Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  Varr looked at Veethar for a moment, with questioning eyes. Then he turned to the table at large and gestured for everyone to eat.

  “To be honest, he much prefers the solace of the forest to great halls or village squares,” said Luka. “But he did have a lot to say to the raiders this afternoon. Didn’t you, Veethar?” His smirk was not unkind.

  Veethar glanced at him, and his nod was terse, but then his gaze found its way back to the plate in front of him.

  “Hmm,” muttered the yarl. “Tell me of the battle.”

  Meuhlnir cleared his throat and sat straighter in his chair. “We rode to confront the raiders and found them in a meadow not far to the southwest.”

  Yarl Varr nodded. “I know it.”

  “We asked your karls to wait at the edge of the meadow, and we three Isir rode into the center. I introduced myself, then Luka and Veethar. I, uh, expressed our friendship with your village. One of the Potnsar told us we were on the wrong side, and that their raid was one of vengeance. Veethar took exception to that.”

  Varr glanced in Veethar’s direction but didn’t seem to know how to respond to Veethar’s introversion, so he took a long, gulping drink from the drinking horn on the table before him. “Indeed,” he muttered.

  “Veethar made it plain that they were not to seek out vengeance without his express approval,” said Luka.

  “Yes,” said Meuhlnir. “I told them it was our desire for the two villages to become allies.”

  Yarl Varr stopped chewing the chunk of lamb he had in his mouth, and his face went red. He was glaring down at his plate, and he was gripping the table so hard the knuckles of his hands went white. “You did what?” he whispered in a broken, hoarse voice.

  “My brother instructed the people of Potnsa to treat the people of Hyatlanes as allies—to guard one another and to come to each other’s aid,” said Luka, with far too much cheer for the mood at the head of the table.

  “I know what the word ally means,” snapped Varr. “What gives you the right to do this?”

  Meuhlnir rolled his head until his gaze locked on the yarl’s. “I am Isir,” he said.

  “Those animals murdered my son. They caused the death of my wife. I’ll not be their ally. I will not rest until I have my vengeance!” The yarl had pushed back from the table and was glaring at Meuhlnir.

  Everyone jumped as Veethar slammed his hand down on the table so hard that the plates and silverware jumped into the air. “Can it be that another mere man wants to usurp my domain?” he asked in civil voice, not much louder than a whisper.

  Luka cackled and drummed his hands on the table. “This is great fun!” Meuhlnir slapped his hand heavily on his brother’s thigh under the table and squeezed.

  Veethar was looking Yarl Varr in the eye and looked as if he were doing nothing more than discussing the weather, but there was no doubt to anyone in the room, Yarl Varr included, that he was anything but apathetic. The sky-blue color of his irises began to thicken, to change.

  Yarl Varr swallowed and made an effort to control his anger. “I assure you, Lord Veethar, that nothing could be further—”

  “Good,” snapped Veethar, his eyes glowing yellow and boring into the yarl’s. “Because I would hate to think of what might happen otherwise. I’ve already fed my horse.”

  There were gasps at the other end of the table, but no one had shared the details of the day’s events with the yarl, and he just looked confused by that seeming non-sequitur. “But they killed my son!” he managed to gasp.

  “Yes,” said Veethar, his eyes returning to their placid, blue state. “And you may take great comfort in the fact that those people must now defend your lands and die for you.”

  Meuhlnir nodded. “Two sets of karls will be quite a force in the field,” he said. “Your two villages will prosper by this mutual defense, and your strength raiding villages in another land will be hard for any single village to match.”

  It was Yarl Varr’s turn to looked down at his plate, avoiding everyone’s eye. “And if they do not keep to the bargain?” he rasped.

  Meuhlnir grinned at him. “After what they saw this afternoon, I doubt that will happen. Veethar can be quite convincing.”

  “And if they do fail to keep the bargain, I will visit them in wrath,” said Luka.

  “As will I,” said Veethar.

  “As will his horse,” said Luka with a barbaric grin and a wink toward Veethar.

  “What is this nonsense about a horse?” muttered Yarl Varr.

  “Pray you never find out,” snapped Luka, iron in his voice.

  The yarl sat there and glowered at them for a long while and then pulled his chair back in to the table and set about finishing his meal. He didn’t speak, he didn’t look at any of them.

  Meuhlnir glanced down the table to catch Suel’s eye. She nodded her approval and favored him with a soft smile.

  Freya glanced at Frikka and then stood and cleared her throat. “On this momentous occasion, we of the Isir would like to offer our favor to the village of Hyatlanes.” She reached into her pack and brought out a horn she’d had the Tverkar craft for this trip. The sides of the horn were emblazoned with runes cast in silver. “If you have great need of the Isir, you may blow this horn, and we will be alerted. We will attend you as time permits.”

  Frikka stood and walked toward the kitchens.

  Freya went to the head of the table and presented Yarl Varr with the horn, her walk as licentious as an expensive whore’s. The old man looked up at her without gratitude, but took the horn and mumbled his thanks. He held the horn out toward Hildr. “The Veulva will have the honor of keeping the horn and blowing it in a time of need,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

  Freya nodded. “As you wish.” She returned to her seat, her walk epicurean and seductive at the same time. She sank into her chair and grinned at Suel. Frikka returned to her seat and nodded to Freya with a small smile.

  Three young women entered from the kitchens, but they were not dressed as drudges or as serving girls. Each wore a beautiful gown of Tverkar manufacture. Their hair was dressed in an elaborate manner with trinkets of silver and bone and stacked on top of their heads, exposing long, graceful necks. Each wore a fine golden chain around her neck that fit tightly so that a small ingot of gold nestled between their collarbones. Each ingot was engraved with Sif’s sign—the rune for fertility.

  Meuhlnir raised his brows at Sif, who grinned and tipped him a wink.

  The three women approached Yarl Varr, who was staring at his plate and had not noticed them yet. It was obvious that he longed for the moment when he could excuse himself without giving offense. One by one, the women laid a hand on his shoulder and walked behind him, trailing their fingers across his shoulders. He looked up with surprise scrawled across his face. His gaze fell on Frikka, and her smile was as sweet as honey.

  His head swung around, and he gazed at each of the young women in turn. He knew them, of course, they were from his village after all, but the way he looked at them was like he had never seen them before. It was an expression mirrored on the faces of many of the karls present.

  “Yarl Varr,” said Freya in dulcet tones. “We have asked a lot of you in a single afternoon. Our friendship is new to you and your village. We appreciate how malleable you’ve been to our needs. We appreciate your willingness to follow our lead with the politics of the region.”

  The yarl didn’t say a thing, but his eyes drifted to Freya’s face, and his expression was one of wonder.

  “We’ve heard about your tragedy. It spoke to Frikka, Sif, and me. We can’t have you pass from this realm without an heir. Your village needs the wise leadership of your line. We took it upon ourselves to ensure you will have an heir. And,” she said with a significant pause, “companionship.” She nodded to the three lovely young ladies standing behind him.

  Frikka chuckled deep in her throat. “Never let it be said that we don’t reward our friends.”

  Many of the karls prese
nt looked as if they wanted to find a way to become important to the Isir. Yarl Varr couldn’t keep his eyes from the three women, and for the first time, he smiled…

  Thirty-eight

  “The old man couldn’t keep his eyes off the three beauties Frikka and Freya had caused to fall in love with him. He lived another thirty years, something that was unheard of at that time in Mithgarthr, and I believe it was because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his three wives. They bore him many sons and daughters, and he had a happy life, despite its sad beginnings.” Meuhlnir sighed and poured the dregs of the mead down his throat. “That woke my thirst.”

  “And what about the alliance?” I asked.

  Meuhlnir grinned. “It was one of my more inspired moments. Hyatlanes and Potnsa became a powerhouse in the area. Varr married his son to the yarl of Potnsa’s daughter, and their son became king of a large kingdom. Their descendants raided far and wide and gave birth to many legends of their own.”

  “And the horn? Did the Hyatlanes Veulva ever blow it?”

  “Yes, many times over the years, though Hildr didn’t live long after that initial visit. Erna became the next Veulva and served Hyatlanes with wisdom for many decades. That is how our visits started—we wanted to help the people on your klith to develop. We wanted to enable your people to avoid some of the mistakes the Geumlu made.”

  “Very noble,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  “The feeling of being so powerful was very hard to resist, though. It became…addictive.” He shook his head. “Enough of Hyatlanes for now. We must see to the rest of our business.”

  Meuhlnir led us back down into the heat of Prokkr’s smithy. We were met with dark glances of suspicion and outright hostility. One of the smiths even forked the sign of evil at us.

  “Don’t mind them,” said Meuhlnir in a voice loud enough to be heard over the activity of the forge. “Some Tverkar are ignorant fools.”

  Shaking my head, I followed him into Prokkr’s office.

  “Hours, I said!” snapped Prokkr.

  Meuhlnir sighed and made a place for himself to sit. “It’s been hours, Tverkr. Show me what you have.”

  Grumbling, Prokkr, stepped away from his worktable, on which my pistols lay disassembled, and stuck his head out into the smithy proper. He bellowed at his underlings and, without another glance at us, returned to his worktable and began fiddling with the pistols again.

  Two Tverkar came in, one carrying a box of helmets and one carrying a suit of mail and two bucklers, all made from the same bluish-white metal as Frikka’s armor.

  Meuhlnir inspected the items and then crooked an eyebrow at Prokkr. “And the rest?”

  “Of course! I’ve had it all arranged. Get him fitted first.”

  The two smiths helped me into the suit of mail, which was so light it was like putting on cotton. The metal felt warm to the touch, almost as if it were alive. The two bucklers were about the size of dinner plates and clipped to custom mounts worked into the sleeves of the mail.

  Meuhlnir looked it over with a critical eye and then smiled. “It will do, Master Smith. Now, those other items?”

  I raised my eyebrows at him, but he just shook his head.

  With a glare at Meuhlnir, the master smith stuck his head out the door and bellowed over the din. After a few minutes, another Tverkr came into the work room.

  He was much shorter than Prokkr, but no less solidly built. He wore a sort of leather robe with runes embossed in the leather and stained with different colors. The handles for two daggers stuck from his belt.

  “Master Althyof, I presume?” asked Meuhlnir.

  “Yes. And you are Meuhlnir, He of the Thunder?”

  Meuhlnir nodded. “Are you the same Althyof who slew the troll Fowrpauti?”

  Althyof nodded gravely. “It is true.”

  “In single combat as the tale is told?”

  Althyof nodded again.

  “And you assisted in the binding of Friner?”

  “What is this about?” asked Althyof with an air of impatience.

  “I’ll get to that when you answer my question,” said Meuhlnir.

  “Yes,” snapped Althyof. “I bound the dragon Friner.”

  “Good,” said Meuhlnir with a satisfied nod. “I’d like to hire you.”

  Althyof sneered. “I’ve spent all afternoon in your employ, Master of Thunder. What else can I do for you?”

  “I don’t want you as an enchanter. I want your service as a runeskowld.”

  “I don’t travel anymore.”

  Meuhlnir pulled a bulging purse from his belt. “I bet we can come to an agreement.”

  Althyof looked at the purse with avarice. “Gold, not silver?”

  “Of course,” said Meuhlnir with a small smile. “One purse to enter my service, a quarter purse per week until the job is done.”

  “What is the job?”

  “Does it matter?” Meuhlnir bounced the purse in his hand, making the gold inside clank together.

  Althyof licked his lips. “Dangerous.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but Meuhlnir nodded his head anyway. “A heroic task. Reputations will be made brighter, songs will be sung of it.”

  Althyof tried to look uninterested, but each bounce of the purse drew his eyes like moths to a flame. “One half purse per week.”

  “One quarter per week with an extra quarter every four weeks.”

  Althyof nodded. “Done.” He looked at me, and his expression soured. “Weird weapons you wield, but Master Prokkr says they are no less deadly.”

  I nodded. “In the right hands, yes.”

  Althyof sniffed in vainglory. “We shall see,” he said.

  “Indeed, you will,” said Meuhlnir.

  Althyof looked at the three Alfar and smirked. “Don’t worry, lads, I’ll be there to protect you from now on.”

  Urlikr scoffed. Yowtgayrr met my eyes and then rolled his.

  Althyof snickered and then looked at Meuhlnir. “Shall we see to your items, then?” He opened his satchel and pulled out a long leather cloak. “One cloak, enchanted as you asked.” He turned to Master Prokkr. “And one belt, as you asked.”

  Meuhlnir took the cloak and spread it across my shoulders. He fastened it with a chain of the bluish-white metal. “This cloak, Hank, you will find to be of great use. I had Althyof enchant it to take the mantle of your pain.”

  “Within limits,” said Althyof.

  As the cloak settled on my shoulders, I felt energy flood my body and all the telltale little aches and pains that had become part of my everyday existence disappeared. I felt like I could run for miles. I laughed and shook my head in wonder.

  Meuhlnir nodded. “Care to explain the rest?”

  Althyof grunted. “Simple enough.” He ran his hands down a series of runes embossed inside the front of the cloak. “This series here allows you to twist your fettle.”

  “Twist my fettle?”

  “Yes, just twitch the edges of the cloak like so…” The Tverkr mimed pulling the cloak in front of him. “Or use the mnemonic: vakt.”

  “I’m still on the twisting my fettle part.”

  “It means to shift yourself slightly away. To become out of phase with reality. You will appear to have changed into smoke,” said Meuhlnir.

  “Okay.” I twitched the cloak like Althyof had mimicked. Something crackled across my skin, a whisper of a touch, and then was gone.

  “To reverse the process,” said Althyof, “just repeat the activation.”

  I felt like I was floating in a sea of thick oil. The air seemed to clutch at me when I moved my arms. “Can I speak?” My voice sounded ethereal. “Too weird,” I laughed.

  “It will take getting used to,” said the Tverkr. “Now, quit playing around and let me explain what I’ve done to your engines of war.”

  I twitched the edges of the cloak and felt the same whispery touch on my skin as I regained solid form. “What do you mean?”

  Prokkr picke
d up the belt Althyof had brought and with deft movements, buckled it around my waist. It was equipped with two holsters, one above each hip, pouches for ammo and empty magazines, and funny little clips for full magazines. He had the pistols reassembled and, as he held them up, light glinted off the runes he’d etched into every flat surface.

  Prokkr put the HK .40 into my left holster. “This one is named Krati. This part,” he pointed to the plastic grip, “is an offensive material.”

  “Plastic,” I said.

  “Krati could only be enchanted for speed of use, because of it.” He picked up the Kimber with a glowing expression. “This beauty, however, Althyof worked for speed, accuracy, and by replacing the wooden grips with grips carved from the talons of a hrisvelgr, augmented the penetrating power of the projectiles fired from it.”

  Prokkr handed the Kimber to me. The material of the grips felt smooth and cool against my palms. “What is a hrisvelgr?” I asked in a small voice.

  “A large, predatory bird,” said Althyof. “Your projectiles should be able to penetrate armor, shields, perhaps even dragon scales.”

  I stood there looking down at the etchings, wondering what each one meant.

  “Kunknir is what I’ve named it. It means ‘swaying one’ in the Gamla Toonkumowl.”

  “Gungnir? Like Odin’s spear?” I looked at Meuhlnir.

  Meuhlnir shook his head. “I don’t know this Odin.”

  “Your father?”

  “My father was named Buri.”

  “Buri? Not Odin?”

  “Buri. My mother was Bestla. Why?”

  “Well, according to the Vikings, Odin was the son of Borr and Bestla and the father of Paltr, Huthr, Veethar, and Tor—well, you. Borr was Buri’s son.”

  Meuhlnir shook his head. “I’ve never heard of Odin, but Borr was the father of the Black Queen and her sister Freya. No relation to my father. You already know Veethar is not my brother.”

  I grunted. “I guess they got more than your name wrong.”

  Meuhlnir shrugged. “They had an oral tradition and a ridiculously short life span. It’s hard to maintain accurate information with those handicaps.”