly,” he said.

  Steinólfur nodded.

  “And now I will speak plainly with you. You will never again say such words, neither to me, nor to anyone else. Hámund is more than an oath-man. He is my brother.” Geirmund made his voice sharp and dangerous. “Never again will you speak to me about what you see in him, or what you find him lacking. You will never know the battles we have fought, side by side, inside our own father’s hall.”

  The older warrior stared, struck dumb. Geirmund knew that Steinólfur had heard the story of how the brothers had begun their lives in the straw with the dogs, which meant he knew but a fraction of the whole.

  “You do not know my brother’s hunger and rage,” Geirmund said. “Neither do you truly know mine.”

  Steinólfur dropped his gaze to the ground and nodded, apparently sensing that he had gone as far as he could in his purpose without incurring a permanent cost.

  A moment later, Skjalgi trotted back huffing, cheeks as red as his hair, and Steinólfur grabbed the water skins from his hands. The boy flinched a little and looked back and forth between them, clutching a few dried stalks of mayweed left over from summer. He seemed to sense that something had taken place in his absence, but he knew better than to ask about it. Steinólfur went to the fire to retrieve the stones and added them to the skins, and then he took Geirmund’s injured arm in his hands.

  “Try not to squeal,” he said.

  Geirmund set his teeth hard together, refusing to make any kind of sound or complaint, though the pain blinded him. Steinólfur poured hot water over his wounds and rubbed them with a clean strip of linen to clean them as best he could. Some of the punctures reopened, oozing foul pus and blood. Steinólfur squeezed them until the blood flowed pure and dark, and then he boiled the mayweed to pack the wounds before binding them.

  “I think your arm will heal well,” the older warrior said as he finished.

  Sweat ran down Geirmund’s forehead as he nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I wish I’d brought ale or mead,” Skjalgi said. “To ease the pain.”

  “You couldn’t have carried enough for that,” Geirmund said.

  They pulled Geirmund’s tunics back over his head, and once he was dressed they set off towards Avaldsnes. At Steinólfur’s insistence, Geirmund rode Skjalgi’s horse while the boy trudged in the mud alongside, but they kept a pace the boy could match with an easy stride. The earlier disagreement between Geirmund and Steinólfur remained between them, unspoken but ongoing, and they travelled in silence broken only by the occasional remark from Skjalgi on the land or the changing season. Eventually, the boy asked if either of them had heard of a Dane called Guthrum.

  “I have heard my father use that name,” Geirmund said. “He is a jarl, I think.”

  “Why do you ask about him?” Steinólfur asked.

  Skjalgi squinted up at him. “Some men from a trading ship mentioned him.”

  “And why do you think of him now?” Geirmund asked.

  “No reason.” The boy placed his hand on the head of the axe that hung at his side. “They say Guthrum is gathering ships and men under the Dane-king, Bersi. Not just his Danes, but Northmen also. Perhaps even Geats and Svear.”

  “For what purpose?” Steinólfur asked.

  “To join with the army of Halfdan and conquer the Saxon lands.”

  “Which Saxon lands?” Geirmund asked.

  Skjalgi shrugged. “All of them, I suppose.”

  Geirmund glanced over at Steinólfur. The older warrior stared at the road straight ahead as though holding his tongue, but Geirmund knew his thoughts. Steinólfur had often spoken of the sons of Ragnar Loðbrok, praising their successes across the sea. No longer content with summer raiding, they had begun to seize Saxon crowns and kingdoms, and were Steinólfur not sworn to Geirmund, he would no doubt have crossed the seas long ago to join the battle and win his own house and homefield.

  Geirmund looked down at Skjalgi. “I hear eagerness in your voice. You wish to join this Dane?”

  The boy hesitated, glancing past Geirmund at Steinólfur. “I might, yes.”

  “I do not blame you,” Geirmund said. “In truth, I share some of that eagerness.”

  “Then let us go,” Steinólfur said in a low voice. “Ask your father for a ship.”

  “You know he won’t give me a ship. Not for raiding.”

  “Why not for raiding?” Skjalgi asked.

  Geirmund shook his head, unsure of how to speak the truth without sounding disloyal.

  “This isn’t raiding, and you know it.” Steinólfur turned in his saddle and looked Geirmund in the eye. “Hjörr knows it also. He has the blood of his father and grandfather in him, even if he has chosen a different path. There is nothing traitorous in asking. This is what a second son must do to make his own way.”

  Now Geirmund turned and fixed his gaze on the road ahead, and for some time he made no answer. Steinólfur spoke the truth, and Geirmund could not deny it. It was also true that Geirmund had long wanted his own ship to sail from Rogaland and meet his fate, wherever it might find him. But he was a man divided and could not yet bring himself to leave his brother behind.

  “I’ll think on it,” he finally said.

  After a pause, Steinólfur nodded, but added, “Think on it, then. But ask yourself if you know your own mind. I believe you do and thinking more won’t change that. All that’s left is to act.”

  They spoke no more about it as on they rode and walked, eating smoked fish along the way, and soon came into familiar country. As the sun set before them, they passed through the farms and holdings of Avaldsnes, and they could have sought shelter at one of them for the night if they so wished, but Geirmund wanted to reach his brother’s side. So, after the sun set, they travelled onward in the dark, the road lit only by a thin moon and distant hearthfires, until they reached the black waters of the Karmsund.

  From Avaldsnes that narrow strait reached nearly twenty sea-rests south to the enormous Boknafjord, while in the other direction it opened into the North Way of whale roads and trade routes. On the other side of the Karmsund lay Geirmund’s home on the long shield island of Karmøy, whose ancient kings traced their lineages from the gods. The ferocious seas beyond that island forced almost all northbound ships to take the Karmsund fairway, and the tides ensured they would stop at Avaldsnes for supplies and repairs. Therein lay the strength and wealth of his father’s hall.

  They approached the Karmsund at its narrowest point and passed under five ancient stones that stood in wide formation fifty fathoms from the shoreline, all of them white and thin as rib bones in the moonlight. No one could remember what people had raised them, or whether they might even be the work of giants, or the gods, but the power in them could be plainly felt. They stood near the place where Thór was said to have crossed the Karmsund, and where a ferry now carried travellers to the island. The advance party bearing Hámund must have given word of Geirmund’s coming, for they found a boat
waiting to carry them across.

  As they drew near the opposite shore, Geirmund could see the distant black silhouettes of his ancestors’ burial mounds against the night sky to the north, the largest of which belonged to his father’s father, Half. Upon reaching the island, they turned south and followed the road for a rest, and on the other side of a small cove they came at last to Avaldsnes.

  Bright torches burned at the city gate, which opened almost as soon as they came in sight of it, the guards no doubt having been alerted to keep watch for them. Once they had entered the town, the gate closed behind them and Geirmund found the main road similarly lighted. A procession of torches ran the length of the main road eastward from the gate, through the town, up the rise, to the ridge where his father’s hall dominated the Karmsund.

  “It seems we are looked for,” Skjalgi said. “That’s a comfort.”

  Geirmund felt the beginning of dread in his chest, but he managed a chuckle. “Or a warning.”

  “Best wait for your welcome to decide,” Steinólfur said.

  They followed the torches through town, and several familiar faces emerged in the doorways and windows they passed, many of them calling blessings on Geirmund and his brother. The smell of woodsmoke and the aromas of cookfires surrounded them, as did the muffled sounds of laughter and even music from inside a few of the houses.

  As they approached the climb to his father’s hall, Geirmund sighted movement above them, a shadow among the standing stones that had been raised on top of that hill long before any of his ancestors had built a dwelling there. Unlike the stones they had just passed on the Karmsund, these towered three times the height of a man and leaned close together, like the claws of a dragon reaching up out of the ground. The long bow-roof of his father’s hall rose out of the ridge nearby, taller than the stones and somehow caught between reverence and defiance of their presence. When Geirmund and his companions reached the summit of the hill, the figure amidst the stones stepped out into the firelight.