"My father did not know I came with this plan in my heart. He agreed to the trip and wanted me to convey a message of reconciliation. He said that he is sorry and--"
"Enough!" Gunnar raised his hand. "If your father wishes to reconcile then he would have come himself. This would not be the first time he sent apologies through another, and it's no matter you are kin."
Yngvar cringed at the wild anger he read in Uncle Gunnar's eyes. Whatever had transpired between father and uncle had left a deep wound. Yngvar did not know where to take his request, having scuttled his plan. But Gunnar was not finished. He seemed to regain himself, then started coughing. This lasted an uncomfortable time where Yngvar felt as if he could crawl between a loose stone in the hearth and hide. At last his uncle accepted a horn from Brandr and guzzled beer to drown his cough. Foam spilled down his beard onto his shirt. He threw aside the horn when finished and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"As for your desire to remain free," Gunnar said, his tone softer now. "I understand how you feel. But I have no place to tell your father what he should do with his son. He does not tell me what to do with mine, after all. So stay tonight. We will feast and celebrate better relations with my nephews. For long has it been since family has laughed beneath this roof. But tomorrow you must return home and to your future life."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The hall was bright with roaring hearth fire and echoing with the laughter and boasts of dozens of hirdmen. Yngvar was crushed against Bjorn, who in turn leaned against Thorfast. Across the high table, their two escorts sat between red-faced men from Gunnar's hird. The hall doors hung open to let in air that could not penetrate the smoky room to the back of the hall. It was as if all the drunken revelers between the door and Yngvar sucked up all the air.
"Your cup is empty," Brandr said, sitting on his opposite side. His formerly intimidating cousin was not an agreeable drunk, and he sloshed beer out of his dark wood pitcher. Half of it missed Yngvar's cup. It ran off the edge onto his lap, a cool relief from the humid heat of the room. It was the third spill this night, and Yngvar had ceased reacting to it. Brandr, however, found each subsequent spill more humorous than the last. He threw his head back in laughter and slapped Yngvar's back.
"Now this is a feast," Bjorn said over the din, leaning into Yngvar's ear. "If only they had more women here."
"What would you do with a woman?" Thorfast shouted. "Show her the wound you got from that war hound?"
Bjorn smiled, red-faced, and said nothing.
From the high table, the hall seemed much longer than it did when on the floor. He had not often sat at his father's high table, being too young to enjoy such revels as this until only the last few years. It seemed there had been less feasting since he became old enough to attend. Yet another sign of his staid and boring future married to a hag with good political ties.
"Here, does your father allow you to sulk at the table?" Uncle Gunnar, rheumy-eyed and haggard from a long night, still managed to smile. He sat next to Brandr and leaned behind him to regard Yngvar. "Is my beer so poor?"
"No, Uncle, your beer is fine." Yngvar realized he had been a poor guest. He had not even presented gifts. He had left them in his pack which was still at the front of the hall with his sword. "Excuse my rudeness. I have prepared a gift for you. I am a poor guest to have forgotten it for so long. Please let me get it from my belongings."
"Fine manners," Gunnar said. "Must have learned them from your mother."
The jibe got confused laughter from most of the hirdmen. Only Brandr smiled weakly and moved aside to let Yngvar leave for his gift. He squeezed along the wall, passing the men falling over each other at their boards. The floor was wet with beer and scraps of the meal. The few serving girls were not much to behold, but nonetheless none of them could travel five feet before a drunk pulled her onto his lap.
Finding his pack, he removed the sax his father had selected to send to his brother. Gunnar was to take the credit for the gift, but it came from his father's belongings. The sax was a short sword used for fighting in tight shield walls, something Yngvar doubted he'd ever see now. It was usually worn at the lap for an easy draw. This sheath came with no baldric, and was plain, leather-wrapped wood. What made the blade special was the green gemstone set in the pommel. It flashed and winked in the hall light, and was probably worth more than the blade.
He swam his way across the hirdmen back to his uncle who waited with his chin resting on the stump of his right hand. Yngvar held the weapon in open palms, so none could mistake his intent with it. As he approached the table, Gunnar sat up with interest. The men around him parted for Yngvar to give his gift. He offered the sax to his uncle.
"My father and I selected this sax for you. I know you prefer an ax to a sword, but I hope you will find this gift suitable for your hospitality."
Gunnar stared at the blade without a word. His reaction brought silence to the men closest to him. Yngvar felt his face heat up at the prolonged stillness. At last, Gunnar reached out with his only hand and took the blade. He stared at the pommel, holding it up so that the hearth light made it blaze.
Were those tears shinning in his eyes? He held the blade high so that the wrinkles of his old neck stretched as he looked up at it. More men quieted as he held it there, until only a few hopeless drunks at the back of the hall watched him.
"Your father picked this?"
"He did."
Gunnar nodded and lowered the sax, placing it on the board before him. He coughed several times, then cleared his throat. He spoke louder than needed for Yngvar to hear him.
"You say you want a life of adventure. Is there a man here who does not desire such a life?" Those close and sober enough to understand pounded their tables and shouted agreement. Gunnar smiled slightly. "As I thought. Glory is all a man lives for, and there is no glory sheltering in a hall. He must go into the world and find it."
Yngvar nodded, agreeing but not understanding the sudden change in his uncle's demeanor. Was he drunk? He had not seemed to drink much all night.
"This gift reminds me of that need." Gunnar's one hand reached to the sword and touched the green gem on the pommel. His expression became thoughtful, and as he lingered on it, his inebriated audience began to drift back to their drinks. Brandr, however, watched his father carefully.
"There is great treasure hidden in the world," Gunnar said with a loud suddenness that recaptured the men's attention. "This is but a part of what lies hidden. This is a warning to me that my days are short, and if I am to ever make good on my promise then it must be now."
Brandr leaned back from his father. His fog of drunkenness had seemed to blow away. "What promise?"
"When your mother died," Gunnar said. "She left the world without the jewels and riches I promised when I courted her."
"You're drunk," Brandr said. "You should rest now."
Gunnar exploded from his chair with violent speed seemingly impossible for a man of his condition. He whirled on Brandr with his face pulled tight like a snarling wolf.
"Do not treat me like a doddering old man! I know of what I speak and you know nothing."
Turning to his men, now commanding the attention of the hall, he straightened himself. If he had given the impression of an ill and aged man, now he was a warlord in black. Fierce strength pulled him upright and his eyes raked the hall. Yngvar could only imagine what he must have been like in his prime. His glare alone would turn a shark back to the depths of the sea.
"I am Gunnar the Black, son of Ulfrik, son of Orm the Bellower. My mother was Runa the Bloody. I come from strength and power. My father ruled the Faereya islands before he helped the ungrateful Hrolf the Strider earn his kingdom. He had won his treasure long before coming here, and he was as wise as he was wealthy. Rather than carry a fortune aboard ship and under the nose of the greedy Hrolf, he buried it on our ancestral family lands in Grenner, back in Norway."
The hall began to mumble at the claim. Brandr stared at his fat
her as if seeing him for the first time. Yngvar wished he had brought a trinket for a gift rather than something to drive his uncle mad. He gave a desperate look to Bjorn and Thorfast, but they were staring open-mouthed at Gunnar.
"This is the first time you've ever mentioned this," Brandr said.
"Of course, you fool! Treasure would not remain hidden long if revealed even to one's kin. I was sworn to secrecy. Besides, Norway is under the boot of Harald Finehair."
"Erik Blood-Axe," shouted someone from the middle of the hall. "His son rules now."
Gunnar waved his stump in dismissal, frowning. "No matter who rules, I let the jarls of Norway delay me all these years. My father told me the location of his treasure. It was meant to be saved for when he needed it most. But he never had a chance to retrieve it. For like me, he waited until he was too old to make the journey and died before he could reclaim the riches he had won for his family."
Yngvar looked around at a quiet hall, blurry eyes trying to focus on Gunnar. No matter how much they had drunk, none of them were so far gone that they did not smell the gold lust in the air.
"What good has it done buried in Norway?" Gunnar asked. "Before I die, I will reclaim it. I will share it with those who aid me. There can be no more delay."
Brandr spoke, but Yngvar could not hear him over the shouts of the other men. From his frown, it seemed he disagreed with his father. Gunnar ignored Brandr and lifted the sword off the table. He held it by the sheath so that the green pommel gem extended toward the gathered men.
"Will you come with me on this final journey to glory?"
Every man in the hall stood, hollering their pledges. Yngvar was suddenly crushed between two sweaty men with body hair like wire. Both had surged forward to shout their oaths. Only after he had squeezed from between them did he realize his uncle stared directly at him.
Did he mean to take him on this adventure? Panic caused his stomach to burn and he again looked to Thorfast and Bjorn, who were both as stunned as he. Thorfast's platinum hair glowed in the dim light. It made Yngvar think of Kadlin. If he went with his uncle, he would delay or even avoid marriage to Jarl Flosi's beastly daughter. If it was a family treasure, then perhaps his uncle would be generous in sharing it with him. He could afford to take Kadlin away and start a life together. Of course, Kadlin would come to her senses by that time. So being away for a time might help as well.
A dissenting voice broke into the general celebration. Yngvar looked to Brandr, but found he was sitting with arms folded and face lost to shadow. The shouting continued until Yngvar heard it right behind him, just before the owner of the voice shoved him aside.
He piled up against the sweaty man with wiry hair that grated on his exposed arm. The man roared in dismay, and shoved Yngvar aside only to have him collide with another man. When he at last regained himself, the dissenter was poised beneath the high table.
The man was tall and thickly built, with a deep chest of tense muscle. He wore his black beard in a long braid and his hair was thin and flowing, such that it shimmered in the light. He sported a silver armband over his plain gray shirt and golden rings glinted on his fingers.
"Jarl Gunnar, I'm as eager as any man to claim treasure. But your own son does not seem convinced."
"Bregthor, always challenging me at every turn." Gunnar put the sword down on the table, letting in thump against the wood. "Brandr is rightfully hurt I have not shared this with him before revealing it to everyone else. That is why he sulks."
"Is that true?" Bregthor asked of Brandr.
Gunnar flipped the table aside, sending mugs and plates and their contents showering down on everyone below him. Yngvar caught a spray of Bjorn's mead before the man in front of him leapt back from the falling table and knocked him aside. Gunnar pounced down to stand face-to-face with Bregthor, that wolflike snarl returned.
"Nip at my heels again, pup, and I will break all your teeth," Gunnar seized Bregthor's shirt with his single hand and pulled him close. Despite being older and smaller, Gunnar was certainly the more ferocious. Bregthor seemed to shrink in Gunnar's grip.
"I only wanted to ask--"
Gunnar wrenched him closer. "You challenged my word before everyone. Do not try to talk your way out of it. Cover a pile of shit with lilac and it is just shit-stained flowers. Now answer me clearly. Do you challenge my claims?"
Bregthor shook his head. Gunnar was so terrifying Yngvar found himself shaking his head as well.
"That is good." Gunnar released his grip and stepped back. "You never before doubted the gold I put into your hands. So do not doubt me in this."
Bregthor stepped back and went to his knee. "Forgive me, lord. I have drunk too much tonight."
Gunnar was not swift in bestowing his forgiveness. He let Bregthor hang until at last he waved him to his feet. Yngvar noted several men had held their breath for Bregthor's fate and received him back into their company. They escorted him toward the hall entrance, as if he could not find it without their help.
Now Gunnar turned to Yngvar. His smile was smug. "And you would be welcomed on such a journey as well. After all, it was your gift that roused me to this. Will you join your uncle and reclaim your grandfather's treasure?"
Yngvar could think of nothing else to say. Despite all that had happened, he was getting exactly all he had asked for. "Of course, Uncle Gunnar. It would be an honor!"
Gunnar swept him into a bear hug, and Yngvar smelled the beer. Perhaps he was drunk. But when he fell out of his uncle's embrace he looked up to Thorfast and Bjorn, both equal parts stunned and delighted.
A memory came to Yngvar as he navigated over the ruined table to rejoin his friends. He had been with his father returning from a hunt with a huge boar in tow. He hadn't been on the hunt, but joined his father as he returned to the hall. On the walk his father had seemed happy for his catch. It was expected to be a hard winter and the boar would feed the hall for a good part of it. But Hakon suddenly turned grim and knelt beside young Yngvar, putting his hand on his shoulder as he spoke. "When the gods grant all that you desire without a struggle, you must worry. They are planning mischief. The Norns, who weave the fate of all men at the foot of the World Tree, will gather their black threads and weave them into your life."
Yngvar set the memory aside and embraced both Thorfast and Bjorn, who were now as excited as everyone else in the hall. Even Brandr had seemed to warm to the thought of adventure. He now helped Gunnar back up the ledge of the stage and patted his father's back. Yngvar laughed and reveled at his prospects.
He tried to suppress the rest of his memory. After the winter when his father had caught the giant boar, a plague had spread among the sheep and cattle. He remembered field upon field of dead animals and the men who lingered hopelessly over the corpses.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Yngvar lifted his head from the rolled cloak he used for a pillow. His eyes pounded from the drink of the prior night's feast. He was still on the stage of the high table, the table itself still overturned on the floor below. Dozens of men still snored, filling the hall with a low hum. Bjorn was next to him, his mouth hanging open as he slept. Yngvar wanted to tug his sparse beard and silence his thunderous snores. But light filtered through the smoke hole and a square of faint illumination showed in the dark frame of the front hall. He would awaken soon enough.
Wiping his eyes and smacking his dry mouth, Yngvar sat up. Thorfast was slumped against the wall. For a moment it seemed as if he had died there, but his cloak neatly covered his lap and his feet twitched from beneath it. It seemed a strange way to sleep. Extracting himself from between his friends, he noticed his uncle had left. He had private rooms in the back of the hall. Brandr was gone as well. Several men noticed him rousing and gave weak, knowing smiles. Everyone had drunk too much.
The scent of ashes and beer mixed with the urine scent that clung to the walls. Yngvar himself would normally piss on the outside walls, but most men did not care to go so far from the beer. Not to mention, drunken me
n wandering outside sometimes did not make it back in. Every hall smelled like piss, but Uncle Gunnar's hall was the worst in his limited experience. His stomach churned and with the hirdmen laid so cramped about the floor, he dared not risk vomiting here. He picked his way outside.
The air was bracing and the pink stain of dawn was just filling into the eastern horizon. From the hill, Yngvar could see every approach and beyond. Twirls of hearth smoke showed behind dark trees where villagers were preparing for their day.
"You can see the Seine from the hall roof." Brandr's voice surprised Yngvar, making him step back. There were no guards at the door, something Yngvar's father would never had allowed no matter the celebration, and he had thought himself alone. Yet Brandr leaned at the corner of the hall.
"I suppose we will be seeing the Seine much closer now." Yngvar tried to smile, but it was all balanced on the fragile hope that last night's drunken proclamations would hold up in a sober dawn.
Brandr shrugged, lifting his left foot to press against the wall. His gray cloak fell aside to reveal his arms folded over his chest. "You may be right. My father seems convinced he must do this thing before ..."
Yngvar waited, but Brandr stared off at the horizon. He judged it best not to push Brandr on what he intended to say. He was now glad he had not woken Bjorn, since he would go after that unfinished sentence like a hound to a bone.
"Will he really take me and the others?"
"My father never says anything he does not mean. Ever. And he detests those who cannot do the same. So know that much about your uncle. If you will go raiding with him, then if he vows to kill every woman and child he sees then you can be sure of it."
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 5
