The Isir walked their horses around a bend in the road, and the children quieted but continued running alongside the road. Hyatlanes was a small, poor looking village, overlooked by a yarl’s longhouse set up on a hill to the west of the town. The village square was already filling with adults in various states of dress—some wore their daily clothes, some were half-dressed for battle and fumbling with straps of armor, and one old woman dressed in white woolen robes.
The old woman leaned on a carved staff and had a wand of yew looped through her belt. Her eyes were rheumy, and her hair was stringy and unwashed. Her skin had a jaundiced look. She squinted up at the mounted Isir, her eyes lingered on Freya but then coming to rest on Paltr. “Greetings, Isir,” she said. “You are the leeta ayns.”
Paltr smiled at her brusque manner but nodded. “As I’ve already said to young Erna and Ernir who stands behind you.”
“I am Hildr, and I am a Veulva.” Her eyes drifted to Freya. “I have the syown. I greet you, Goddess.” She bowed from the waist, looking stiff and uncomfortable, her hand holding the carved staff shaking with the effort of supporting herself in the unnatural pose.
“Well met, Hildr,” said Freya in a light tone.
“Have you come to summon me to Fowlkvankr?” asked the old woman, an expression of hope wriggling across the loose skin of her face.
Freya’s face twitched in a half smile. “Not yet, old mother,” she said. “You know me, then.”
The Veulva shrugged. “I said I had the syown. I also ensorcel and magick. If I’m to stay, then may I ask if you’ve come in your guise of war or wearing your fecundatory mantle?”
Freya tinkled a laugh. “Can I not come just to visit a village? Must I have a reason?”
Hildr bowed her head. “Who are we to say, your Grace?” She looked at Paltr again. “Be you Huthr or Paltr?”
Paltr’s eyes widened. “I am Paltr, old mother.”
“Ah,” Hildr said. “I welcome the god of peace, love, and forgiveness. Please don’t take offence, but I’ve always wanted to meet the god of darkness.”
Paltr chuckled. “It’s hard for him to travel to new places.”
“Yes,” said the old woman. “In any case, it is good that you’ve come. I have read dire portents in the mists.”
The Isir looked at each other with faint smiles of amusement which seemed to annoy the ancient Veulva. Meuhlnir cleared his throat and bobbed his head in her direction. “I greet you, old mother,” he said. “Where is your yarl?”
“Hello, Lord of Thunder.” The old woman waved her hand toward the longhouse on the hill. “We don’t see much of old yarl Varr. His son and heir died in a raid on Potnsa a few summers back and shortly thereafter, the yarl’s woman followed him. Some say she died of grief, but I was not allowed to attend her toward the end. He has been…inconsolable.”
“He is without other children?” asked Frikka.
“Yes, Lady Frikka, there were problems with his son’s birth, and after that the field was barren.” She nodded an apology at Sif.
“And how long has his woman been gone?” asked Freya.
“A few seasons, Goddess,” said the Veulva with a shrug. “Time is slippery for me these days.”
Freya looked at Frikka, and something passed between them. Frikka nodded and smiled. She pointed with her chin at a pretty girl standing to the side and then raised her eyebrows. Freya’s only answer was her melodious laugh.
“What are you two caballing?” asked Meuhlnir with an amused chuckle.
“Never you mind, Thunder God,” said Freya before laughing again.
The Isir dismounted and tried to look harmless, though they dwarfed the locals, as they handed the reins of their mounts to eager village children. The villagers crowded around as soon as the horses were out of the way. Some wanted only to pay their respects, and some wanted only to touch the arm of their favorite god or goddess, but some leaned close to whisper their heart’s desires to one of the Isir.
Freya looked a question at her sister, Suel, who nodded her head. Freya took Hildr by the arm and led her to the side of the throng, signaling for Veethar and Meuhlnir to follow. “Dearest Hildr, when does your village expect its visitors?”
The old woman stared at her, face slack. “I’ve not shared the divining with the village as of yet, Goddess, though I am not surprised you’ve augured it yourself. I wanted to ask for the help of the Isir…”
“Yes, Veulva. How can the Isir help your village?”
“The Potnsar will raid before sunset. With the yarl in the state he is in, there will be no one to lead the karls in defense.”
Everyone looked at Veethar, who blushed again and looked at his boots. He looked as if he wanted to disappear. Meuhlnir shrugged and took a half-step forward. “I would be honored to lead your karls, with my Queen’s leave, of course.”
Suel nodded regally, one hand to her throat.
“Isir, to me,” Meuhlnir said the words with just enough volume to be heard over the crowd, and the rest of the party gathered around him.
Luka walked over, his face wrapped with a huge grin, and slapped Meuhlnir on the back. “Taking all the glory yet again, Pror?” he asked with laughter at the edges of his voice.
“Might as well ask the Sun to allow the cloud to take credit for daylight,” said Meuhlnir, smiling. At the sound of horns in the distance, his smile faded, and he turned to Hildr. “Old mother, it’s time to speak to your karls. Can we assume the yarl won’t stir from his longhouse?”
“Oh, aye,” said Hildr. “I have seen it in the leaves blowing in the wind.”
“Very well, go talk to your people. Give us a moment to set our strategy and then send over your fighting men.”
“As you command, Thunder Lord.” The old woman shuffled into the center of the crowd, raising her hands for quiet. She began speaking, and the villagers gasped.
“Queen Suel,” said Meuhlnir, “please allow Paltr and your Trohtninkar Tumuhr to escort you and Freya to the longhouse. They will remain with you and see to your safety. Veethar, Luka, and I should be able to handle the raid without much trouble.”
“Shouldn’t Paltr stay with you,” croaked Suel in a hoarse, craggy voice.
“He’s far too much of a dandy to risk any real work,” said Luka with a teasing lilt to his voice.
“I’ll dandy you into several pieces,” growled Paltr before losing his battle to keep from smiling. “Besides, fighting humans isn’t real work. Guarding all these beautiful women is more my style.”
“Like a troll guarding butterflies,” said Luka. “Only trolls smell better.”
“If my younger brothers are finished showing off for the butterflies, perhaps we can get to it?” said Meuhlnir in droll tones.
Queen Suel smiled and patted his arm. “Might as well ask hounds to forgo fighting over sausages.” Her voice was whisper-quiet, cracked and broken, full of craggy consonance and jangling tonality, but her face was filled with laughter.
Meuhlnir smiled and tried to keep how the sound of her new voice made him cringe. “Maybe you can teach Paltr how to knit while we’re fighting.”
Suel gave him a squinty-eyed look and shook her fist as if to tell him he’d be getting quite the tongue lashing if it didn’t hurt her to speak. Then she chuckled, which sounded more like a rusty saw getting stuck in wet wood than an expression of joy and amusement. She looked at his face for a moment, and her own expression fell. She turned away, ducking her head, and started walking toward the longhouse.
Meuhlnir just stood there, his heart in his throat, and watched her go. He felt a warmth on his forearm and looked down to see Yowrnsaxa gazing up at him.
“It will get better,” she said.
“Yes,” he croaked. “It can’t get any worse, can it?”
“And no matter what you think, it’s not your fault.” Yowrnsaxa patted his arm and then followed the others up the hill.
Veethar nudged his arm and jerked his chin toward the villagers. Meuhlnir turned to
ward them and tried to project his confidence at the gaggle of scared women, children, and old men looking back at him. “Do not worry,” he said to them. “The Isir won’t let you come to harm on this day.”
Armored karls began appearing at the edge of the crowd, buckling their armor and loosening their weapons. They were a ragtag bunch—farmers and crafters, some with experience that showed in calm eyes and steady hands, and some fresh to the fields of battle, as shown by nervous ticks and nauseated faces. They looked like infantry.
“Will our opponents be ahorse?” Meuhlnir asked.
“No, Lord of Thunder,” Hildr said. “They come afoot.”
“Good. Here is our plan. We three Isir will go mounted. I want you karls to stay back, out of bow range and let us approach these Potnsar. Perhaps we can take the day without bloodshed.”
Meuhlnir, Veethar, and Luka mounted and waited for the karls to form up behind them. With twenty men at their backs, the three Isir spurred their horses into a walk. The Potnsar were getting close to the village by the sound of the horns and were no doubt expecting little resistance. The war party from Hyatlanes found the raiding party in a meadow southwest of the village.
Meuhlnir signaled for the karls to halt as he, Luka, and Veethar rode toward the center of the meadow. He held up his right hand and stopped his horse. “Men of Potnsa!” he called. “You are expected.”
The Potnsar looked at the three Isir, their eyes roving from the fine, large boned mounts, across the gleaming metal armor and finally to the exotic-looking weapons carried by the trio. “Who are you and why do you take the side of these dogs?” yelled the leader of the raiders.
“Meuhlnir!” he yelled, holding his hammer aloft. “Ehlteenk,” he said under his breath and pointed with the warhammer. Bolts of lightning rained from the clear sky, splitting the air with thunder.
The Potnsar took a series of steps backward, each one looking involuntary and closer and closer to outright flight than the previous one. “Tor! It’s Tor!” they cried.
Meuhlnir glowered at them. “You’d do well not to become our enemies. I’ve brought Luka and Veethar with me!”
Luka nudged his horse forward and sneered at the Potnsar. “Huent elti!” he shouted and held his right hand high above his head. His hand burst into bright yellow flames, which prompted another set of involuntary backward steps among the Potnsar.
Veethar sat on his horse, silent and staring at the raiding party. His lips moved, and his eyes changed from a pale, sky blue to a blazing yellow. He made a motion with his right hand, and the grass beneath the feet of the Potnsar withered and died. The raiders were close to flight, and their panicked cries echoed around the meadow. He made another gesture, and the branches of the trees behind them wove themselves into an impenetrable wall of greenery. When the Potnsar backed into the wall, they fell silent, and many of them dropped their weapons and shields to the ground.
“Lords of the Isir, what have we done to earn your wrath?” cried the leader of the raiding party.
“You come dressed for war with the intent of raiding Hyatlanes,” roared Meuhlnir. “They are friends to the Isir!”
Luka smirked. “And it seems you are not,” he said with a bestial snarl. “Plus, I haven’t burned anyone in a long time.” He balled his fist, forming the fire in his hand into a ball, which he then bounced in his palm.
“This is not a matter for the gods!” said the Potnsar leader. “This is but the actions of rival villages as it has been for all time. This is vengeance for an attack they made against us last season.”
A low growling sound erupted from Veethar’s throat, and he kneed his horse forward. He rode straight at the leader of the raiders and didn’t stop until the man was pressed against the wall of branches and the horse’s mouth was pressed against the man’s cheek. “Shall I have him take my vengeance out of your face for assuming you had my blessing?” he hissed.
The man looked utterly terrified—not so much of the horse, but more that the God of Silence had decided to speak to him at such length. Legends had it that when Veethar finally chose to speak of vengeance, people died in hideous ways.
“No, Lord,” the man whispered. “I meant no offense.”
“You have caused offense, worm,” shouted Veethar. Meuhlnir and Luka exchanged surprised glances. “Did the Thunder God not just tell you that the people of Hyatlanes are our friends? That they are protected under our aegis?” Veethar tapped his horse on the neck, and the great beast opened its mouth and peeled back its lips so that the horse’s teeth now rested against the cheek of the Potnsa man.
“Steady, brother,” said Meuhlnir. “I’m sure this man was caught up in the moment and spoke without thought.”
“Yes! Yes, I did,” said the raid leader. “I beg your forgiveness, mighty Veethar!”
Veethar stared down at the man whose near mind-blinding panic squirmed on his face. He clucked his tongue, and the horse took a step back and closed its mouth.
“I’m sure that is more comfortable,” said Luka. “Just remember who it is that sits before you.”
“Perhaps we can now put an end to this ill-advised raid?” asked Meuhlnir, the picture of reasonable calm. “Before your raiding party dies to the last man?”
The leader of the raiders gulped a breath and nodded.
“Good. It is our desire that the villages of Hyatlanes and Potnsa become allies, watching each other’s borders and defending one another against invaders. Is that suitable to Potnsa?”
The man shot a suspicious look across the meadow at the karls from Hyatlanes. He nodded, not meeting anyone’s eye.
“Good,” said Luka. “Although I really wanted to burn one of you.” He bounced the ball of fire in his palm and suddenly hurled it at one of the raiders. The man shrieked and turned to run, forgetting about the wall of branches behind him. When his feet didn’t take him anywhere, he screamed and flailed at the branches with his fists. Just before the ball of fire hit him, Luka snapped his fingers, and there was a whooshing of air as the ball imploded. “Now, I feel better. Don’t you?”
The man was panting in terror and eyeing Luka with distrust. “Trickster,” he whispered and forked a sign against evil.
Luka grinned at him.
“You may return to your homes,” said Meuhlnir with a wave in the direction of Potnsa. “But remember what I’ve said here today. If I must return to settle another fight, your village will suffer. If you do as you have promised, then you will prosper, and perhaps we will visit your town in due time.”
Veethar made the deep-throated growling noise again, and Luka laughed aloud. Veethar waved his hand, and the branches returned to their normal shape.
“Run along home, now,” said Luka with a sneer.
The men of Potnsa turned and began shuffling through the forest like children sent to their punishment. Veethar sat on his horse, still as if he were carved from granite, and glowered after them so that if any turned to look back, the last thing they would see of the Hyatlanes defenders was the God of Vengeance. When the raiders were no longer visible, Veethar turned his horse to find Luka and Meuhlnir grinning at him.
“The lamb roars, eh, Veethar?” asked Meuhlnir.
Veethar blushed and averted his eyes, but his small, pleased smile could still be seen. He walked his horse toward the two brothers, ignoring the cheering of the Hyatlanes karls.
“Who knew you had all that in you,” said Luka with a grin. “I might have to change my opinion of your furry friends.”
Veethar shrugged and looked off into the woods, but his pleasure was still evident in his manner.
“That is one well-trained horse,” said Meuhlnir.
Veethar shrugged his shoulders once again and looked down at the horse’s mane. “I’ve worked a bit with him.”
“I’ve never seen a horse more savage. How did you get him to do that thing on the man’s cheek?”
Veethar met Meuhlnir’s eye for a heartbeat, then his eyes danced away. “Well, he didn’t l
ike the thought of having a man’s blood in his mouth, so I told him to make a good enough show, and he wouldn’t have to actually bite.”
Meuhlnir arched one of his eyebrows.
“We were trying to avoid bloodshed, right?” asked Veethar.
“Of course,” said Luka. “The act you and your horse put on has won the day. We’re just surprised you had such fierceness in you.”
Veethar shrugged and spurred his horse back toward the village. As he passed through the rank of karls, they cheered him and patted the horse, even as they eyed it with fear.
The three Isir rode to the yarl’s longhouse to share the news of the battle with Suel and the rest. The longhouse was well-built but had seen better days. The exterior of the building had been maintained with care, as that was something the villagers could do without disturbing the yarl, but the interior had fallen into a bit of disrepair.
The yarl was not to be seen but had left word that a celebratory feast would be held in their honor if they carried the day. The longhouse was bustling with the women of the village, giving the great hall a cursory cleaning and preparing the feast.
The yarl made his appearance just before the feast. He was an old man for the times, close to fifty, and looked broken and slump-shouldered. He gave them a curt smile and motioned for everyone to take their seats as the karls and their wives began to file into the room. He put Veethar on his right, and Meuhlnir on his left with Luka on the other side of his brother, as was the custom of the times—to seat the heroes of the day with the yarl at the head of the feasting table.
“Lord and Ladies of the Isir, honored karls, I greet you all. I am Yarl Varr, and I welcome you to my table.”
Everyone made sounds of greeting and gratitude, except Veethar who sat in silence, looking like he’d rather be sitting in an anthill than at the head of the table.
“I understand from the Veulva that the battle was won without any injuries to my karls or to you, great lord,” he said to Veethar.
Veethar grunted and looked at the table.
The yarl seemed confused by this behavior, so Meuhlnir put his hand on the yarl’s forearm. “He prefers not to speak much and to a much smaller audience when he does.”
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 39
