Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  She shook his shoulder harder.

  “Kjaere mann, wake up,” she called to him, her voice low.

  He did not respond.

  This had never happened before. One shake was often enough.

  “Aske?” she called to him again.

  Nothing. Now his legs began to twitch and a long whimper came out of his mouth.

  “Aske!” she exclaimed louder and half rose, shaking him hard. “Wake up!”

  The whimper rose to a cry, then turned into a bellow as Aske came fully awake, half vaulting himself naked on the floor at the foot of the bed. If she had not caught him at the last second, he would have crashed pell-mell into their fireplace.

  He did not speak but gasped like an overloaded oxen. Bergfrid reached out to steady him as he stood up, body shaking in the cold of the March night. Only the dim embers of the banked fire gave light in the cottage. With an unsteady step he walked forward and leaned heavily against the mantle of the fireplace, taking in the faint warmth that remained, and calmed his heart.

  “What is wrong?” Bergfrid asked, a shadow of terror in her voice.

  “I dreamt,” Aske said after a long moment.

  “I assumed th-”

  “Not like that. You know it is God’s shield for me. Clear sight when awake, blindness when asleep.”

  “Could it have been a spiritual attack? Are there manitou about?” Ever since the Heijl’s Valor came two autumns ago, she worried about demons or other unholy creatures infesting the island.

  “I… cannot say.” He frowned, focusing his gift of discernment.

  “Do you remember this dream or has God locked your mind from it?”

  Aske looked over his shoulder at her. She could only see his outline in the dark, not even a sparkle for his eyes.

  “Jah,” he said going to his chair and with a tired wheeze, slumped into it. The cold wood on his naked flesh shocked him even more awake.

  Bergfrid walked to the linen chest, took out a quilt and wrapped it around her husband. He gave a grateful nod.

  With a careful movement, atypical for her, she knelt next to him, putting her hand on his. His eyes narrowed for a moment, confused.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Three things remain, but I have no understanding.”

  There was a soft knock on the door. Bergfrid rose again with the same careful motion and felt Aske’s eyes keenly watching her every move. After putting a hangrock dress over her night clothes, she answered the door. Two concerned night watchmen were waiting, their patrol of the logging camp interrupted by the sound of Aske.

  “We heard... Is everything greithr, Dame Bergfrid?” the first man asked, puzzled. They, too, had never before heard Herre Aske cry out and feared this a bad omen.

  “We are well. Thank you for checking, herr,” Dame Bergfrid responded in her normal imperious tone, ending the conversation. The men gave a quick bow and returned to their patrol of the camp. Runaway imaginations making them far less drowsy than they had been ten minutes earlier. Their mistress closed the door and turned back to her husband. The dim embers faintly lit his familiar expression. She knew that look, it was one of discovery.

  “What do you see?” she questioned. Her tongue felt numb as she feared his guess.

  “You are pregnant.”

  She did not respond.

  “Why have you not told me?”

  “I wanted to be sure, first,” she whispered.

  “That is why you wanted to go into port. To hire a midwife.”

  She could never keep secrets from him for long.

  “Jah,” her cheeks burned with the admission. “I think she will be needed in six months, God willing.”

  “Pfah!” Aske exclaimed.

  “It is not right for a father to deliver his own child!” the words came out of her, and she was instantly ashamed.

  Aske’s expression froze in silent hurt. She knew that he was more than capable of the task, but the thought of him being involved with the birth offended her somehow.

  “You talk like paleflesh again, my Elskling.” The rebuke stole the breath out of her. She had wounded his pride, but not as she expected. “Who better to deliver his son than his own father?” Aske added.

  Bergfrid teared up at the words. “Or daughter,” she choked.

  He smiled at the word ‘daughter’ and the pestering shade of worry was dispelled from her mind.

  “Or my beautiful daughter,” Aske said standing up, re-wrapping the blanket around himself. He walked to her in that same fluid step she always enjoyed watching. It was as if his movements radiated joy in a way that his voice would never express. He took her in his arms, wrapped the blanket around her as well and kissed her passionately.

  “My love, I wondered if this day would ever come,” his voice gentle.

  “You do not hate me for keeping this from you?”

  “No.”

  “You do not hate me for wanting a midwife?”

  “No.”

  “But why did you say you should be the one to deliver our child?”

  She detected a deep swell of sadness in him. “What? What is this?” She pushed back for a moment and looked at her husband. Aske’s face was somber. “What is this sorrow I feel from you? A moment ago you were overjoyed, now it is gone?”

  Aske did not explain. Instead, he walked over to his chest of summer clothing and opened it up, digging deep into its recesses. He pulled out a small handkerchief that was wrapped around something small. After lighting the lamp on their little table, he motioned for her to come sit while he unwrapped the handkerchief. With a pair of heavy thunks, two rings fell onto the tablecloth. Bergfrid picked up the silver ring and saw the Vapenaettir symbol on it.

  “What is this?” she asked trying to comprehend.

  “Confirmation of my dream. Our coming child was the key that unlocked it.”

  “What did you dream?” Bergfrid’s mind foamed with fear. He took her empty hand in his, giving it a warm squeeze.

  “A man is coming for me because of these rings. I saw the two of us getting on a boat and leaving you behind. You stood on the beach alone. We sailed east toward the horizon where the light of a great fire burned. It was not the sun, for the smoke climbed to the heavens. When I looked back, our child stood in front of you, waiting for me to return.”

  Bergfrid’s hand flew reflexively to her mouth. After long seconds, heavy tears welled up and ran down her face.

  “Do you think this vision means your death?” Words thick and heavy in her mouth.

  “I do not know. After a time, I was put on a silver boat and it began sailing home. I did not recognize the stars above, and the water was like glass. I do not know if the boat came here or if it took me to Heaven. That is all I can remember.”

  Bergfrid cried silently. Her own interpretations swirled like autumn leaves in her head.

  Aske took her other hand, squeezing it from time to time, and in the dim light of the lamp, let her squeeze his back between the sniffles. In his eyes, she was radiant. Even in her sorrow. How could he tell her more? All Aske could do was wait and pray in silence that God did not take up action on this dream. He glanced toward the window. The first dim blue light of morning could be seen through the rawhide covered panes.

  “What is this other gold ring?” she questioned after a time.

  “I do not know. It seems to be a paleflesh symbol of some kind. Skaerslinger do not make such jewelry.” She pursed her lips at the use of the word paleflesh. She hated it as much as she hated people calling him a savage or a barbarian. He used the word only in disgust or to describe Forsamling he considered dishonorable.

  “Perhaps the one who is coming will be able to explain it,” she offered. Aske only nodded.

  “Daylight in the swamp! Daylight in the swamp!” The cry went up from the night watch over by the bunkhouse. “Get up before the flatiron rings and you work with empty bellies! Daylight in the swamp!”

  Aske and Bergfrid sat in silence,
looking at one another till they heard the clamor of the men getting dressed. Bergfrid chuckled first. “Not the way I wanted to wake up this morning.”

  “Nor I,” Aske agreed with a wan smile.

  5. For the Good of the Union

  “You are restless, my love. What troubles you?” Den Aerefulle Emilia Vilhoaettir asked her husband, the jarl. They were in their apartment high up in the Towrnvilhoaettir, enjoying a warm fire. Outside the sleet tapped on the window panes. The world was a gray murk of snow and ice-filled clouds as winter snapped its jaws at the coming spring.

  Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir, whose brooding had become almost palpable, turned to his lovely wife. She looked up from her embroidery and saw his scowl. Even the thralls who waited on them were hard pressed to hide their desire to be somewhere else.

  “Gregor. That is who troubles me,” Jakob growled.

  “Gregor?” She turned her attention back to her embroidery, using it as a tool to make light of the source of his low spirits. With the way his temper ran, it was wise to treat it like an irritated bison. You dare not turn your back on it, nor look it directly in the eye.

  “Jah, the Visekonge. He galls me,” the jarl said, then paused and reconsidered his reasoning. “No. It is more than that. The Sveinnaettir as a whole vex me.” Jarl Jakob was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, finger’s latticed in front of his mouth.

  “You must think of something that amuses you then,” Dame Emilia suggested. “Think of how well your son performed today, winning the wrestling tournament. He was unstoppable at Glima. How can that not make you proud?”

  “That is why I am upset!” He waved an arm at the fire, face reddening.

  “My love, how can that be?” Her own irritation causing her to look directly at him.

  “Women cannot see the big picture,” he snapped.

  Dame Emilia pursed her lips and, with a sour expression, put down her embroidery.

  “Our son is one of the finest examples of Forsamling blood in the Union!” Dame Emilia scolded. “How can you not be happy with him? He is strong, well educated, a brilliant fighter and a sportsman. He is shrewd and will do well when you finally step back and give him the reins of the land. Everything he does is to honor you. How can you not love that?” she demanded.

  Jakob turned from the fire and glowered at his wife. Realizing her mistake, Emilia’s face slackened in terror. The thralls backed out of the room to hide till the tempest was over. He took a long gulp of mead from his leather mug, launched it across the room and rushed her.

  His hands slammed down on the armrests. She was trapped. Expecting a beating, Emilia curled into a tight ball.

  She fumbled to apologize. “Forgiv-”

  “Shut up!” he bellowed. “Shut your whiny ignorant little face!” His voice shook with anger.

  She flinched from him.

  “I know, you grjonuxa! I agree, Birgr is everything you say and more!” Jarl Vilhoaettir loomed over his wife shoving his face down to her ear.

  “I am frustrated! Vexed and nettled to no end! Do you understand? I know the boy is good! Great even! I also know how he will always be stuck as a servant to that… that…” the jarl struggled for the right words, “Tambakkji! Jah, that Tambakkji, the Tronerving Leif Gregorsson, heir to the Visekonge!”

  She felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he shrieked. An eerie silence followed, broken by the howl of the chimney draft and the crackling of the fire as he waited for her to say something else.

  “But my love,” she whispered between her fingers, “what can we do? He is Sveinnaettir. Born to rule.”

  Jarl Jakob made a disgusted sound and pushed off from her chair. He began to pace.

  “He is only the next link in a diseased dynasty.”

  “But he is of the lineage of Sveinn. That cannot change, can it?” she asked, uncurling a little.

  “Oj-ho! You think that the bloodline is forever? You? A woman who cannot think beyond her next dress?” Jarl Jakob mocked his wife.

  He stopped at a window to peer into the storm. The snow was beginning to break up, and far below the penthouse apartment of the Towrnvilhoaettir, the streets of his capital could be seen again. Fjellporten spread out beneath him like a toy. The looming walls that protected the city were just dark shadows behind shifting screens of snow. Not even the signal light of the Barskaborg, his fortress miles away on the Blawisflojt, could be seen to the east.

  Emilia felt a new emotion grow in her as the danger passed. It made her cheeks flush and her breath tremble. The hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her lips. She uncurled from her chair and risked drawing near to him.

  He turned around to look at his wife over his shoulder. Many thought her the most beautiful woman who ever graced the Vilhoaettir.

  “Jakob. Deres Naade,” she began. “You are wise and I do not see what you do. Forgive me for my foolish and small ways,” she smoothed and sidled up to her lord going to her knees before him. “Teach me your wisdom, my herre. Teach your wife what you know so she, too, may please you.”

  Jarl Vilhoaettir stood more erect as her well chosen flattery had the desired effect. Over the years he knew his wife had learned which levers to throw to exert control over his passions.

  “The right to rule is by blood, correct?” the jarl spelled out in a softer temper.

  “Jah, Deres Naade.”

  “Do you remember Cruim the Mad?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows of Visekonge Cruim. He went mad and was replaced by a cousin. Another branch of the Sveinnaettir lineage, through his father, Boje,” she answered softly.

  “That is right. The true line died with Cruim. Old Hrolief was illegitimate and should have never been given the Crown. Everyone knew the Statsraad hired an assassin in order to stave off war. No one could prove it. No one wanted to prove it. And now,” Jakob opened a hand in a hopeless gesture, “it is irrelevant. Then his dynasty was secured as Hrolief’s first wife died soon after under suspicious circumstances. That is where this new branch of the Sveinnaettir came from.”

  “Visekonge Trigg Nyquist,” Jakob spat. “Why else would he have adopted they christen him with the name ‘New Branch’? How obvious a charade!”

  “I do not understand why this is important, Deres Naade,” she added, continuing the submissive charade. Her mind whirling through what he was getting at.

  “Hrolief’s first wife was too old to bear children and the rest had died young. The Sveinnaettir needed him to have a fertile wife who could bear an heir! Trigg’s birth created a secondary branch of the bloodline, grafted into a nominally legitimate Visekonge.”

  Dame Emilia nodded in sudden understanding. Filtered orange light of the setting sun broke through the thick storm clouds for a moment.

  “So he married Old Cruim’s sister, who was still young and of direct blood relation! None dared call it incest because the threat of war was so great, and the wounds of the Aettirkrigen were almost healed.”

  “Greithr!” she exclaimed. “And that means the Sveinnaettir bloodline would forever suffer the same madness as Old Cruim!”

  “Now you are seeing it!” Jarl Jakob felt a wash of relief come over him. He ran a hand over his itching brow and stretched his back. Her brow furrowed as she contemplated what all this meant.

  “Olivr!” she gasped and smoothly rose up.

  Jarl Jakob smiled at his wife. A smile filled with pride, ambition and conspiracy.

  “Jah. Olivr. The boy is proof that the Sveinnaettir is a sick dynasty and suffering disfavor from God. Gregor was too weak to expose the child like any good parent would. He forbade it! Leaving his child to suffer this life as a mental invalid.” Jakob snarled at the abject cruelty to a child. “For the sake of all, their dynasty must end.” He took his wife into his arms and rocked back and forth with her as the clouds and snow reasserted themselves.

  “And you want Birgr to become the next Visekonge?” she whispered into his chest.

  He answered her with a kiss on her
hair.

  “There is no other place in this world worthy of him.”

  “What about Gregor and Leif? What about the Visedronning?” Dame Emilia asked.

  “For Birgr to rise, they must fall. Then, and only then, is the road to the Crown clear.”

  “But how?” she asked looking up to him. Her eyes twinkling with the bliss of sharing in her husband’s plans.

  “When it is time for you to play your part, you will see, my love,” Jarl Jakob said as their lips touched.

  6. An Interrupted Meal

  The Tavern Off the Pier was a ramshackle place near the town’s beach. Its main room was dark and smoky from the years of patron’s pipes and the spacious hard-working hearth. Posts and rafters long since turned a dingy gray-brown and made it hard to believe such excellent food was served there. Inquisitor Urban, now Brother Urban, sat alone on a wobbly stool at one of the several small round tables. His order of “A Bottle and a Bird” arrived, brought by a serving wench who looked as run down as the building. He said grace and began tearing into his food. The cider was sharp and refreshing, while the chicken was crispy and dripped with salty fat and rosemary. Urban was thankful for the warm fire that crackled merrily in the large hearth at the center of the room. Although the day outside was bright and sunny, the wind was cold and uncomfortable. Two dozen foul and several cuts of boar and venison turned on spits by the cook as soon as he saw the new ships tie up.

  The first leg of Urban’s trip from Athrvorthfesting had been pleasant but rough, thanks to the strong winds the knarr had to buck against. It felt good to be on the waves again, but there was so much farther to go. He was sure to be sick of sailing by the time he reached home. Fantasies of his family’s excitement filled his head as he walked into Rolfborg.

  Beyond the rippled glass of the diamond paned window, several ships jockeyed for space on the timber pier. Those ships that could nosed right into the soft beach and lowered their gangplanks to conduct business. Brother Urban scratched at his new tunic where a seam on the shoulder bothered him. It would not do for him to be about in his inquisitor’s robes, and he decided to avail himself of the skill of his host’s mother while he had waited the last few days for his connecting ship. She was a talented seamstress, but the cut was an unfamiliar sensation. It had been so long since he wore anything other than his office vestments. Combine to this the missing weight of his sword on his hip, Brother Urban felt very much out of place.