Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  I’d been on the shore hours ago, putting myself in danger without knowing it, but they hadn’t attacked. Why? The Tisir? I walked Slaypnir over to Sinir. Meuhlnir glanced at me as we approached and raised an eyebrow.

  “What is a Tisir?”

  “Where did you hear that word?” he asked.

  I glanced at the others. Only Yowtgayrr looked our way, the others seemed lost in thought, or involved in their own conversations, except Veethar and Skowvithr, who rode together in absolute silence. “From someone—something—that claimed to be one.”

  Meuhlnir glanced at me. “Yes?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “Tell me of it.” He appeared nonchalant, uncaring, but his eyes burned with intensity, and he leaned toward me in his saddle.

  “I woke in the early morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I got up and built up the fire, and sat there, watching the flames. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something shift down there on the beach. I waited, wanting to be sure I hadn’t imagined it.”

  Yowtgayrr clucked at his horse and rode up on the other side of Meuhlnir. “Did it come into camp?”

  “No. When it moved again, it took off to the south. I left camp, paralleling the road, and—‍”

  “You should have woken me,” said Yowtgayrr.

  “Time for that later,” murmured Meuhlnir. He twirled his fingers at me.

  “I followed it from across the road, and after a little while it stopped and stood with its back toward me, gazing out to sea. I snuck up on it and confronted it.”

  “Describe it,” said Yowtgayrr.

  “She was black. Like a shade—like a shadowy demon. She said she was a Tisir, sent by the Nornir to deliver a message. She also said she was filkya but wouldn’t name who she was bound to.”

  “Did it give you a name?” asked Veethar. He’d drawn up on my other side without me noticing.

  “Yes. Um…Guhnter?”

  “Kuhntul?

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Veethar’s eyes left mine, and I tracked his gaze to Meuhlnir. “What?”

  “What was her message?” demanded Meuhlnir.

  “It’s nothing. Nonsense. Who is this Kuhntul?”

  “Tell us what she said, Hank,” said Yowtgayrr.

  “Fine. She said there was a traitor in the party.” As one, the Isir and Alfar turned their gazes forward, coming to rest on Althyof’s back. “No,” I said. “Althyof wouldn’t betray us.”

  “The Tverkar differ from us,” said Meuhlnir.

  “That may be, but that Tverkr is no less honorable than any of us.”

  “Still, he bears watching,” murmured Yowtgayrr, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his narrow-bladed longsword.

  “Look, I don’t believe the message. None of us are betrayers, traitors. Not Althyof, not any of you.”

  “Of course not,” murmured Meuhlnir, his eyes never leaving Althyof’s back. “He has quite a way with dragons, though, doesn’t he?”

  “Tell me about Kuhntul,” I said and sighed.

  Meuhlnir cleared his throat. “It’s Veethar’s area of expertise.”

  I glanced to my side. Veethar’s eyes were on his saddle horn. He waved his hand at Meuhlnir.

  “Oh, very well,” said Meuhlnir. “A Tisir is a spirit-being, something foreign to all the races known, including the demons. Their origins are unknown—none of them will speak of it. Their role in the history of Osgarthr is…complicated.”

  “Complicated? How?”

  “They are neither good nor evil—‍”

  “Or they are both, like all living things,” interjected Yowtgayrr.

  Meuhlnir nodded. “Sometimes they act as a guardian, a benevolent spirit, but other times they act as antagonists.”

  “And Kuhntul?” I asked. “To which group does she belong?”

  Meuhlnir cleared his throat and looked at the back of Althyof’s head. “We believe that when we perceive the color of their body, it’s an omen of how the Tisir is disposed toward us—either toward us personally, or toward our quest.”

  “And black means what?”

  “Seeing a black Tisir is an omen of ill-tiding,” said Yowtgayrr in his quiet, understated way.

  “Then she was lying?”

  Meuhlnir shook his head. “That is not clear, and it’s not necessarily true that Kuhntul is an enemy. In the war, she fought against the Black Bitch.”

  “She seemed adamant she did not serve the Dark Queen,” I said.

  “Whatever their intent, the Tisir serve only themselves,” said Veethar.

  “Well, Kuhntul claimed to be serving the Nornir in this.”

  Veethar shrugged.

  “And she may be,” said Yowtgayrr. “But only because serving the Nornir in this serves Kuhntul’s own purposes.”

  “Then she can’t be trusted, right? What she said…we should ignore it.”

  Meuhlnir shrugged and stroked his beard. “At our peril.”

  “Would a Tisir keep one of our glittery friends at bay?”

  “If the sea dragon were smart,” said Veethar.

  “You were on the beach? Alone?” asked Skowvithr.

  I hunched my shoulders. “Yeah. That’s where Kuhntul was. I didn’t know the sea dragons could come up there.”

  “And why wouldn’t they?”

  “Well, they are sea dragons, right? No legs, no wings.” We rode on in silence for a while, lulled by the ring of the horses shod hooves on the stone. “What I can’t figure,” I said at last, “is why Kuhntul would come at all. Why would the Nornir care what happens to this party? To me?”

  “Maybe they like you,” said Meuhlnir with a shrug and a forced smile.

  “Someone has to, after all,” said Veethar. He spurred Ploetughoefi forward to ride next to his wife. After a while, I rode over to Jane.

  “That was quite a meeting of the minds,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’s Sig handling all this?”

  “Are you kidding? He loves it.” She gestured to where Sig rode Lyettfeti next to Mothi on Skaytprimir. “Just look at him eating up Mothi’s attention.”

  Mothi waved his arms around like a madman, deep in the telling of some heroic tale, no doubt. “How lucky I’ve been,” I murmured, recalling all the hazards, all the dangerous beings I’d encountered since coming to Osgarthr, and yet the first four beings I met were Meuhlnir, Sif, Yowrnsaxa, and Mothi.

  “Yes,” said Jane. “It’s not so bad here.”

  I looked at her askance. “No?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t miss being home?”

  “Well, sure I do, but there are far worse places to be trapped.” Her face clouded over, and I knew she was replaying events from her captivity at the hands of Luka and Hel.

  “I know it was bad, but we got you out of there.”

  She smiled at me and winked. “Yeah, because you needed someone to cook and clean.”

  “No way! I’m not so shallow as all that. Besides, Yowrnsaxa is a better cook. I needed someone for laundry.”

  Her lips parted, and her tongue darted out. “I’ll wash your laundry, all right. And you just wait until we stop for lunch and I tell Yowrnsaxa you were mean to me.”

  “She likes me better,” I said.

  “I do not!” called Yowrnsaxa from behind us.

  Eight

  That day we rode hard, passing an inn just before noon. The inns were spaced to be an easy day’s ride apart, and I thought we’d be sleeping rough again because of our late start the day before, but by some miracle, we made it to the next inn right after night fell.

  I groaned as I swung my leg over Slaypnir’s rump and dismounted. Slaypnir turned his head as if to ask what the big deal was, after all, I rode him, not the other way around.

  As I turned, Sif caught my eye. She patted her medicine bag, and I nodded. No use arguing about that again. Not yet, anyway.

  “Greetings, lords and ladies,” said the rotund innkeeper. “I’m happy you’ve graced my humbl
e establishment. Will you need rooms for the night or supper, perhaps?”

  “Seven rooms, if you please,” said Meuhlnir, jingling his pouch, which seemed never to run low of silver.

  “Very well, Lord,” said the innkeeper. “I’ll have to put out three karls, but they can sleep in the stables. I—‍”

  “We can’t do that,” I said to Meuhlnir. “They got here first.”

  “You disapprove?” Meuhlnir asked with a shrug. “It is the way of things. If we don’t take the rooms, this fine gentleman will kick them out anyway for costing him the trade.”

  The innkeeper made a little half-bow at me. “Yes, Lord. Please stay, the karls will insist, even if I do not.”

  The rigid caste structure of Osgarthr still seemed so strange to me. That men would believe it their duty to give up their room for me was beyond the pale. I nodded, trying to conceal my discomfort.

  “It’s settled,” said the innkeeper. He glanced down at Kunknir and Krati on my hips. “Yarl Tyeldnir,” he added with another half-bow.

  “How do these things get started?” I asked, glaring at Mothi.

  He held up his hands in protest. “I have no idea, Aylootr.”

  I shook my head and sighed. “When do you serve supper?” I asked the innkeeper.

  “It’s being prepared as we speak,” he said, but his eyes were glued to Meuhlnir’s hands as the Isir shifted pieces of silver from his purse to his palm. The innkeeper snapped his fingers, and a boy about Sig’s age stepped out of the small office.

  “Yes, Father?” the boy asked.

  “Tell the three karls they need to move to the stables.”

  “Yes, Father,” said the boy, and he trotted up the stairs.

  “In the meantime, we’ll take any room that’s private,” said Sif, putting her hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes, Lady,” said the tavern master. “Take your pick of any room past the first three at the top of the stairs.”

  My gaze drifted to the narrow stairs, and a sigh escaped my lips.

  “Do you have a room on the ground floor? Tyeldnir will only want to climb those stairs once.”

  “Of course. Take my office for as long as you need.” He stepped to the side and swept his arm at the door behind him. “There’s no bed, but…”

  Sif laughed as she steered me into the little room—it wasn’t much larger than a coat closet—and pushed me into the hard wooden chair next to the writing desk. She swung the door closed. “Off with your pants,” she said in a brusque tone of voice. She applied her mystery balm in silence, lips pursed at the cherry-red color of my ankles and knees. “Will we need to stay over tomorrow?” she asked.

  “No, I can—‍”

  “Hank,” she said, putting a finger to my lips. “Quit being a man for a moment and tell me what you will need tomorrow.”

  I twitched my lips. “What will serve me best is getting to that market in Suelhaym, so you can make the gunk you promised me back in town.”

  “Yes,” she said and left the room, and when I’d corrected my state of dishabille, I followed her, in time to witness the exodus of the karls.

  It surprised me that they seemed to be in high spirits, joshing Mothi (though deferentially). The playful banter stopped when they saw the pistols on my hips, and they bowed to me.

  Bowed to me, for Chrissake.

  I stood there trying to decide what to do in response. Should I say something? Bow back? Tell them to stop? In the end, I nodded at them, pretending people bowed to me all the time. Jane sniggered, and Mothi’s face was cracked by a huge, toothy smile.

  “Lords and ladies, your table awaits,” said the innkeeper.

  “These fine karls will be joining us,” I said, and enjoyed the surprised yet delighted uncertainty in their faces.

  “Why not?” boomed Meuhlnir, with barely suppressed mirth.

  We followed the tavern master into the cramped common room. The décor was dark, with wood stained to the extent it was almost black, either on purpose or by smoke from the immense fire pit in the center of the room. Drag marks on the wooden floor showed that the tables were usually set for four and separated by five or six feet. The tables had been shoved together into one long table with benches along both sides. At the head of the table sat an upholstered chair—from the tavern master’s apartments by the look of it.

  He rested his hand on the padded backrest. “My best chair,” he said. “I’d be honored, Yarl Tyeldnir, if it suits you.”

  “I’d be honored if you called me Hank,” I said.

  “That’s kind of you, Aylootr,” said Mothi with a mischievous grin.

  “You, sir, may call me Mr. Jensen.” I painted a severe, stern expression on my face, which only made Mothi’s grin wider. I turned back to the tavern master. “The chair looks comfortable, but Meuhlnir or Veethar will sit at the head of the table.”

  “If they do, I’ll be cracking skulls before dinner,” growled Sif.

  “And they don’t call her the Harvester of Blood because she makes idle threats,” said Yowrnsaxa in a tone to match.

  Frikka put her arm through Veethar’s and led him to the end of the table. “Don’t tempt fate, husband. You’ve seen her fight.”

  Veethar smiled at Sif and bowed his head once in her direction. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Sit in the damn chair, Hank,” said Meuhlnir. “I’m not going up against both my wives. Might as well ask the wind to stop the sun in the sky.” He moved to the head of the table and sat in the first spot to the right of the chair. He threw a glance down the table at Veethar. “See? I do learn.”

  “Hold me, Sif, I might faint,” said Yowrnsaxa with laughter in her eyes.

  “Mothi, come steady your mothers before we both lose consciousness.”

  The three karls stood—somewhat bashfully—in the corner, looking lost. “Don’t mind them,” I said. “They do this all day and all night. Consider it dinner theater.” That earned timid smiles, but they still didn’t move, so I sat in the chair at the head of the table and waved my hands to my right and left. “Come sit with us,” I invited.

  The karls were large men, though not as large as the Isir, but they looked at Sif and didn’t move an inch.

  “Sif, please tell these fine men that you won’t eat their livers with a side of fava beans,” I said.

  She looked at me for a drawn-out moment, bewildered. “Of course, they should sit,” she said, a blush creeping up her neck like a wild rose.

  I turned my gaze back to the karls and smiled. “Come on.” They ducked their heads and came over. One sat on the other side of Meuhlnir, and the other two sat on my left. I glanced at the innkeeper. “You were about to tell me your name.”

  The man blushed and ducked his head. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. I am Tholfr.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tholfr. And you three?” I asked turning back to the karls.

  “My companions are Uhkmuntr and Neerowthr,” said the one to my immediate left. “And I am Lottfowpnir, Lord.”

  I held up my index finger. “None of that, Lottfowpnir. My name is Hank. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “And you, Lo—uh, Hank. If you’ll forgive me, that’s a strange name.”

  I chuckled. “It’s the diminutive name for Henry. It was my grandfather’s name.”

  “Ah, a name worthy of respect and remembrance,” said Neerowthr.

  “Yes,” I said glaring at Mothi, who stood next to my son. “That is my son, Sigurd, or Sig, as he prefers to be called.” The three karls glanced down the table and inclined their heads. Sig blushed and threw the men a little wave, then glanced at Mothi, who tousled his hair and shoved him toward the table.

  Tholfr cleared his throat. “He looks of an age with my boy, Retyinarr, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

  “I thought the same thing,” I said.

  “Well,” said Tholfr, “I’ll see to the food.”

  “With our thanks, Innkeeper,” said Meuhlnir. “And bring us mead in large quantities.”
<
br />   Althyof scoffed and sat next to Frikka. “Ale for me, if you please.”

  The rest of the party sat, and though the assembled tables had seemed too large for our party, shoulders rubbed, and elbows jostled. I was glad for the chair, and not only because of its padding.

  “Tell me, what brings you three to be traveling?” asked Meuhlnir with a casualness that must have seemed genuine to the karls, but which made Sif’s head come around as if pulled by her braids.

  “We travel together,” said Uhkmuntr. “Lottfowpnir’s father is attached to a mercantile concern in Suelhaym and sent us to straighten out a supplier near Trankastrantir.”

  “Is that so?” asked Veethar.

  “Yes, Lord,” said Uhkmuntr. “There is a spinner, and he is—‍”

  “Come, Uhkmuntr! These lords have no interest in the details of our business.” Lottfowpnir’s elbow connected with his friend’s ribs—a gesture meant to be hidden from everyone at the table.

  “No,” said Frikka in dulcet tones. “We are interested in the trades.”

  Lottfowpnir looked as if he couldn’t tell if Frikka was mocking him or not. “It’s nothing, a matter between karls.”

  “Speak,” commanded Veethar.

  Lottfowpnir glanced at the faces around the table. It was clear he’d rather be somewhere else, but he had no choice now. “There is a spinner in Trankastrantir, with whom my father trades. In the past, his yarns have been of the highest quality, but lately, they have been stiff, scratchy, and…well, they have an odor, and it does not wash out. We are weavers of fine cloth, sold to only the best clothiers in Suelhaym, and as such, we rely on quality yarn.”

  “And you go to collect your payments for the bad merchandise, I’ll wager. The spinner’s name?” asked Frikka.

  “Tofri, Lady.”

  Frikka nodded, her expression solemn. “Did news of the attack on Trankastrantir reach Suelhaym?”

  Lottfowpnir looked at the table in front of him.

  “Answer,” growled Veethar.

  “Speak up, Lottfowpnir,” I said. “It is rare, in life, to find friends to whom you can speak your whole mind, the whole truth without fear of reprisal. Veethar and Frikka are two such people. Speak your mind.”

  “Frikka and Veethar,” he murmured. He glanced at me and then away, his eyes roaming the walls opposite him. After a moment of silence, Lottfowpnir gazed down the table at Frikka and Veethar. “We heard, but, with respect, that was seven months ago. We made allowances in the beginning. We paid full price for half-price yarn, and we did it without complaint because Tofri has always dealt squarely with us. But this is business, and everyone has troubles to deal with.”