When the doors swung open again, Valagnar stood framed within the dark rectangle. More men hovered indistinctly behind him. His eyes swept the length of him and his frown assumed notes of a sneer. He cupped his right elbow in his hand and stroked his beard. “Look who has paid me a visit. Did you bring an army of straw men with you or have you prepared another ruse?”
Ulfrik’s mouth opened at the question but he did not have a response. He had not considered Valagnar would take his arrival as a trick, but it made sense now. His face grew warm from the anger of having missed this possibility. At last he shook his head. “No ruse. Do you still have the knives I gave you? I trust they aided in your escape from captivity.”
Valagnar’s expression softened but the frown remained. He addressed the leader of Ulfrik’s guards. “Soren, have you disarmed him?”
“Got his sword. Haven’t checked his body for anything more.”
With a nod, Valagnar turned back to his hall. Soren nudged Ulfrik ahead and the guards parted. Once inside, his eyes struggled with the dim light. The smoke hole threw blue shafts into the center of the hall. Benches and tables had been cleared to the sides and a young woman paused in strewing fresh straw on the floor. Valagnar fluttered through the light and sat upon his chair at the high table. Soren gestured he should follow. The men inside watched him as one would a captured wolf, and more than one sword was unhitched in its sheath. Women shrank from him as he passed. Ulfrik felt a dozen eyes examining him from the darkness, but he kept his head up and stood beneath Valagnar.
“What does your presence here mean?” he said, holding out a mug that a young woman filled from a jug. Ulfrik watched the frothy ale spill over the sides.
“You remember my story?” Valagnar nodded again. “Then you know I have escaped, and in so doing I have slain all my enemies. And yours.”
Someone behind him gasped. Valagnar paused with his mug touching his lips, then laid it aside without drinking. “Not all of my enemies.”
“I am not your enemy, though we have faced each other in battle. You should also recall our bargain, and the weapons I gave you. You would not have escaped otherwise.”
“Ha! Your knives were helpful, but the stupidity of your guards was all I needed.”
“Did you consider who set those guards? Had I truly intended to keep you hostage, I’d have first separated all of you and put twice the guards on each of you. My only mistake that night was to not flee with you the moment we struck our bargain.”
“I’ll agree to that, since now we have no bargain. You missed your chance.”
Ulfrik inclined his head. “So be it. Nonetheless, I hope that you will see how both my battle plans and the means of your brief capture were designed from the start to preserve your lives.”
“Do not speak of saving lives!” Valagnar stood, hands balled at his sides. “My son died in that battle.”
“He died a hero and warrior,” Ulfrik said, holding Valagnar’s eyes. “There is no better way for a man to leave this world, and we all must one day.”
Valagnar glared in silence, then retired to his seat again. Now he took a deep drink from his mug. “What happened after the battle? Why do you claim my enemies are all dead?”
“It may only be a matter of months, but much has happened. It will take time to tell.”
“If the tale ends with the death of my brothers’ killers, then I have time to listen.”
Ulfrik recounted the story of his betrayal and imprisonment and left nothing out until the moment he arrived at the edge of Reykjaholt. All listened with interest, for Ulfrik’s retelling grew more dramatic and intense as his audience reacted to his tale. Soren pulled up a bench and he and three others sat to listen. As he recounted his final battle with Gudrod, a young man with a freckled face stepped forward. Ulfrik’s retelling stuttered as he recognized Finn, and saw the formerly happy and accepting face now full of anguish. Yet when Ulfrik described Bresi’s defeat and Gudrod’s death, Finn closed his eyes with a weak smile.
“And so I have held nothing more from you. You can see every wound on my body to mark the truth of my words. I am sorry that the people of Reykjaholt had to become victims in this madness as well. Fate is strange and unknowable.”
Valagnar exhaled and slumped. With this, the tension surrounding Ulfrik subsided. Now only he remained tight with anxiety and racked with pain from his wounded calf. He waited, hands at his sides, eyes downcast, attempting to look as contrite and helpless as he could. In the dark background, he saw Finn hug a woman who must be his mother, Lang’s wife.
“It is a terrible story, made worse that I could not take revenge myself. Yet I see why Fate chose you to be the sword that cut this madness from our lands. Now, what are you here to ask? Our bargain was never completed, no matter what you say about arranging poor guards. Do not try to enforce it.”
Ulfrik shook his head. “No, I only ask for a place to heal and recover. When the traders come, I ask you recommend me for their crews. I will work my way home to Frankia.”
The hall filled with whispers and Soren and his companions stood again. Valagnar cupped an elbow in his palm as he stroked his beard. “It is not as easy as you say. There is a blood price to be paid for the dead.”
“I have avenged those murders.”
“Do not interrupt me,” said Valagnar, pausing to let his silence gather attention back to him. “You say the leaders who provoked this war are all dead, but their people are not defeated. They should all be made to suffer, and honor requires me to stamp their village into the dirt. I will admit, your victory over us stung and has made us leery of returning to battle. But now you are gone, and if those people are as simple as you say, I can return to destroy them.”
“They deserve no less,” Ulfrik said. “But more fighting is not what this land needs. Before you rebuke me, listen. Even in victory men will die. It will be glorious but you’ve already suffered enough dead. I have been in your seat, and I know the bloody cost of fulfilling honor. I’ve no love for those people, but they were led astray. Some of them are good folk. The man from my story, Lini, may yet be alive. I do not know. If he is, he might be a leader to these people and he will be a reasonable neighbor. Do as you will, but consider the cost to yourself and the possibility for a truce.”
Valagnar appeared to struggle with the thought, but Ulfrik knew he had wanted this chance to avoid another battle and still preserve his face. For his part, Ulfrik did not want to be swept into any more fighting until his body was healed. At last Valagnar spoke.
“Your words make sense, but I must discuss with the hirdmen before I decide. As for your request to remain with us, I must decline. You still bear the responsibility for the death of my only son. Soren, bind him.”
Ulfrik stiffened in shock as he felt Soren’s heavy hand grip his arm as he called to his companion. “Someone get me a rope.”
Chapter 52
“Wait!”
The word stopped Soren from binding Ulfrik’s hands, and all searched for the speaker. The woman lurking with Finn behind Valagnar stepped forward. She wore a simple dress of green cloth and a white overdress smeared with dirt. The copper hair that fell from beneath her head cover was streaked with gray and the dash of freckles across her nose and cheeks marked her as Finn’s mother. They shared a similarity in demeanor if nothing else, both carrying a natural openness even in their tense moods. She placed a calloused hand on Valagnar’s shoulder and repeated herself. “Wait, I have a right to speak.”
Valagnar twisted on his seat to face the woman. “Gytha, what are you doing?”
“It is my right,” she insisted. Her eyes never left Ulfrik’s. Tears shimmered at the edge of her fair lashes, and her voice trembled, yet she raised her chin defiantly.
“Then speak,” Valagnar said, his voice a low grumble.
“You have avenged my husband’s death, though it was not your intent.” Her hands pulled back to her chest and she rubbed them together as if cold. “I will rest easier knowing the
man who stole him from me is dead. I am grateful for that, but more for what you did for my son, Finn. You saved his life.”
“It was the right thing to do. Lang and Finn should have been friends, not victims of murder. I was glad to see him live.” He recalled his last words to Finn, a plea that he remember who had saved him. After all that had happened since, he had forgotten it himself.
“Then there is goodness in you,” said Gytha. Her words drew grumbles from the crowd, indistinct but unfriendly. Valagnar turned again to face her.
“And my son is dead because of this one. Do you weigh one life more than another?” A few voiced agreement, but Gytha shook her head.
“Did he kill your son or was it another? Fate sent an arrow to him and he died bravely. Lang was cut down extending his arm in friendship. There is a difference.”
“Enough of this chatter!” Valagnar shot to his feet and Gytha jumped back, clasped hands coming to her face. Ulfrik struggled against an urge to aid her, but Soren placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Surprisingly, Ulfrik read a note of understanding in his expression.
“Ulfrik led good men to their deaths, all so that he might have cause to free the survivors later and earn a debt of gratitude. I heard the same stories you did, and all I heard was a man intent on using my son’s death to enrage and manipulate me for his purposes. I will not have it. Ulfrik is cast out of Reykjaholt.”
“Then I claim him,” Gytha said, dropping her hands to her side. “Let him be made a slave.”
Valagnar’s mouth dropped open and Ulfrik hissed at the notion of becoming a slave. Soren chuckled.
“There is no precedent for such a thing,” Valagnar said, tugging at his beard.
“There’s a fine lie. Slaves are taken all the time. If Ulfrik is without a home, then I will give him one. He will be my slave, property of my family.”
“If he’s to become property, he should be mine.”
“I still await the blood price for Lang’s death. Your own sister, Valagnar.”
His demeanor shifted and his face reddened. Soren chuckled once more.
Ulfrik watched his fate decided, and realized his supposed slavery was Gytha’s way of protecting him. He did not know her, but he had little other choice in a harsh land without friends. A period of slavery would be acceptable, though he wondered at her intentions. Would he become a substitute for Lang, and forced to remain with her? This could be the same situation he had just escaped. He held his breath. Had he been in better condition, he would have grabbed the sword from Soren’s grip and taken Valagnar hostage. Now merely standing so long pained his legs.
“Very well,” Valagnar said, waving his hands in the air. He collapsed heavily into his seat. “I grant you this captive’s life as payment for Lang’s death. Do with him as you will, but under one condition. He must serve one year before you release him from bondage, though you may sell him at any time. I’ll not have you free him under my nose, just to spite me.”
When Gytha smiled, she became a woman ten years younger than the creases at her eyes indicated. She kissed Valagnar’s head. “You are an honorable man.”
People cheered for his generosity, but Ulfrik felt himself whither for it. Soren clapped his shoulder. “You’ll like Gytha’s hall better than those caves.”
Ulfrik gave a wan smile and Soren continued to bind his hands.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re a slave now. You rank slightly better than firewood.”
Chapter 53
Ulfrik laid the sheathed sword across the bed, next to his crisply folded winter clothes and a new sealskin cloak for rainy weather. He traced the hilt of the sword thoughtfully, pleased with the way the blade had been forged. His specifications had been followed in detail, and the blacksmith had called it some of his finest work. Upon seeing it, Valagnar had offered to buy it from Ulfrik, but he declined. This sword would be his closest companion for the next year or longer, and his life would be trusted to it. He shoved the clothes into a goatskin pack and fastened the flap with an antler button. A sigh rushed from his mouth and he glanced around the small room a final time.
The oil lamp lay where Gytha had placed it on the table. A knife sat beside bits of crumbled white cheese, and he swept these into his palm then ate them. He would not be eating as well after today, and now every final taste of this place was precious. Chill air filled the room, but the small space trapped body heat so that adding a few skins to the bed made it comfortable. With Gytha next to him, even the deepest days of winter had been pleasant.
He stepped into the main room where the hearth glowed and smoke prodded the ceiling. One of their goats stood chewing straw next to the table and flicked its ear at Ulfrik’s appearance. Patting its head, he proceeded to the door where he heard voices beyond. Outside he stepped into a cool morning where Gytha waited for him. Finn stood beside her, and his two younger sisters clung around Gytha’s skirts.
“You are the very image of a jarl,” she said. Her smile trembled and he understood tears lurked behind it. “I would hardly know you from the man who came to this hall a slave.”
Ulfrik laughed, cupping her chin, then kissed her. For all her strength and labor-roughened skin, she possessed lips as soft as goose down. “I will be happy to call myself your slave for the rest of my days.”
“Then stay.” Her voice was a shallow whisper, faint enough that Ulfrik could’ve mistaken it for the wind, but he understood.
“We both knew this day would come. I have stayed longer than I should have, and that for my devotion to you and your children.”
Gytha nodded and bit her lip. Nothing would change Ulfrik’s decision.
The year of so-called slavery began with a long period of Gytha nursing him to health. She and Finn both credited him with saving Finn and their men. Their positive views of him eventually spread to neighbors and by the time Ulfrik was hale again, many began to consider him a friend. His hair had been shorn at Valagnar’s request to mark Ulfrik as a slave, but Gytha soon had him in her bed and his hair grew back thereafter. Both enjoyed and needed the companionship, and her children welcomed a man in their home. Even Valagnar proved to be more tractable than he first seemed, and relented on blaming Ulfrik for his son’s death.
After the chaos of Audhild and Eldrid, life in Reykjaholt proved simple and pleasurable. Once Ulfrik’s wounds had mended, he regained his strength through constant activity. He trained Finn and other boys in swordsmanship while he recaptured his old skills. He hunted with Soren and others, bringing home game to feed his building muscle. Ulfrik’s father had remained a giant man until his death, which was about Ulfrik’s current age. He had not inherited the mass from his father, but the strength and endurance came through the blood to him. By the end of the year he stood tall and strong once more, though he now had a slight limp and his hair had mostly turned gray. Both would be lifelong reminders of his time in captivity.
Still he remained sleeping beside Gytha, teaching riddles to her two girls and sparring with Finn. In the spring, traders came with news that Lini had survived and now led his band of farmers. He sent a message of peace, but reinforced it with nothing. Of Audhild’s fate, he had heard nothing nor did he wish to think of her again. Ulfrik did not care what happened, so long as conflict remained at bay. An unadorned life of hunting and tending a hearth pleased him more than a hall full of gold. It was not until the dreams began where Yngvar spoke to him while sitting at the edge of his bed.
“This life is not yours, but another man’s. It’s not what I saved you for all those years ago,” Yngvar would say, a reproachful smile on his lips.
“I know, but I must gather my strength for the road home. It will not be easy.” Ulfrik always repeated the same excuse in every dream.
“Your real children have grown, and wish for their father’s wisdom every day. Return to your hearth.” Yngvar would fade with that last admonition.
These dreams soon haunted every night, then Toki joined Yngvar. Toge
ther they begged him to return to Frankia until he could hear their voices even in wakefulness. Worse still, Toki asked him once more how Throst had known to find him. It was as if Toki wanted to impart a secret he could not betray. The question frayed Ulfrik’s nerves. Once the trader Heidrek Halfdanarson arrived at the end of summer, Ulfrik knew how to silence the dreams and questions. On Valagnar’s recommendation, Heidrek agreed to employ him as a guard and rower. They had no plans for travel to Frankia, but he would earn enough silver to buy passage when he needed it.
“Take this,” Gytha said, and pulled over her head a silver amulet of Thor’s hammer strung on a cord. “It’s simple but will protect you.”
He held the warm silver in his hand, then kissed her once more. He put the amulet around his neck. “I have to leave.”
“Let’s go,” Finn said, hefting his own pack.
Ulfrik frowned. “What is this?”
“I’m going with you,” Finn said, a wide smile on his face. “You can’t travel alone.”
“Before you protest,” said Gytha, “I have discussed it with Valagnar and we agree. Finn wants to see the world, and I can think of no one better to send him with.”
“Do you know the risks? He could be killed or enslaved. It’s no easy thing making a journey so far.”
“I’m a man now, and I want to go with you.” Finn shouldered his pack, and a newly made sword hung at his waist. “Two are safer than one man traveling alone.”
“You filled his head with stories of battles and glory,” Gytha said, tears streaming freely. “Now you see him safely to his destiny. His life should not be wasted tending goats when he could be building kingdoms with you.”
“I can’t say I’m not glad for the company. Thank you, Finn. And you, Gytha, I owe too much to repay.”
They parted with a long kiss, then hugs from the girls. Finn and his mother embraced. Gytha’s voice crackled with emotion. “I would accompany you, but my girls and I have a place with Valagnar. He needs family in his life, or I fear he would die like a calf in winter. Maybe one day you will return to us again?”
The Storm God's Gift (Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga Book 5) Page 30
