Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “Geirmund Hel-hide,” she said, approaching them as they dismounted.

  Geirmund knew that voice. He recognized the antlers jutting from the völva’s hood of goat and cat skins, and he could imagine the woman’s unsettling eyes of icy blue, though he could not see them in the darkness. “Yrsa,” he said. “My father summoned you?”

  “No, he did not.” The seer strode towards them, the silver rings on her bare toes glinting in the grass, until she stood near enough for Geirmund to see the blood she wore on her linen shift and her face, hopefully that of an offering and not his brother’s. “I was already here when Hámund returned,” she said, seemingly unaffected by the chill of the night air. “I knew I would be needed, and I was waiting.”

  “Of course you were.” Steinólfur folded his arms and regarded the woman with the same wary mistrust in which he held any practitioner of magic who claimed to come between him and the gods, or to speak for them. “But if you knew Hámund would be injured, why did you not warn him before he left on his hunt?”

  The seer smiled, a cold grin, and poor Skjalgi shrank into Steinólfur’s shadow.

  “I only knew I would be needed,” she said. “I did not know why.”

  “Even so,” Steinólfur said, undeterred. “How many reasons are there that a king might need a witch?”

  “I’m sure my father was grateful for your presence,” Geirmund said, hoping to silence the older warrior. Geirmund also had doubts about some seers and sorcerers, whose prophecies seemed shrewdly vague and self-serving, but he had no doubt of Yrsa’s powers. “How is my brother?”

  “He will live, and he will mend,” she said.

  Skjalgi took a brave step forward. “Geirmund is also injured. Will you see to him?”

  The völva turned towards Geirmund and glanced down at his arm. Then she moved closer to him and looked up into his eyes. He did not know her age. At times, she seemed older than his mother, at other times, younger. But her eyes were ageless. “There is no need,” she said.

  Geirmund wondered if that meant he would heal, or if he was doomed and nothing could be done to prevent his death, but Steinólfur spoke before he could seek clarification.

  “Why do you say so?” he asked.

  Yrsa had not taken her eyes from Geirmund’s, nor he his from hers. “Because his fate is tied to his brother’s,” she said. “Their life-threads are interwoven for many years to come. If one is to live, then so is the other.”

  Steinólfur scoffed. “And if one of them is to die?”

  Now the seer swung her blade-gaze and plunged it into the older warrior, who took a small step back from her in spite of himself. “I see greatness achieved before I see their deaths,” she said.

  Steinólfur coughed and nodded. “At least we are agreed on that.”

  “I thank you, Yrsa,” Geirmund said. “For being here.”

  She nodded, and then she turned away, but before she descended the rise, she said, “One day, Ægir will swallow you, but he will also spit you out. It is time to travel the whale roads, Geirmund Hel-hide.” Then she was gone.

  Skjalgi paled. “How did she know?”

  “Know what?” Steinólfur said.

  “That you told Geirmund to ask for a ship.”

  “But that’s not what she said, is it?” Steinólfur took the boy’s shoulder in a firm grasp and pulled him close. “Listen to me now. When soothsayers speak, they count on you to patch the leaks in their words, but you mustn’t add any wood or pitch to make them seaworthy. A true seer wouldn’t need your help. She said what she said knowing it would be time for any son of any king at Geirmund’s age to take command of a ship. Nothing unnatural about it. Do you see?”

  Skjalgi nodded, frowning now.

  “Good.” Steinólfur let go of the boy’s shoulder. “Now go and see to the horses.”

  Skjalgi nodded again, then took the reins of both animals and led them towards the stables.

  “Is that what you believe?” Geirmund asked. “Is there nothing to what she said?”

  Steinólfur grumbled and growled before speaking. “I believe everything I just said to that boy. But I also believe that woman frightens me, and I don’t like to be frightened.”

  “‘Show me a man who is never afraid and I’ll show you a fool.’ Those are your words, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “I’ve always been a fool.”

  Geirmund smiled. Then he looked down at his injured arm. “You may be a fool, but you have my gratitude. And I hope you won’t be offended when I have a healer take a look at your handiwork.”

  Steinólfur laughed. “Not at all. I insist on it.”

  Geirmund nodded and turned to go inside and face his father, but the older warrior held him back.

  “Another word or two from this fool,” he said, looking past Geirmund at the hall door. “He may blame you. He may be angry with you, and he may upbraid you. But pay no mind to it. Rest tonight knowing that you saved your brother’s life, and there is honour enough in that to cover any mistake he might lay at your feet.”

  Geirmund inhaled, then nodded again. “Rest tonight knowing you almost surely saved both our lives.”

  “I’ll expect an arm-ring in the morning,” Steinólfur said.

  Geirmund chuckled and led the way to the door. Before opening it, he straightened his back and lifted his chin. Then he and Steinólfur stepped inside his father’s hall.

  4

  The hall was warm and brightly lit with many lamps. What remained of a pig hung upon a spit over the cookfire at the far end of the hearth, the bones and last shreds of meat crusted dark brown and sizzling, filling the hall with its aroma. Dogs barked as Geirmund entered, and several men and women left their benches to greet him, clasping his arms, his shoulders, his hands. The people of his father’s hall were his father’s kin, and his oath-sworn, but many were traders and merchants, and some had been sent by kings from other lands. All expressed their relief and joy at Geirmund’s safe return.

  He acknowledged them, not wanting to offend, but he winced when they bumped or gripped his injured arm and he did not want to linger there among them at the door. Steinólfur knew his thoughts without having to hear them spoken aloud.

  “That’s enough now,” he said to the gathering after a few moments had passed, and he pushed his way through the press to clear Geirmund’s path. “Let him through. His mother will want to kiss his beardless cheek.”

  Geirmund gave the older warrior an appreciative nod and made his escape, striding the length of the hall, past the heavy smoke-stained beams that supported its high rafters and roof, and past the woven tapestries his father had brought back from Frakkland. Those visitors who had not felt it their place to approach Geirmund at the door, lacking in familiarity or status, stood to the side and bowed their heads as he passed, and he greeted them with nods in return.

  One of them captured his attention, a woman his age, or perhaps a bit older, and dressed for battle, a shield-maiden with a scar across her left cheek and neck, and golden braids turned to bronze by the firelight of the hall. He had never seen her before, but she stood near a man Geirmund knew to be Styrbjorn, a jarl from Stavanger to the south. They both stood with Bragi Boddason, the ancient skald from Götaland, and the three of them acknowledged Geirmund with nods as he passed. He recognized in the woman’s green eyes the curiosity that many felt upon seeing one of the Hel-hide sons of Hjörr for the first time.

  He returned a nod to the three of them, wondering who she was, and continued to the end of the hall, past his father’s high seat, then around the carved partition that separated the great room from his family’s private chambers.

  He found his brother in the council room, where his father received smaller delegations and conferred with his advisers. Hámund lay upon a pallet, covered in furs taken from his bedcloset. Geirmund assumed he had been situated there on t
he floor, rather than in his bed, so the two læknar women standing at his side could more easily tend to him. He appeared to be sleeping a heavy sleep, his chest rising and falling like the tide, slow and even. Sweat glistened across his brow.

  Hjörr and Ljufvina stood at Hámund’s feet, near to one another, their backs to Geirmund, but his mother turned to look over her shoulder as if sensing his presence.

  “Geirmund!” she cried out, rushing to him, and pulling him into a tight embrace. “I thank the gods for your return.”

  Geirmund put his arms around her and held her for a moment before asking, “How is he?”

  His father answered. “Yrsa says that he will live. But he is fevered. Thyra læknir says that he bled much. But we slaughtered a pig and he ate a cake of its blood, as she said to do. Now he rests.”

  “His wound?” Geirmund said. “I did the best I could, but–”

  “We have dressed it,” Thyra said, gesturing down at his brother, where he glimpsed fresh wrappings under the furs. “Inga helped me. But you did well, Geirmund. I believe it will heal, and he will still have full use of his drawing arm.”

  Something loosed inside Geirmund when she said that, a barb of fear he had been unaware of that had been pulling on the meat of his heart. “Thank you,” he said.

  “But what of you?” His mother looked him over, then gently lifted his arm. “When Hámund was awake, he said you had also been injured.”

  “I was. Steinólfur saw to it.”

  “Steinólfur?” Thyra said. “That old Egðir?” She crossed the room as though marching to battle. “Please, Geirmund, allow me.” But she wasn’t truly asking his permission. Instead, she hustled him into his father’s chair at the head of the room’s long table, where she laid out his arm and checked the work that Steinólfur had done. “Oh, mayweed,” she said with approval. “But this wrapping is filthy. Inga, bring some new linen.”

  Steinólfur’s wrapping did not look dirty to Geirmund’s eyes, but he knew better than to protest as Thyra’s daughter brought a basket to the table that held the tools of her mother’s trade.

  “This will be better,” the older læknir said. “New, clean linen.” She applied some of her own salve to his wounds, a sticky substance that burned his raw skin, and then went about rewrapping his arm.

  “That is no minor injury.” Ljufvina stood next to her son and laid her hand on his shoulder.

  Geirmund looked up at her and noticed redness in her eyes, from crying or from sleeplessness, or perhaps both, and it seemed the lamps in the room caught more threads of silver in her raven hair than had been there before the hunt. “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said.

  “As you should be,” his father said.

  Hjörr stood a few paces away, arms clasped behind his back. He too looked tired and worn, his skin pale against the dark brown of his beard, though Geirmund did not feel the same remorse over his fatherly distress, for the larger share of it had no doubt been for his brother. Nevertheless he managed to say, “I do regret what happened, Father.”

  “What matters now is that you are both here, and you are well,” his mother said, her voice firm, her words the terms of a temporary truce to which his father merely offered a grunt.

  A few moments later, Thyra finished binding Geirmund’s arm. His mother thanked the læknar and led them back to the main hall to find them a bench and blankets for the night. They would stay at least until Hámund’s fever broke, and probably for longer, depending on the wishes of the queen and king. Geirmund remained seated in his father’s chair and silent after they had gone, his arm resting on the table, waiting for his father to speak.

  “Your brother sleeps now, but he told us what happened.”

  “Wolves.” Geirmund nodded almost absently, his gaze buried in the table’s deep wood grain. “Hámund fought well.”

  A moment passed. His father approached the table, and Geirmund almost rose out of instinct to offer the king his rightful seat. But some anchor of resentment and anger kept him moored there, and to his surprise his father simply sat in the chair next to him, slumped low and plainly exhausted. The king sighed, rubbing his eyes and his forehead, and Geirmund fortified his defences with the material Steinólfur had given him outside the hall.

  “‘Hámund fought well’,” his father said. “Is that your full accounting?”

  Before Geirmund could reply, the king went on.

  “If my father were alive, he would tell you that the bonds of kinship are no protection against envy and treachery.” He nodded in the direction of the great hall. “Do not doubt that there are men and women out there who think you were a fool to save your brother’s life, especially at risk to your own. They think you honourable, yes, but a fool.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  The king’s eyes narrowed. “I have never doubted your honour. It is patience, wisdom, and restraint that you lack. You are a fool, and you are reckless. You went into the mountains, into danger, completely unprepared.”

  Geirmund could not disagree with that, but neither would he allow himself to agree with his father’s judgement. “Surely your sons may hunt, my king–”

  “Be silent! Do not deny what is plain to every man and woman in this hall, including your oath-man. It would be one thing if you endangered only yourself with your witless actions, but you endangered your brother’s life.” He sat up and leaned forward. “You endangered the life of the future king of Rogaland.”

  The burning from Thyra’s salve had begun to ease, replaced by a hateful itch, but Geirmund kept his arm upon the table, refusing to scratch it, and held himself still before his father. “I have long known what matters most to you, my king.”

  His father expelled a sharp breath and sat back, shaking his head. “Your words and your actions stand as proof that you were born in your rightful place. As a father, it wounds me to say these things to you, but as a king I must. You do not have the temperament or the wisdom to rule, but my greatest fear is that you will not learn to follow.”

  Geirmund’s mother returned then, followed by her loyal dog, Svangr. The large moosehound loped into the room in a way that reminded Geirmund of the wolves he and his brother had fought but days before. It was only the devotion in the dog’s eyes when it looked at his mother that marked the animal as tamed.

  “Well,” the queen said, glancing back and forth between Geirmund and his father. “I can see nothing is mended between you two.”

  The king looked at Geirmund. “I wish it were.”

  “And I wish it could be,” Geirmund said.

  Svangr padded across the room to Hámund’s side, sniffed his shoulder, and then lay down beside him with a high, windy whine.

  “He will be well,” Geirmund’s mother said to the dog. “Do not trouble yourself.”

  The dog swung his head to look at her for a moment, then settled himself as a warrior takes a watch at the gates. The queen smiled at the hound and then turned to Geirmund’s father.

  “Styrbjorn is waiting,” she said.

  “It is late,” his father said. “Can I not speak with him tomorrow?”

  “That depends on the mood you would like him to be in.” The queen sat down in the chair opposite the king, with Geirmund between them. “He will wait if he must. But he knows Hámund and Geirmund are now both safely returned, and it is not yet midnight, so there is little in his mind to prevent a meeting.”

  Geirmund’s father scowled but nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Geirmund. “Go. Send in Styrbjorn.”

  As Geirmund rose to his feet, his mother tried to take his hand in passing, but he departed too quickly to allow it and stalked from the council room, back into the main hall. He found Styrbjorn where he had seen him before, now sitting on a bench with the shield-maiden, Bragi having moved elsewhere. The two of them looked up at his approach, and Geirmund hid his lingering ang
er as best he could to speak to the jarl with respect.

  “My father will receive you now,” he said.

  Styrbjorn gulped down the rest of the ale in his horn and stood. He was a tall man, and broad-shouldered, but aged past the fullness of his strength. “Your father is fortunate to still have both of his sons,” he said.

  Geirmund suspected those words contained a hidden meaning, and possibly even an insult, but could not locate it with enough confidence to make a reply. Instead, he simply bowed his head and Styrbjorn left for the council room he knew well. Geirmund watched him go, feeling suddenly exhausted, aware that even when asleep and fevered, Hámund was included where he was not.

  “You are the younger brother,” the shield-maiden said, looking up at him. “Geirmund Hel-hide.” She motioned towards Styrbjorn’s vacated place on the bench to her left. “Sit.”

  Though tired, Geirmund remained curious enough about her to do so, and together they faced the end of the cookfire that sat perpendicular to the hall’s long, central hearth.

  “Does it bother you?” she asked.

  “Does what bother me?”

  “Being called Hel-hide.”

  He did not have the patience for such questions. “That is the name my father gave to my brother and me.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Geirmund turned to look at her. She was older than him by more than just summers and time. She smelled of smoke and the sea, and something in her eyes felt familiar to him, a kind of kinship that drew him to her.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Her smirk said that she knew he had still avoided her question, but also that she had decided to allow it. “I am Eivor.”

  “I am honoured to meet you.” Geirmund bowed his head. “I didn’t know Styrbjorn had a daughter.”

  “I am not his daughter, though he has raised me as one for the past eleven summers.”

  “You are fortunate,” he said. “And where is your father?”