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Part One - Summer's End
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1. A Bear and his Cubs
“I have lost a morbid bet. On a blurry night of too much wine and ale, Brolli wished to wager on whether Grettir might soon jump into Horvorr’s Great Lake and drown amid the spirited water. To my surprise, he wagered that the newly widowed warrior would live a long life. This he reasoned because good things never happened to Brolli the Black.
Many winters have passed since. And though I still plainly see the grief behind those wild eyes, Grettir appears almost happier than me. Once the One Swing, feared by all goblins, he is now Grettir the Maid. Cleaning up after Gudmund, and taking care of his children instead.
When I reminded Brolli of the wager, and paid him the coin, he was terribly displeased. “‘Uncle Grettir,’” alive and well,” he said as if it were a grim mockery. While Brolli, their uncle by blood, remains barred from his brother’s hall. Unable to see his nephews at all.”
Horvorr’s Guard had camped only a mile from the stone city of Timilir. They had set their tents and fires in the shadows of Southwestern Tymir’s eastern mountains. Fully ready to leave, the grizzled fighters stood restless—muttering under their breaths and rubbing their wrapped hands together for heat—while they waited for those arguing in the largest tent, which unlike the rest had been woven of a rich and colorful wool.
Within, a rustic fire crackled amid sparse furnishings. Sybille, a red-haired young woman, sat cross-legged on layered furs, sharing her gaze between the flames and her brothers who were both older, and who both argued and paced amid the smoky surroundings.
Sybille studied her brothers, her blue eyes watered by the flames, and thought that they were perhaps much the same. Both with the same green eyes. Both clad in fine shirts and leggings. Both shared their father’s auburn hair and stubborn temperament.
She then looked as if in entreaty to the large, one-armed man who sat at a small lacquered table opposite Sybille. Grettir's thoughtful scowl barely registered those in his charge though. He simply stared off at the tent flap, which flapped in the breeze.
“We speak in circles,” Geirmund declared, his proud features betraying only a hint of impatience. “If Sybille wants Engli to go with her, then that is her choice.”
Agnar’s answering smile was wolfish. “And if someone is making the wrong choice, then I’ll choose to counsel them against it.”
“In what way is it the wrong choice?” Geirmund asked.
Agnar haplessly shrugged.
“Well...?” Geirmund pressed.
“Don’t get me wrong," the younger brother said, "Engli’s a nice enough lad, and I’ve nothing against him. But I’m not best pleased with some of the things I’ve heard about Jarl Thrand’s son.”
“What have you heard about Thorfinn?” Geirmund asked.
Agnar smirked. “Things that make me think he’s a bit of a cunt, and no great lover of women.” He raised his brows. “I don’t want our dear sister in his company at all. But,” he added, “she has to go, doesn’t she? So at the least, I want a man that is going to put the little prick in his place if he acts the bastard.”
Sybille frowned up at him from the layered furs. “Could you at least pretend that I’m here?”
Agnar looked back with a dubious grin. “I mentioned you.”
“A mention," Sybille said. “How very good of you, brother. Though perhaps you should stop wasting everyone’s time and simply tell us what you’ve heard.”
“I’m afraid you’re far too young to hear that, Syb'."
“To clarify then,” Geirmund put in, “these are stories you’ve been told by whores.”
Agnar’s smile faltered. “Women.”
“That you’ve paid for sex?”
“Women.” Agnar scratched at his hooked nose. “That I’ve had sex with.” He glanced up at the colourful wool of the tent. “It might be that I gifted them with coin afterwards—as a sign of affection—but that doesn’t make them whores now, does it?”
“It does,” Geirmund replied. “That’s exactly what makes a woman a whore.”
“Wouldn’t that make me a whore?” Sybille then asked, idly sweeping dust from her fur cloak. “Given that our father is set on marrying me off for trade deals and an alliance. Given that he’s marrying me off for coin?”
Geirmund met his sister’s gaze for only a moment before looking askance.
“Well, brother?” Agnar asked. “Go on and tell our dear sister that she’s a whore—by your standards, not mine.” He smiled. “I don’t think you’re a whore, Syb'. And if it were up to me, we wouldn’t even marry you to the bastard to begin with. We’d just go in there, punch him in the mouth until his teeth fall out, and then run out of the city before Jarl Thrand has a chance to arrest us.”
Grettir sighed, loudly enough that all the siblings turned. He scratched at his bear-brown beard, which covered scarred cheeks and encroached moss-green eyes. “Could you all stop treating this like a joke?” he asked in his harsh voice.
“As I see it, uncle,” Agnar said. “I’m the only one who’s taking this seriously.”
Grettir met his words with a doubtful look. “Is that right?”
Agnar offered a solemn nod.
“So you wish to go to Timilir as guests of Jarl Thrand, beat his son bloody, and then flee the city?” Grettir questioned. "No mention of how we'd escape the city guards, or how that would ruin the marriage pact your father worked so hard to arrange?"
"Hm," Agnar said. “I could perhaps take matters more seriously.”
Grettir’s hirsute face grew hard. “Thorfinn is to be your brother by law. And you have not met since you were both boys. So I find it more than a little disappointing that you would go into this holding a grudge based off of gossip spoken by—”
“It is not gods-damned gossip!” Agnar snarled, his dark eyes dancing with anger. “What about that do you two judging fucks not understand?”
Grettir scowl deepened. He exhaled through stained teeth. “Get out.”
Agnar dipped his head in apology, abandoning his anger, and turned to leave.
“Not you,” Grettir growled, causing the younger brother to grimace. “Geirmund, Sybille. Go outside while I speak with Agnar.”
“Uncle,” Geirmund said as an entreaty. “I’m sure he meant no disrespect.”
Grettir turned his scowl on the older brother. “Do you?”
Geirmund relucantly shook his head, and rose from his chair. He helped his sister from the furs.
“That was foolish,” Sybille whispered when she passed Agnar. The younger brother stood in silence as his siblings departed.
“So you’re happy to raise your voice and swear, Agnar?” Grettir asked, pushing up from his chair. “But now you won’t even look me in the eye.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Agnar apologetically smiled, turning to face the bulky one-armed warrior. “I let my temper get away from me. And I have embarrassed myself and insulted you.”
“Insulted?” Grettir shrugged in an uneven fashion. “You were a little rude, but mainly I wanted Sybille out of our hearing.”
“Oh.” Agnar readily nodded. “I thought that might be the case,” he lied.
Grettir's brows furrowed. “What is it you have against Thorfinn?”
“It was just a bad joke, Grettir," Agnar assured. “I was trying to ease Sybille’s nerves.”
Grettir met the words with bared teeth. “Care to answer again with the truth?”
“I don’t lie, uncle,” Agnar answered. “Not without good reason, at least. If it was any business of yours, then surely you’d already know.”
“Is that so?” Grettir studied him for a long while. “Then tell Geirmund he’s to handle matters without you. Because you’ve decided to keep my company here instead.”
Agnar scoffed. “Is that how it is?” He started to pace, then stopped. “Fine. That’s fine by me.” He strode towards the tent flap. “I’ll just travel on my own tonight.”
“You’ll need the help of all Eleven Elders to make that trek with broken legs.”
Agnar turned, placidly smirking. “I just hope you can find a man to lend you a hand when it comes to holding me down.”
“And aren’t you a brave man, Agnar?” Grettir mocked. “I can only hope my courage grows so that I too might be able to make fun of cripples.”
“Do forgive me, uncle," Agnar answered. "I can see you’re standing on much higher ground. While I won’t be able to stand at all when you break my legs. All because I didn’t answer a question to your satisfaction.”
“Is that what—”
“I would expect this from Gudmund,” Agnar snapped now he strode forwards. “But you’re the one who is supposed to trust us. And I might need a lot of things, Grettir. But the one thing I don’t need in this life is another overbearing bastard telling me what to do. Gudmund does a bad enough job of that on his own.”
Grettir’s hairy visage turned grim. Agnar stepped quickly back, but not quite quickly enough.
***
Outside of the tent, Geirmund heard the sound of a clap followed by a muffled thud.
“Did you hear that?” he asked of Sybille, who stood fiddling with her fur sleeve.
She cast a glance over the hairy, weatherbeaten gathering of fur-clad fighters that comprised Horvorr’s Guard. Most had axes, provided by the town, and they each carried large painted shields. “All I hear is the wind, the oxen, and the angry muttering of men.”
“Looking for a new guard?” Geirmund joked.
“No.” Sybille glanced sidelong at her statuesque brother. “Engli is my guard.” She studied the readied column of hardy men, laden wagons, and shaggy oxen. “I don’t know any of those men. They all look the same.”
“So you’ve chosen your guard by merit of odd appearance?” Geirmund reasoned. “If you’re taking that tack then why don’t you have me ask Hjorvarth? He’s as big as Engli is small.”
Sybille gave her brother an odd look. “Is that a joke?”
“Engli is small,” Geirmund assured. “Smaller than any man with us.”
“Hjorvarth can’t come with us,” Sybille stated as if it were a matter of fact.
“There’s little harm in asking.”
“The harm comes if he says yes,” Sybille said. “He is the son of Isleif the Disgraced. And the foster son of Brolli the Black. Both those men are reviled in Timilir. And I’m almost certain that Hjorvarth has a poor reputation by merit of his own actions.”
Geirmund shrugged. “I spoke with him on the road. He seemed a good man.”
“Well I’ve never spoken with him,” Sybille said. “But clearly you know little or nothing about the stone city if you want to take him to Thrand’s Estate.”
“Yet you’re ever well informed,” Geirmund said, “having last visited four winters ago.”
“Hjorvarth lives in Horvorr,” Sybille reminded as if to a child. “His father does. Brolli does. Every man, woman and child in our town knows the three of them.” She then frowned. “I think you’re confusing a fleeting impression with a man that’s actually well known and well loathed for many good reasons.”
Geirmund’s smile was wry. “And none of that makes Engli any more useful in a fight.”
“Yet you must be to make such keen judgements. So I’m surely in safe hands.”
"Hm." Geirmund at his sister. "We do need this to go well, Sybille. Our family cannot afford anymore enemies."
"I'm not the one causing problems, brother. Father demands that I marry a stranger, and I will. Meanwhile Agnar sleeps with whoever he likes, and you got to choose your own bride. Have you ever considered that the reason so much rests on my marriage, is because you two have been free to live however you please?" Sybille asked in a voice both kind and vicious. "Yet now I ask for one thing. To be accompanied by a man that I do know, and do trust. But you are both bickering like old maids. Do I not have enough to worry about?"
Geirmund's proud features scrunched in anger, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he simply sighed. "Of course, Sybille. Forgive me for my..."
"You are forgiven," Sybille answered to end her brother's struggle for the right word. "But please remember that this it not about you--or Agnar. I know you take the matter very seriously, of course. You want to prove that our father has at least one son who can be relied upon. Yet the direction of my entire life is soon to be decided. It is not as if any other Jarls wish to marry their sons to the daughter of Chief Gudmund. My bride price is as bleak as our region. So it is not we--but I--who needs this to go well, brother."
***
Inside the tent, a humbled Agnar sat at the lacquered table, opposite Grettir.
The young man slouched in his chair, studying a golden ring as he turned it over in his hand. The metal glimmered with firelight. It had been plainly wrought, unlike the golden chain it hung from, which had been worked with serpentine clasps that bore likeness to the The World Worm, Ouro. The insatiable beast who had tried to eat all of the worlds and all of the gods.
“A fine ring,” Grettir said, “but I’ve still no clue as to your issue with Thorfinn.”
“This is the clue, uncle.” Agnar let the pendant drop to his chest. He tugged off a leather glove. An identical ring glinted on his finger. “Here’s another.”
Grettir scratched at his hairy face. “For marriage?”
Agnar slowly shook his head. “Just a token to signify my love of a woman. This one should be on her finger. But I found it in the alley outside of her ransacked room.” He curled his bruised lip. “She had a son, Grettir. A boy—a gods damned child, and I’ve seen no sign of him. When I asked about, I got no answers at all. Not even the squeak of rats.”
The one-armed warrior hunched forward. “Then why am I only hearing of this now?”
“Because you can’t step foot in Timilir?” Agnar asked without patience. “Geirmund might have been sympathetic, but he would only tell me to move on. And I didn’t tell Gudmund, because he wouldn’t care at all.” He shrugged. “That leaves Sybille. And the murder of a woman and her child isn’t really a thing she should have to worry about.”
Grettir grunted in assent. “You had the right of it,” he admitted. “But what’s this got to with the son of Jarl Thrand?”
“I did tell someone,” Agnar answered, “as it happens. I went to the only person I knew that had real influence in Timilir.”
Grettir made no effort to mask his distaste. “Brolli.”
“He is my father’s brother,” Agnar answered, spreading his hands on the table. “And he told me more than the rats. That Thorfinn’s son is a deviant. He likes to hurt women. Brolli’s men had seen Thorfinn go round to Runa’s home at late hours during the season past. They’d even ran foul of Jarl Thrand’s own guards on the night she was taken.”
“And did Brolli tell you that he hates Jarl Thrand?” Grettir asked. “That he would like nothing more than to see you murder his son. To see the brother he loathes in a blood feud with the man that outlawed him?”
“He did," Agnar readily answered. "In almost the same words.”
“Clever of him,” Grettir muttered. “But Brolli is not a man that you can trust. Family means less than nothing to him.”
“I didn’t say I trusted him.” Agnar’s gaze turned solemn. “If I did then Thorfinn would already be trapped in the Lady’s Shadow,” he assured. “I would have rode both of Horvorr’s horses to death just to reach him sooner. I would have greeted that bastard by clapping him on the shoulder with an axe.”
Grettir’s unkempt brows furrowed. “If not his life, what do you want?”
“I just want to know the truth, uncle,” Agnar calmly answered. “I want to meet the man. To know him better. I won’t cause him any harm. Not unless he lead me to believe that he might be a danger to Sybille. If he did, I would have to reconsider my original plan.”
"Think on what happens to your sister," Grettir replied without warmth. "Or your brother. Or the Guard, if you harm the son of the most powerful Jarl in Tymir. You swing your axe and we all pay the cost in blood. Or else Thrand stops all trade then the whole region withers and dies."
Agnar considered the words. His uncle was not wrong. There would be a terrible price to pay if a Jarl's son was murdered. Timilir was the only safe route into Southwestern Tymir to reach Horvorr. Gudmund had always despised Thrand, but even he wasn't reckless enough to make an enemy of the stone city.
"I can't let you go," Grettir decided. "Not unless you mean to swear to me, by Broknar and Brikorhaan both, that you won't harm a hair on Thorfinn's head."
"I swear it," Agnar solemnly answered, struggling to meet Grettir's eyes because he wasn't yet sure if he was telling a lie or a truth. "By Broknar and Brikorhaan both."