Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  “Bah!” the cook growled and hustled over to Solveig. He yanked the knife from her hand and the potato from the other. Then he shook the small tuber in her face. “Take the peel off, and leave some to eat, girl! Look in there!” he pointed into the bowl of peelings. “A third of that is probably good potato! What were you thinking?”

  “I did as you told me,” Solveig grumbled, more angry than scared.

  “I could help,” Mirjam offered.

  “I told you to…” the cook stopped mid sentence, eyes pinched shut, fist clenched.

  “I could help,” Mirjam repeated.

  “Fy da! Daufimurtr! No! No!” the cook exploded. Solveig’s eyes went wide as she was sure the cane would come out. “The both of you get out and set the sailor’s mess for supper. That is one chore I know you can do proper.”

  Mirjam and Solveig fled from the cook as he descended into another one of his expletive laden grumbles. Fear gave them wings as both girls ran up to the main deck, bare feet pounding away on the hot wood, a wake of sailors and soldiers wondering what brought on such panic. Mirjam threw the door open to the forecastle. Solveig saw the posted guard in front of Leif’s door. It was Declan. He looked at her in surprise just as Mirjam dragged Solveig into the mess. Both girls panting in relief to have escaped a beating, whether deserved or not.

  For Solveig, seeing Declan caused her heart to ache all over again. Serving as a cabin boy had kept him from her in a manner even more torturous than if she had stayed home, ignorant of his secret mission and the dangers he faced. The uncertainty would have been steady, but nowhere near as acute as this. Here, he was in front of her every day, so close she could touch him if she dared. But she could not risk it. In fleeting moments, his eyes gave away the same torment she felt. “Jah, herre” and “Jah, froeken” was all they could risk.

  The two girls began cleaning the small mess that needed to feed two shifts. One of sailors, then one of soldiers and huskarls. The two groups did not mix and made twice the work. Solveig slapped deep tin plates onto the tables. Pewter mugs banged like tack hammers.

  “Quit pouting. I am none too happy either,” Mirjam said, her voice testy.

  “I am not pouting,” Solveig said with a fair amount of venom. “I am angry.”

  “With me?” Mirjam questioned, offended.

  “With everything!” Solveig stopped, popped her fists onto her hips and glared at her sister.

  “I am sorry! I did not expect this either! How could I have predicted such an outcome?” She gestured about the mess. “To be reduced to a servant for the length of our trip!”

  Solveig glowered at her despite Mirjam being right. Then again, this was often how her pranks and schemes ended up. Someone usually got hurt, rarely her, but this time it was both of them.

  “In all honesty, I expected this to be more like a cruise on the Sjovinna. Something, by the way, we both could have had, if I had not felt sorry for you and schemed out a way to get us here and put you within kissing distan-” Solveig cut off her sister’s grousing.

  “Shh!” Solveig hissed. Shocked that Mirjam almost said what must not be overheard. It seemed that all the walls had ears on this ship.

  “What?” Mirjam’s arms were open wide. “What is there left to hide? Leif probably guessed what was going on weeks back but has been courteous enough not to air the family laundry.”

  “Shh!” Solveig hissed again, hands waving as she walked toward her sister, praying those words were not true.

  “Mirjam, if you do not shut up, our secret will be known!” a man’s voice whispered with ferocity. “I could hear you all the way down the passageway!”

  “Declan!” Solveig crushed her scream behind fists as her love slipped into the mess. His pained smile to her showed he felt the same. Solveig rushed to him and he wrapped her in his arms. Her tears ran freely as the strain came out of her heart. He bent and kissed the top of her head. She burrowed into his embrace and let out a long sigh. His body dwarfing hers.

  “You are most welcome, dear sister,” Mirjam snapped in part jealousy, part exasperation.

  “So they know for sure?” Solveig asked into his chest.

  “No. I have been stationed outside the door while Leif confers with the steward and the kaptein. Thus far, no one has voiced any suspicions either.”

  “So we have a few minutes together then?” Solveig’s hope burned bright.

  “No. I just came to shut you two up before you give it all away,” Declan said.

  “But we have not spent any time together, and look at me, I am an utter mess. How could you love this?” Solveig whined about her appearance.

  Declan smiled.

  “It does not matter. A rose growing in swill is still a beautiful rose, made more splendid by the ruin about it,” he said giving voice to his inner poet.

  “Just do not try to smell it,” Mirjam said sourly.

  “My Tign,” Declan said annoyed but using her forbidden title. “Must you sully this stolen moment?”

  Solveig laughed and reached up to kiss him. He returned it with a passion that reduced her knees to water. Mirjam crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.

  “Now with so few stops left, the chance to see each other will grow,” Declan promised.

  “I cannot wait,” Solving said. Her desire for him was all-consuming.

  “Declan?” Leif’s voice shouted from the passageway.

  “Oj lort’e!” Declan exclaimed, his absence discovered. Solveig recoiled from him as he turned to open the door a split second too late.

  Leif, Kaptein Gramrsson and the steward stood there, weapons drawn. Leif sagged in relief as he saw Declan with his sisters.

  “I thought… Never mind,” Leif said waving off his suspicions. “Why were you not at your post?” he questioned regaining composure and sheathing his sword.

  “I heard a commotion and came to see what it was. It was the Kron- err…ah... cabin boys arguing,” Declan explained.

  Leif looked at his sisters. Solveig smiled apologetically. Mirjam had turned pale, eyes glassy and brow covered in perspiration.

  “Mirjam?” Leif said, worried.

  She did not respond and started to sway.

  “Mirjam!” he shouted, panicked. “Get the carpenter!” he ordered and the steward ran out as fast as he could.

  Like the flashing sun, a light came through one of the portholes. A dove-like shape lit upon Mirjam’s head and her swaying stopped. Her eyes rolled back and with it her head led the rest of her body in a slow arc. Leif and Declan rushed to catch her, but before they could touch her, she was transfixed by a pillar of light that came from within. She was suspended in the air, arms spread wide as if lifted up by her heart. Motes of dust sparkled around her as she was made to stand, toes pointed downward, a foot from the floor. Her eyes, open but unseeing, shown with an intense blue spark.

  “Woe be unto you!

  “Woe be unto you,

  O Son of the Crown!

  “Your dynasty hangs by a thread!

  “For the Crown has fallen!

  “The Link Angels have been removed!

  “The ring of fire is drawn back!

  “Like wolves preparing to feast,

  “The wicked have arisen on all sides!

  “Hungry for slaughter!

  “Woe be to the Sveinnaettir!

  “The days of testing are upon you!

  “Do not lose faith, for a secret hope remains!

  “Baasadinaa Animaazakonenjigebizo!

  “Now, O Son of the Crown!

  “Heed my warning and run!

  “Run!

  “RUN!”

  The voice was not Mirjam’s. It was musical and without peer. The harmonics penetrated the spirit and shook the flesh. Chords vibrated timbers with notes beyond the range of hearing. The waters around the ship shivered in awe of what had come to earth while the wind whispered the final spoken command again and again. Even the sun hid itself behind a single solitary cloud in a clear blue sky causi
ng all shadows to vanish. The animals on shore fled, and birds took to flight. With them, the dove of light departed, and Mirjam was set on the deck gentle as a feather, stupefied as to what had just occurred. Every witness was on his knees.

  As she looked down, confused at those who knelt, her face fell in a black flood of unimaginable grief. With a whooping breath Mirjam let forth an unrivaled wail of anguish.

  “Father is dead!” she cried and collapsed.

  28. To Whom Shall One Be True?

  Supper sat nearly untouched by the senior officers as they sat around the table of the Silfryxen. Their appetites destroyed by the day’s events. Leif sat at the head of the table drumming his fingers incessantly. Although he could not hear Mirjam’s broken sobs from the bow of the ship, he felt them in his spirit like sound through wood. Try as she might, Mirjam could not explain why she was certain of their father’s death. Chaplain Hansson declared the message was either a divine or an infernal word of knowledge, but remained unable to pronounce which it was. No one knew what to believe.

  “Is there any way we can confirm the Visekonge is dead?” Father Hansson questioned. The old Ankarite priest’s skepticism frustrated Leif all over again.

  “Not without risking the mission. It is not as if they can send us a message by pigeon,” Steward Josefsson sniffed. “Regardless, God told us.”

  “Over the years you must have seen many signs from God. Can you not discern this?” Kaptein Gramrsson asked hotly.

  “Jah, but you still must wait on God to give you the revelation. So many of these words from Him turn out to be hoaxes, or worse, demonic deceptions. We cannot afford to be wrong. Haste plays into devilish schemes,” the chaplain said, moving a chunk of stew around on his plate. “I am not so sure that was even God talking.”

  “What does that mean?” Leif demanded. The thought rankled him. “You heard the voice. I witnessed it. Are you accusing my sister of witchcraft?”

  “No, my Tign! Nothing of the sort! I just do not believe anything from a spirit, till I have some form of confirmation. Was it YHWH or was it an impostor? If only we could have tested the messenger and determined its Lord,” Father Hansson explained.

  Leif grunted, frustrated with his lack of scriptural knowledge. His focus must be on the affairs of state. He had to trust others to study the spiritual questions for him. The Crown had entire monasteries devoted to this purpose.

  “I for one believe that my Tign… the Visekonge… is dead. I am sick about it, but that is what I believe, God help me,” Steward Josefsson said, shocking the room with his plain speaking. “That voice through the Kronadottir was proof enough for me that it was not one of her infamous jests.”

  “She is probably the most spiritual of all our family save maybe for…” Leif stopped himself and waved the thought away.

  Olivr on several occasions had admitted to playing with angels. Uttering his brother’s claims outside the family would have been foolish. Leif fixed his eyes on Chaplain Hanssen.

  “I have little doubt the Holy Spirit spoke through my sister, no matter how unlikely it may seem to anyone else. We do not know the mind of God, and if He chose her as the vessel to deliver His will, so be it,” Leif said, voice regal and firm.

  “God used Samson to kill the Philistines. He was a scoundrel, and King David sent one of his generals to be slaughtered so he could marry his wife, yet was still beloved unto God. Who are we to judge?” Steward Josefsson offered.

  “Just what are you saying, steward?” Leif asked. The words sharper than intended.

  “I meant no offense, my Tign. I am just pointing out…” the steward stopped and let out a long sigh. “Forgive me, my Tign. I spoke poorly, but tender my agreement with yours.”

  Leif could not stand the tension anymore and began to pace around the table.

  Kaptein Gramrsson said, clearing his throat and wetting his lips, “All this aside, we are at a crossroads, my Tign, and must decide. On one hand, we have been given this warning from a spirit, which I am praying is the Holy Spirit, who commanded us to run. On the other hand, we have the mission your father, God rest his soul, has given us.”

  The chaplain crossed himself reflexively, and Leif sneered, unwilling to accept his father’s death just yet.

  “Failing to succeed in your father’s mission is not something I believe we can consider. Every effort must be made to complete it.” The kaptain’s evaluation was inescapable.

  “But the Holy Spirit said ‘Run’,” Steward Josefsson reminded them.

  “Jah, it said more than that, including words that none of us know the meaning of,” the kaptein insisted pounding a finger on the tabletop.

  “I know it is not Latin,” Father Hansson said.

  “It sounded like Skaerslinger, which begs the question of why the Holy Spirit would say anything in a demonic language. You see why I have a doubt?” the chaplain asked. His skills in spiritual warfare did not go much beyond prayers of protection and intercession. Prophecy, interpretation and other miraculous manifestations were beyond his gifts. Leif began to wonder how such an ill-fitting priest was chosen for a voyage like this.

  The steward shrugged.

  “I agree with the Kronadottir. She believes the source is of the Holy Spirit, therefore, I choose to err with her,” Herr Josefsson said scratching his scruffy salt and pepper beard.

  “My Tign,” the kaptein said, “if this is an order from God, and our spiritual protection has been removed, Satan has ostensibly sent his devils to stop us. Should we not run for what shelter and protection we can find? The last stops may be a foolish risk now. Why not take what we have and return to Dyrrvatn Kastali? Let another ship come next season to get what remains. Would that not seem prudent?”

  “It would,” Leif agreed. “But if this is a trick of Satan, we will be failing in our mission and running right into our enemy’s trap.”

  “Who would those enemies be?” the steward wondered aloud.

  “Skaerslinger, obviously,” the boatswain suggested.

  “Or hellspawn of some sort,” cautioned Chaplain Hanssen.

  “Have the Skaerslinger ever ambushed a steamknarr at full speed before?” Leif asked.

  “No. They are too fast, but very vulnerable when stopped for fuel,” the carpenter answered. The rest of the officers nodded.

  “But why do they care about our cargo? They are bent on killing us and leaving our bodies to become draugr. They do not think about money. Slaying every living Forsamling is what they desire,” Leif pointed out.

  “They might have gained some demonic understanding that the treasure would turn the tide of this war,” the steward said sourly.

  On deck, the ship’s bell rang third vespers as the long summer day succumbed to the last blue shades of evening.

  Leif sat down again, rubbing his bare chin.

  “If we run, we fail the spirit and letter of our mission which may be disastrous for the Union,” he said, searching for a solution. “On the other hand, if we stay and finish the mission, ignoring the warning, we risk being caught by Satan and his devilish servants, bringing all to ruin.”

  “What shall we do then, my Tign? We are yours to command,” the kaptein said, officers murmuring their agreement.

  “What about Kynligrspiejl?” Leif asked. “They have a monastery. Perhaps they would be able to council us.”

  “A Havarian Estate, my Tign,” Father Hansson said, “and a dumping ground for apostates and exiles. I would not trust their interpretation.”

  A chill passed around the table. None had realized that was the purpose of the island.

  “But it is a Havarian run estate, correct? Surely they must be able-” the steward began.

  “The estate in Kynligrspijl is more akin to a prison than a monastery,” Father Hansson stated forcefully. “You are thinking Ragnarite Paladins or Sanaadians Prophets. Although…” He played with the idea for a moment. “The Havarians are protectors and preservers, not specifically spiritual warriors, so protectio
n might be possible if absolutely necessary, but I would not advise taking any council there,” the priest said, closing the door on that line of reasoning.

  Leif frowned sourly at the table, unhappy with Father Hansson’s words.

  “Could we run there for shelter till the warning is confirmed?” Leif wondered rhetorically, again tapping his fingers on the table. “No,” he concluded with a bang of his hand. “I cannot run from my responsibility. If the Visekonge is dead…” he trailed off, emotion threatening his composure, “then I must succeed before I return. There is no other choice.”

  “May I add one more important point to all this, my Tign?” the steward said meekly.

  “Jah?” Leif said.

  “What about your coronation?” The steward winced at the thought.

  Leif had not considered it. Without his father on the throne, the Union was in danger of coming apart. Was that why the spirit said the Sveinnaettir were being tested and the dynasty hung by a thread?

  “Does anyone know how soon after the death of a Visekonge another must be crowned?” he asked the room. There was a murmur of surprise. The officers assumed he would know the order of succession.

  “I believe it has to happen as soon as possible,” Father Hansson offered. Leif grimaced.

  “If we stick with the plan, how long till we finish?” Leif asked the kaptein who conferred with the pilot.

  “We are at least a fortnight away from our final stop, assuming good weather and no problems loading,” the kaptein calculated.

  “Then it is the same to return to Dyrrvatn Kastali, again, good weather allowing.”

  “So a month at least,” Leif nodded, his lips twisted in anxious snarls at the distasteful news.

  “As for how long we have before the jarls act on their own, well…” Father Hansson said spreading his hands. “It depends on how gracious the jarls are and how effective the Visedronning will be in delaying them from acting rashly. Her power is questionable without an heir apparent at hand,” the priest said.

  “And I am not at hand, and Olivr…” Leif cut himself off again. A table full of eyes stared back, hanging on what he was going to say. “He is not qualified by law and therefore no help in any of this,” Leif snapped.