Torin had put into motion a very dangerous hunt. Speed was essential. He didn’t want to injure the animal or make a wrong move and lose it. Neither did he wish to risk his own neck. The signs that the raptor was preparing to strike were clear. He was fortunate it wasn’t a cloudy day, because he could see the white form against the cobalt sky.
Just as the hunter dove toward him, he darted into the tunnel. Something tugged at his tail feathers, and he felt his quills breaking free from his body. It didn’t slow him, but instead spurred him to go faster. He followed the channel until daylight touched his back. As soon as his body was clear, he called to his human shape. He didn’t wait for the transition to complete before he spun around, moving back toward the other opening and his assailant.
His flesh would have tingled if he weren’t consumed with the thrill of the chase. A screech passed from his beak, then turned into a man’s cry. His feathered arm reached out for the propped-up net, tipping it onto the snow-white gyrfalcon. It was over within seconds. Torin groaned in the dirt before pushing himself onto his hands and knees and crawling forward to check on the raptor.
It snapped at him between frantic flaps when he reached for it. It didn’t appear to be injured. In fact, it was quite spirited, but he knew it would calm down soon enough. He tossed a square of fabric over the bird, and within seconds, it settled.
Torin picked up his pants from the ground and got dressed. Then he put his armband around his bicep and his necklace about his neck. After buckling his leather belt, he opened the satchel that was fastened to it and removed a small, dark leather hood.
The animal had remained relatively still while he got dressed. Now, he carefully reached for the edge of the fabric that covered the falcon. He could tell from the direction of the lump which way it was sitting, so he began to lift the net and cloth away from its tail. When its back was exposed, he gently placed his free hand against it, holding it down. The head was uncovered, and as quick as Torin could move, he tried to slip the hood over the raptor’s eyes. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid his flesh getting marked by the youngster’s strong beak.
“Ah!” Torin growled and tied the hood to the bird.
Once he was done, he picked up the animal and tucked it under his arm, holding firmly onto its talons. He glanced at his hand. The bite wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding. This was a sign of good luck, finding an eyas before the trip to the Althing. Just what he needed.
He walked through the grassy valley to the place he’d tied off his horse. It hadn’t noticed his absence since it had been feeding on fresh summer greens. With his free hand, he held onto the saddle and jumped onto the chestnut’s back, keeping the raptor safe against him. After settling comfortably, he nudged the animal forward.
The sun had passed its daymark some time ago. It was nearing midday, he observed. If he were the type of man who liked company, the long trip back home might have bothered him, but he preferred being alone and away from his uncle’s longhouse. It was quiet when he went out in the valleys searching for gyrfalcons.
His young cousin had begged to join him, but he worked alone out in the wilds. Hróaldr was learning the trade after witnessing the amount of silver and gold that lined Torin’s purse. But Torin had never exposed his special gift from the gods—the ability to turn into his fylgja, or animal familiar. It was his secret strength, which made his catching and training abilities unparalleled. His uncle, Fólki, conveniently wanted his youngest focused on battle training during his twelfth summer, since tensions between the chieftains of the southern territories had increased. That had provided the perfect day out alone for Torin.
The ride across the volcanic, pockmarked hills was uneventful, except for the herds of sheep and cattle he encountered. Daylight streamed against his shoulders the entire way, giving no sign of breaking for the night measure. The sun rarely fell below the horizon for very long during summer.
The forested area near his uncle’s farm came into view. He tried not to look upon it. It only reminded him of the grove that surrounded the place he was born. A place he hadn’t revisited since he’d left it nearly ten years ago with his young stepsister to live with his father’s kin.
Torin approached a clear spring in the rocky fields outside the confines of the farm. He climbed from the back of his horse and led the animal toward the cold water for a drink. While the animal quenched itself, he wandered out to collect some flowering dandelions as he always did. He returned with them grasped in his hands and stood at the place they’d found her body. His sweet innocent sister. He dropped the yellow blooms into the water and watched them float a short distance before they sank to the bottom.
He forced himself to stop here every time he passed by even though it put him in a sour mood. It was, after all, his fault she had died. She’d been his responsibility to look after. His father had told him so when he’d left them for the summer raids. The raids he never returned from.
Torin had never felt the sting of a blade sinking into his flesh, but he imagined this was what it felt like: an axe to the heart. Something he carried wherever he went. The guilt that he’d killed his mother and sister, both. One from childbirth, the other because of his selfish curiosity. Instead of going to the spring with his six-year-old sister, he’d gone to watch the puffins nesting.
He lifted his bladder of ale to his lips. It was enough to keep his mouth from drying, but it didn’t provide the numbing sensation he sought.
When Torin arrived back at the farm, a hazy twilight had set on the landscape. He entered the gate, leading his horse behind him with the falcon tucked under his arm. He unbuckled and lifted off his riding gear from his mare. Then he went to the animal shed to retrieve an empty mew. Torin coaxed the bird onto the perch inside the cage, secured the latch and carried the young falcon with him to the longhouse.
Beside the home was a wooden rack that held strips of flesh. The shark meat had been unearthed from the ground to dry so that its poison was leached out before it was consumed, but Torin preferred it best when it left him dizzy and drunken. He reached out to cut off a piece. Its aroma was strong and potent, curling in his nostrils. Without a care, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it well before swallowing, knowing its effects would set in soon to help him fall asleep.
He turned back to the home. The half-light touched the stalks of grass that grew on its roof and outer walls. Grateful that the door was left unlocked, he ducked through the thick wood-lined entrance room and bolted the lock behind him. He moved into the great hall, careful not to wake anyone sleeping along the long built-in benches that ran the length of the space. Although the hearth’s fire at the center of the room had gone out, it was still quite smoky. Enough light shone through the hole in the roof for him to find his way safely across to the opposite end of the hall.
In a smaller room reserved for valuable animals, he set the mew down beside the others that housed his trained raptors: a safe place away from the door where one would not be tempted to take such valuable possessions.
He crept back into the great room and found a place beside his younger cousin on the fur-lined bench to lie and prop himself against the wall. Thoughts of his sister’s limp body filled his mind, along with memories of the farm that was lost to him. He would likely never have his own land to tend as his father had. Not while he had a place with his uncle. Even if he married, they would come to live here. A place that was haunted with painful memories. As soon as his head rested on the wooden wainscoting, his muscles began to relax and his mind grew foggy. The dizziness born from the shark’s poison touched his mind and made it swirl. He could no longer hold onto his pain or guilt. Everything grew foggy, and sleep came to him soon after.
“Torin!”
His eyes snapped open.
Hróaldr’s face was inches from his own. The twelve-year-old’s dark-blond hair was brushed neatly against his head, and his blue eyes were wide in excitement. “You brought one back! I knew you would.”
Torin cleared his
throat and nodded at the boy, which brought on a throbbing headache. The women at the center of the room who were preparing breakfast glanced at them, and he gently shoved the youngster away from him so he could wipe the sleep from his eyes. It didn’t feel like he’d gotten much rest. He probably hadn’t.
“You found me out,” Torin grumbled, still feeling the effects from the shark meat. “I will need your help while I am away. The eyas is young and impressionable—just like you.”
He poked his finger into his little cousin’s chest. Hróaldr slapped it away and lifted his chin. “I am not so young, and I cannot be swayed.”
“That’s my boy!” A voice boomed from across the room at the doorway.
Hróaldr ran to the older man who filled the threshold. Fólki’s light-brown hair fell past the shoulders of his yellow tunic, which was decorated with an intricate design of ravens and knots lining its neck. A well-manicured mustache covered his upper lip. His booming laugh filled the space. “I did not know if you would be forced to pay taxes for not going with me this year! I would rather have you as an advisor, taking your father’s place, than have your silver.”
“I thank you, Uncle,” Torin responded as he stood up and swayed, stumbling off the bench, joining Fólki on the dirt floor.
His uncle raised his eyebrow at him, and his lightheartedness evaporated. “Have you gotten into the mead or were you eating ill-prepared shark again?”
Torin didn’t answer. He knew how disappointing he was to Fólki. Somewhere in his heart he cared, but his guilt overshadowed it and demanded payment.
“Father?” Hróaldr asked.
Fólki ignored his son to add, “How can I find you a wife if you are swaying on your feet like a drunkard?”
Torin had always known it was only a matter of time before his uncle pressured him into marriage. It seemed like every week he heard the threat. It appeared to be unavoidable.
“I do not know why you dislike the idea of finding a woman. Do not your aunt and I provide you reason enough to seek your own union? Or your cousin Ingvar and his wife? Do we not seem pleased with each other? It might be the thing you need so that you stop dragging yourself about the farm like a lame sheep.”
While Fólki spoke, Hróaldr seemed to be having a difficult time being patient. The boy hooked his thumbs on his belt and lifted his chest. Just as he was about to speak, his father interrupted him. “I will not tell you again that you will not join us at the Althing. You are not yet close enough to being a man—next summer you may come. Providing I do not throttle you before then for going on and on about it. Go tell your brother I am just pulling your cousin from bed and we should be prepared to leave shortly.”
Hróaldr’s chin touched his chest in defeat. He gave Torin a pitiful look before brushing past his father to go outside.
“He looks as sad as you do right now—although luckily not as ill.” Fólki chuckled, clapped his hands together, then braced his thick fingers to his hips. “Go splash some water on your face and gather your things quickly. There is not time for a bath. And do not forget a full purse—you will need it to pay the bride price of some lucky woman.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Torin answered, not wanting to agitate him. Fólki wasn’t just family, but Torin’s gothi as well—one of the nine chieftains of the southern quarter. No matter how uninterested he was in settling down, it wasn’t worth his leader’s anger.
He tried to shake off his dizziness before entering the animal room at the back of the house. It was empty of prized livestock now, but come winter it would be full. He lifted two cloth-covered mews from the floor, one containing a seasoned and trained gyrfalcon and the other a white-tailed eagle.
Although he had enough silver saved up to pay the bride price of a good woman, he was sure to make a fine profit off the gyrfalcon as well, as they were the most prized birds of Snæland. The eagle’s worth wasn’t nearly as high, but they made better companions—if you liked getting harassed by your pet.
All of the falconry equipment was stowed in his leather bag. From his wooden chest, he pulled out another silver arm ring, which he slid up against its match on his bicep. His purse, full of silver bits, was clasped to his belt. Frida, Ingvar’s wife, handed him a warm tasteless flatbread, which he ate quickly before it hardened from cooling. Tiny grains of stone crunched against his teeth, so he chewed carefully to avoid breaking a tooth. While he swallowed the last bite, he picked up his sword, shield, leather bag and mews.
Torin’s aunt, Guthrún, appeared by his side and spoke quietly to him. “I can see you are in one of your moods, but please do not resist your uncle. He only wishes for you to be happy.”
Torin sighed and closed his eyes, which brought on a dizzy spell, so he set his gaze on the woman who had helped raise him from a boy instead. He mumbled, “It is not my will to resist him. There must be some other way.”
“Other way?” she questioned, laying her hand on his forearm.
“Besides getting married. I could go on the summer raids—”
Guthrún frowned. “But it is too late now, and you have never taken to seafaring like your father before you. Come now—is having a wife such a sour thought?”
Before he walked outside, he answered, “It is the thought of being bound to a woman I’m sworn to protect—and failing her like I did my sister.”
Just beyond the gated farm, the other men from Fólki’s clan, his kinsmen, including his cousin Ingvar, were gathered with their gear already strapped to their horses. A few of them laughed and pointed at him as he hurried up. “Looking ill and dirty, as usual.”
Torin rushed over to his uncle’s cart to safely stow the wooden mews containing his valuable birds to sell at the gathering. After locating his horse in the animal stalls, he lifted the saddle onto its back and fastened it. The bridle was put on, and soon all of his belongings were strapped in place.
He spotted Hróaldr watching his father’s loyal followers preparing to leave. Torin called him over. “Come here, Cousin—I have a job for you.”
The boy ran over to him wearing a solemn expression. He stared at the ground as Torin spoke. “I am glad you are staying with your mother. Do you know why?”
Hróaldr shrugged in response.
“I do not trust anyone other than you with the gyrfalcon I brought back,” Torin answered, leaning against his horse. “It is young and needs to grow comfortable with men. Wait two days in between feeding, and you must only—”
“Feed it with the glove.” Hróaldr finished his sentence.
“That is right,” Torin said. “Do as I have taught you, and when we get back in two weeks you can help me fit it with a jess.”
The boy sighed. “When you get back you will have arranged a wife, and you will not care to teach me anything.”
Torin raised his eyebrows at his cousin. “If you are not careful, I will arrange for a wife for you too!”
“No!”
“Very well. Thank you for helping me. Before you can blink, you will be at the Althing.” He jumped onto his horse to join the others who were beginning to move away from the longhouse, toward the boundary wall and gate.
He arrived at the front of the procession where his uncle and cousin were riding. When Ingvar, a younger image of his father, saw him, he smiled and asked Fólki, “Did you say you told him to clean his face before we left?”
The two men shook their heads at him. Fólki sighed and said, “This is why we will find you a wife. The right one should inspire you to keep yourself tidy and away from things that will cloud your mind.”
Torin dropped his chin to his chest and glared at the horizon. He saw no benefit in wasting energy on his appearance. If he took two weeks between shaving the whiskers on his neck and face, it didn’t matter to him. And it was the poisonous shark meat that had helped him get to sleep the night before. It was the only thing that kept his pain in check.
“No woman,” Torin answered, “could ever have that amount of power.”
Fólki’s
green eyes twinkled in response. “Shall we make a friendly bet on it?”
Chapter 2
Ásta walked past Rolf and Bjorn, who were loading the caskets of mead and brewing equipment onto the cart. The journey would only take a couple of days. For some, it would take nearly two weeks to arrive at the assembly fields. She was fortunate to be so near where the Althing was held.
She wanted to check on her skeps one last time before they left in the morning. As helpful as Elfa was around the farm, she was deathly afraid of the bees and avoided going near them. They didn’t require much care. The wildflowers growing in the fields around the farm had everything they needed.
It was the quiet that alerted her as she drew near the smithy shed. Once she reached this point, a soft, low hum usually filled the air. But not today.
When she walked past the turf building and looked for the grass baskets that contained her hives, what she saw made her chest seize in pain.
“No,” she whispered aloud.
The yellow skeps had been torn apart, filling the air with a sweet aroma. Their liquid gold honeycombs pressed into the earth. Tiny bodies were scattered around, their stripy torsos and wings pinned by honey to the mossy ground. The turf wall nearby had been toppled, claw marks visible on the surrounding soil.
She hurried to see if anything could be recovered. Her leather shoes ran across the sticky mess. Ásta squatted down, lifting up a flattened mass of honeycomb. Dirt clung to its golden exterior. She choked back tears, knowing what this meant for her.
“Elfa!” she called at the top of her lungs. “Bring a linen sack—hurry!”
If she could collect even a little honey, it would be worth it. However, there wasn’t enough to salvage to make the mead she needed to repay Bárthur. That much was clear. It felt as though she’d just found the bodies of her father and brother again. There was no way she could keep the farm. Not now.
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 2
