With a giggle, Siri skipped across the hall and threw herself into her brother’s embrace. “Einarr, we have missed you so,” she said.
“And I’ve missed you.” Transferring his sister to one arm, he opened the other arm wide to his brother and smiled genuinely.
“Welcome home, brother,” Torsten said, embracing him with a firm clap on the back.
“Well then, Siri, I hear you are to be married,” Einarr said once he and Torsten had stepped back from each other.
“I am, to Rulfudd Martinsson.”
“A wise choice,” he answered, directing his approval towards his father. “Martin Redaxe has suffered much hardship at the hands of Harald Fairhair. No doubt this betrothal of his son to our Siri is a declaration of their support for our cause.”
Alfrad laughed, throwing his head back. “Ah, my son, I have trained your mind to be like mine. Indeed, it is a declaration. It was also a condition of the marriage contract. Redaxe wishes to be rid of Harald as we do, and the betrothal is confirmation of our new alliance to all of Norway.”
“And Rulfudd is Martin’s eldest?”
“Ja, the eldest male. There is a first-born girl, but that is of little consequence.”
Siri rolled her eyes comically, coaxing a laugh from her brothers. “Yes, father. We know well that girls are of little consequence. I do wonder, though, if Einarr is of such great importance to you, why have you not found him an important wench to marry?”
Alfrad chuckled and cast a knowing glance at his eldest son. “Your brother has no need of a wife, Siri. He takes territory as he sees fit; he does not require an alliance to gain new land and power.”
And he needs no wife to service him, either, for he takes his women as he sees fit, too, Torsten thought with distaste.
“Actually,” Einarr said, “It so happens that I have acquired a bride—or rather a betrothal—of my own.”
“What?” gasped Ingrid, her regal hand fluttering to her breast. “Einarr, you are to be married?”
“I am, mother,” he said, embracing her when she held her arms out to him.
“To whom?” Torsten scoffed in disbelief. “Do not tell us you’ve fallen in love on your travels.”
“Hardly,” Einarr responded. “Like you, Siri, I make a marriage for strategic purposes.”
“Well then, tell us,” Alfrad demanded, his excitement obvious. “What is the alliance?”
“She is the daughter of an island lord in the Orkneys.”
“Is she beautiful?” Siri sighed, dreamy-eyed.
Einarr and Alfrad both barked a laugh.
“Actually, I don’t know, my doe-eyed sister,” Einarr answered. “I have never met her. But I am told she is quite fair. She is sixteen, but her father has requested that the marriage wait for two years until she is ready.”
“Sixteen should be ready enough,” Ingrid interjected. “It is the perfect age to bear children. If she is fertile, she will bear you many in her youth.”
“Ja,” agreed Alfrad. “Why the wait?”
“It does not matter,” Einarr dismissed. “The alliance is as good as forged. Fearchar, chief of Clan Gallach of Fara, needs me. He would not dare break his word, or I will slaughter his people where they stand.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Torsten questioned.
“Scotland,” he replied.
“Scotland?” the others repeated in unison.
“Scotland. Fearchar is well connected to the clans of the Scottish mainland. And before you ask, father, I have made inquiries of my own on my travels over the course of the summer, and find the claim to be true. His alliances are strong. If we need forces in our fight against Harald, we can count on the Scots.”
“Well done,” Alfrad beamed. Addressing his wife, he added, “You see? He has my mind.”
“I’m sorry to ruin your illusions, father, but I cannot take all the credit,” Einarr corrected. “It was Fearchar’s idea.”
“You mean to tell us that this Chief Fearchar offered up his allegiance and his daughter to a beast like you?” Torsten teased. “For what?”
“Protection,” Einarr stated. “My men and I raided his island. Some were killed, though to hear him speak one would think I’d decimated the entire village. I hold, on the other hand, that we were rather tame; we could have done far more damage if we had felt like it. In any case, Fearchar and a group of his men came to Rysa Beag—the island on which we’d set up camp—and begged me for my protection, and to train his men.”
“That was brave of him,” Ingrid declared admiringly. “Brave and wise.”
“I think it had more to do with necessity than bravery,” Einarr rejected. “Either way, it means I am saddled with a bride, so you will be a grandmother after all.”
His mother beamed at the prospect of grandchildren, and Siri beamed at the idea of Einarr in love. As if the child hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
Torsten tried to smile, but found his faculties peculiarly unresponsive. Something had been said, something which had triggered a strange sensation in his breast, but he could not identify what it had been. A word, an unsettling word had been uttered.
He was about to dismiss it when Siri opened her mouth to speak. When she did, the strange sensation turned into a full, abrupt lurch behind his ribs.
“What did you say the island was called, brother?”
“Fara,” Einarr responded.
* * *
The cool stone of the castle’s outer wall was moist at Torsten’s back where he leaned against it. There had been a rain earlier that evening, and the linen of his shirt was damp between the wall and his body, as were the wool of his braies between his bottom and the grass. He was not bothered by it. In fact, he welcomed the discomfort, welcomed the opportunity to feel something other than the numbness which had plagued his body since Einarr had said that name.
Fara.
The sound of it had caught him off guard. It was an echo in his mind, a call from an unknown distance of which he could not rid himself. Why should that be? He’d never heard it before.
And yet ... had he?
“There you are, staring out into nothing again,” came Einarr’s voice.
Torsten turned his head to see his brother’s shape silhouetted against the now-clear night sky. Einarr’s strong-featured face was entirely shadowed, only his powerful, muscular outline could be traced against the moonlight.
Often, Torsten had been jealous of his brother’s stature. Even when they were boys Einarr had been solidly built, showing promise of the Viking he was to become. Torsten, on the other hand, was leaner. Muscular and tall enough now that he had reached six and twenty, but still slight for a Norseman.
“What do you think about when you go off on your own like this?” Einarr wondered, seating himself on the grass at his brother’s side.
Torsten shrugged. “Many things. And nothing.”
“How interesting,” Einarr remarked dryly.
“Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage,” Torsten offered. “I did not have a chance to say it before.”
“Thank you. It is a while yet, but strangely enough, I find I look forward to it.”
Torsten tossed him a dubious look. “You look forward to being tied to one woman for the rest of eternity?”
“Do not laugh, it’s true,” Einarr insisted. “And before you say it, I do intend to be faithful ... I think. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll try. What I’m looking forward to is the prospect of children, of good, Norse boys that I can raise in my image to make father proud.”
“If father grows any more proud of you, the top of his head will explode from the pressure.”
Einarr chuckled at the quip, then they both lapsed into an easy silence. Together, they stared out over the sleeping Hvaleyrr below. The night was peaceful, nothing but the sound of the sea’s waves to be heard by any that might still be awake.
“Well then,” Torsten said at length, “are you going to tell me what you want?”
/>
“What makes you think I want anything from you?”
“You never seek me out like this unless you want something from me.”
“You cut me with your remark,” Einarr said, feigning hurt. “Why should I not wish to simply sit with my brother while he broods over Odin-knows-what?”
Torsten was not fooled. “Are you going to tell me what you want?” he repeated.
Einarr nudged him playfully. “Oh, alright. My men and I will go on another raid.”
“But the raiding season is coming to a close,” Torsten said. “I thought you were returning to your Rysa Beag for the winter.”
“Ja, that was my intention. But I’ve heard the news that Bjarmaland has been annexed to Ormsdalr.”
“So?”
“So Ormsdalr is held by Dagfinnr the Broad.”
“So?”
“So,” Einarr sighed, exasperated, “Dagfinnr the Broad is allied with Harald Fairhair. We must take Bjarmaland back; we cannot let them do this to us.”
“They’ve done nothing to us, Einarr,” Torsten pointed out. “We are not kin to anyone in Bjarmaland.”
“Brother, once again you miss the plot entirely. Bjarmaland was attacked by our enemy. That immediately allies us with Bjarmaland. In this war against Fairhair, we cannot afford to pick and choose our enemies else we will lose.”
Torsten shrugged and plucked a wet blade of grass from its stalk. Rolling it between his lean fingers, he considered Einarr’s statement. “Well then, if you are set on your course, I wish you luck.”
Einarr paused, then added, “I need you to come with me.”
“Ah, I see,” Torsten breathed, nodding. “So this is why you’ve sought me out.”
Of course Einarr had not left the warmth of the castle; of course he had not left the company of whatever wench would lay with him this night. Not for the simple task of informing his younger brother he was leaving again. He could have done that in the morning.
“I do not want to go,” Torsten said flatly. “You know this, Einarr. Why have you a need of me when you have a full crew of men at your disposal?”
“You are good at strategy,” Einarr pointed out. “I need you to lead them tactically under my command.”
“Freyr leads the men tactically under your command.”
“Ja, but Freyr’s wife is close to her time. He’s flat out refused to leave her side in case she gives birth to the child while he is gone. Sentimental old fool, if you ask me. Mother and child will be fine just as they were the seven times before this one.”
“He loves her.”
“He loves raiding.”
“Not as much as he loves his wife, apparently.”
“In any case, it does not matter,” Einarr dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I am down a captain.”
“You’ll have to look elsewhere,” Torsten insisted.
“I do not understand you,” Einarr exclaimed. “Raiding is a part of who we are. It’s in your blood. It’s what father’s power and wealth is founded on. Why do you turn your nose up at it?”
Torsten stared long and hard at his brother. “It is not the raiding I despise, Einarr, it is the killing. I hate to see innocent people killed. There is no reason for it other than bloodlust.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If a man fights you, he is your enemy. You must kill or be killed.”
“You know as well as I that your men kill indiscriminately,” Torsten accused, growing angry. “They kill monks and farmers and the old. And women and children—”
“I have never in my life killed a woman or child,” Einarr refuted.
“Maybe not, but your men have,” Torsten insisted. “Since they are under your command, I consider you to be just as guilty in their deaths as they are. And if I were to lead them, I would consider myself equally guilty.”
Einarr sighed, acknowledging his brother’s position. “Alright, what if I decree that no woman or child is to be killed, will that please you?”
“What about the innocent men who flee?”
“Really, Torsten, I will try. But you know how the men get when they’ve got the bloodlust in them. I need you.”
“I don’t know ...”
“Father wants you to come along. Will you deny your father’s wishes?”
When still Torsten hesitated, Einarr played the card with which trumped his brother’s reluctance every time. He waited several long seconds, and then implored softly.
“Think of Siri. They could take Hvaleyrr next. Where would that leave Siri? The mistress-slave of some beast in Harald’s employ? Perhaps Harald himself, for she is a renowned beauty. He knows of Hvaleyrr, surely he knows of Siri, and would consider her a prize to be won. Do you really want your sister to be whore to that demon?”
Torsten’s shoulders collapsed, and he released a sigh. He could withstand any amount of badgering, bullying and cajoling from his brother and father, but when it came to Siri he was helpless. Einarr exaggerated, of course, but there was a grain of truth to what he was saying. Harald did know of Hvaleyrr; he did know of Siri. And if it weren’t Harald that took Hvaleyrr, it could be any one of his followers in his stead.
Torsten was defeated; Einarr was right. There was merit in showing Norway the ferocity of Alfrad Greybeard and his sons. It was a pre-emptive strike against those that would openly contest them.
“Alright,” he agreed. “But I want your word that you will stop your men from killing unnecessarily. And no women or children are to die.”
“You have my word,” Einarr promised. Then he smiled and clapped his brother on the back.
Torsten shook his head, unable to share in his brother’s enthusiasm. He wanted to believe Einarr. But a nagging feeling in his gut told him he would be proved wrong.
Four
The two snekkja longships of Einarr’s fleet, both immaculately kept and painted in red, gold and black, slithered up the Bjarma River like silent, deadly water snakes ready to strike at their unsuspecting prey. Each snekkja carried forty-one men: forty to row and one to lead.
Standing at the helm of the snekkja which his brother had given him to command, Torsten gazed out over the land as they passed, his face grim and his mouth set in a stony frown. The people of this peaceful place had no idea what was about to happen.
Snekkja longships were the lighter of the Norse battle ships. They were perfect for navigating fjords and deep rivers, could be beached rather than docked, and could be carried over land if necessary. They were nothing to the dreaded drekar longships, carved with fearsome dragons and painted in bright colours to frighten their victims.
The plan which he, Einarr and a few of his other trusted raiders had devised was that Torsten would take the two snekkjas up the Bjarma River and around the main settlement of Bjarmaland. From there they would land at the farms surrounding the northern borders of the port town, and cut south to meet up with Einarr’s main force.
Einarr’s two drekars would be the instruments with which the raiders would strike terror into the hearts of their Ormsdalr enemies, and carried the more than two hundred men who would deliver Einarr’s idea of justice. The men under Einarr’s direct command would attack at the port, their first strike of the raid bold, brutal and swift.
They had likely already reached the docks, Torsten thought. The fight had probably already started; men were probably already dead.
When they’d gone far enough up river, Torsten pointed to a sandy bank that could accommodate the snekkjas. He waved his arm high so that the commander of the second longship would see, and then watched as his snekkja slid into the sandy bottom where the river met the land. The forty men behind him, seated on the twenty rowing benches, were tensed and ready for the attack.
Torsten felt sick as he waited for the second longship to pull onto the sand, and ran through the plan again in his head to distract himself. It was a simple plan, hardly needing any real, tactical leadership when one’s foes were weaponless farmers. But it would be effective. The Bjarma River was
shallow, scarcely travelled by fishing vessels and trade ships. These vessels were wider, lay lower in the water, and so could not navigate the narrow river. Dagfinnr’s men would not have considered stationing guards this far into the heart of the land. They would meet little resistance on their way south.
With his ears cocked and his mouth dry, he listened for any sounds that might indicate they had overestimated Dagfinnr. There was nothing.
And no excuse to wait any longer. Reluctantly, Torsten tilted his head, indicating that his men should disembark, and then jumped out of the snekkja onto the sandy bank himself.
His booted feet sunk into the sand with each step, and with an effortless bound he cleared the grass embankment, landing with a dull thud. His axe and sword were strapped firmly to his back, their handles ready to be retrieved the moment he encountered resistance. Looking left and right, and then behind him to ensure his men were following, Torsten trotted into the open fields which were lush and green with low-lying crops. The muted sounds of his men grunting and their feet swishing through the greenery twined with the sound of his elevated breath and his heartbeat in his ears.
The first Bjarmalander to see them was a young girl. She was dressed in her simple peasant’s garb: a wool tunic dyed a pretty blue with a basic band of needlework decorating the hem. Her golden hair was tucked under a crisp, linen cap. In both hands she carried a wooden bucket with twigs and small branches gathered for kindling.
For several moments she stared at the men advancing on her family’s farm, her blue eyes wide with terror. Then, dropping the bucket, she ran to the hut, shouting for her mother to come.
Their interest piqued by the young girl’s ruckus, several of the men made for the dwelling into which she’d run, but Torsten called them back. There would be nothing of value here.
“Oh, I rather think there is,” laughed one man, and he clutched himself between the legs in illustration.
Stopping mid-stride, Torsten rounded on the man, grabbing the collar of his leather vest. The man was heavier than Torsten, but Torsten was taller. He stared the man down, his eyes burning with loathing, and his lips curled over his teeth in a vicious snarl.
Legend of the Mist Page 4
