16. Restless

“I sometimes wonder if I will ever redeem myself. Not that there is truly anything to redeem. But it could be said that the outcomes of my otherwise well intended actions have been less than desirable. And, naturally, have caused some resentment among those who were affected.

But all those men knew what they’d signed up for. The first expedition had already gone missing. And they all greedily took the coins from my hands. But now the widows are piling up and their tongues are wagging in grief. And all on a sudden, I am spoken of not as Bard but Isleif the Disgraced instead.

What is it they expect me to do? Lead the next expedition myself?

Perhaps they will have kinder words for me when I, too, am dead. If I did not have Sibbe and Hjorvarth to care for, I might even consider it. See with my own eyes what is out in the mountains causing scores of fighting men to disappear without a trail.”

Dawn’s approach brought half-light to the fur-strewn corridors of Gudmund’s Hall.

In Sybille’s room, shadows had barely been lifted as she slept soundlessly under her blankets. Engli dozed on the end of the bed, his legs overhanging the edge.

The Salt Sage stood over them both. “You should probably get up, Engli. Gudmund will be awake soon.”

Engli mumbled to himself. He started to stretch, striking a bedpost instead.

“Engli. You ought to get up.”

He opened his eyes, colourless in the faint light, then frowned up at the robed man. “What are you doing in here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the Salt Sage whispered. He then chucked. “I need to speak with you, Engli. I thought it best to wake you before Gudmund found you sleeping in his daughter’s room.”

Sybille murmured. “Engli?”

“It’s nothing, Sybille.” Engli pushed up to a sitting position. “It’s almost morning. I’m going to go.”

“Oh.” Sybille yawned, pulling the covers tighter about her.

The Salt Sage helped the blond man to his feet. “Something wrong, Engli?”

Engli glanced away from the rag-wrapped visage. “No. You’re just stronger than you look.”

“A common complaint.” The Salt Sage walked towards the door. “Are you coming?”

Engli crept across the room. He glanced back at the bed before pulling the door to a close. He then nearly walked into the robed man.

The Salt Sage snickered. “Did you forget about me already?”

“I scare easy when I’m tired.” Engli backed towards the door. “And the chill and the dark doesn’t help.” He offered a polite smile. “Do you have a name, Sage?”

The Salt Sage shook his hooded head.

“Oh.” Engli nodded. “How did you know mine? Did Ralf or Eirik tell you?”

“I guessed.”

“You have my thanks for waking me,” Engli said, lifting his shield from the floor before he turned to leave.

“Have you ever heard of the Hall of Hrothgar?”

Engli paused in the corridor. “You won’t find anyone in Horvorr who hasn’t. I hope you’re not—”

“I am, and I wanted to know if you wished to accompany me.”

“No.” Engli frowned back at the robed man. “And so you know, Sage, a lot of men have gone before you. Hundreds. And only one has ever come back.”

“I expect that they’re all dead,” the Salt Sage dismissed. “But then they all went looking in the wrong places.”

“Good luck, then, if you’re set on going. But I would warn you against the journey.”

The Salt Sage smiled. “And you’re sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m sure,” Engli replied as he turned to leave. “I’m more than sure.”

“Engli.” The Salt Sage grabbed him by the shoulder. “Do you really think Gudmund will let his daughter marry a man whose name is not known beyond the walls of his own home? Or the walls of his parent’s home, as the case may be?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Engli shot an angry glance and shrugged free of the grip. “I don’t give it much thought.”

“I think you give it a give it a great deal of thought, and I think the answer that you often come to, on your less than hopeful days, is no.”

Engli managed a thin smile. “Is that right?”

“Just a guess,” the Sage said. “I’m not wrong about Gudmund though. It was one thing when he had his sons.” He upturned his gloved palms. “But now Sybille is all he has, and he isn’t going to give her away to likes of you.”

“The likes of me?” Engli asked with anger and amusement. “I’ll admit, I’m slightly wounded.”

“I’m simply telling you the truth, Engli. That there’s no chance for you and Sybille… unless—but, no, never mind.”

“Unless?”

“Unless, Engli, son of Linden, was not just a guard of Horvorr.”

“And who else would I be, Sage?”

“No less than one of the heroes that found the Hall of Hrothgar.”

Engli bitterly laughed. “Me and you on this journey, is it? A pair of heroes.”

The Salt Sage nodded. “A pair of heroes, exactly that. Though I don’t count myself among them. There’s another coming along.”

Engli raised his blond brows. “Isleif himself, I suppose?”

“Close,” the Sage said. “Very close, but no. It’s his son, Hjorvarth.”

“Hjorvarth?” Engli’s mirth gave way to doubtful concern. “Hjorvarth has said that he’s going to help you find the Hall of Hrothgar?”

“Not yet. But he will,” the Sage’s voice had taken on a dark edge. “One way or the other.”

Engli felt the chill more keenly than he had a moment before. He started stepping backwards. ”Well you go and convince him, and if he agrees—when he agrees, I mean—then I’ll be more than happy to accompany you. How does that sound?”

“How does it sound?” The Salt Sage swept forwards to grasp the young man’s shoulder, matching his smile and meeting his wary eyes. “Like a song from Frold himself.”

***

Linden, Engli’s father by law, had bought his home for himself, so it had only three small rooms. The main room had been built the largest, while the two rooms adjacent were each half the size, separated only by a single step. He had meant to use one as a workshop, but had never had the chance, given that Engli took it as his room for the years past. He slept with Anna in the other, his wife of nearly ten winters.

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The main room was used for all else but sleeping, with corners that were huddled and stacked with weaved baskets, fishing rods, blankets, and never-to-be-repaired tools that Linden had collected to fix in his forge.

A tall table took up most the space, only wide enough for two seats on either side. Linden and Engli sat there, the father with his back to cupboards, the son with his back to the door, while Anna stood to the right at the stove, preparing her family’s food.

She then stirred a large pot that hung above a modest fire, which still burned high enough to fill the main room with smoke and heat, joined by the benign scent of carrots and potatoes, and the reek of fish soup.

Linden took great joy watching his small wife in her element. She had blond hair and green eyes like he did, and they were both short in stature. She was more beautiful than he was though, with a dangerous glint in her eyes that seemed suited to her wiry frame.

Linden himself had soft eyes, a little cunning, a little childish, but mostly kind. He was broad in the shoulder and built sturdy from winters of hammering anvils. He sat fiddling with a loose thread of his shirt’s sleeve. “And what’s wrong with you, son?”

Engli paid little mind to the question. His mind was slowed by a lack of sleep and clouded by thoughts of the night and morning past.

“If you’re going to act like you’re sleeping, you might as well go to sleep.”

“Hm?” Engli glanced up at his father. “Oh. There’s nothing wrong.”

“You hear that wife?” Linden turned to Anna, who stood by the stove, her cheeks aglow with firelight as she wiped sweat from her brow. “He hasn’t spoken more than a few words since he’s come in, but there’s nothing wrong.”

“Have you considered, husband—” Anna looked back, squinting in defense of the heat “That he doesn’t want to talk to you about whatever it is?”

Linden gravely nodded. “I had considered that. But I was not yet ready to accept it.” He turned to his son. “Is that how it is, Engli?”

“No,” Engli said with a shake of his head. “I was thinking. Of small things.”

“Thinking,” Anna remarked as if impressed. “He must have learned that from me.”

She walked over to the cooking pot, tasted the soup, and started to break apart the tinder in the fire. Linden and Engli sat in silence while she went about the business of filling bowls and setting them on the table.

She got a mug of ale for each of them too, and then left them to blow on their soup. Anna then bent by the oven and used a flat-ended tool to lift out a loaf of golden bread.

She placed that onto a large cloth before setting it on the table as well.

Linden swallowed a spoonful of soup. He winced and coughed.

“Burnt your mouth?” Anna asked.

Linden nodded as he drank from his ale.

Anna shook her head at husband before she looked to her son. “How was work, Engli?”

“Gudmund had a visitor,” Engli said, taking more notice of the smoky surroundings. “He came at the dead of night.”

Anna cut the loaf down the middle. Once more to make it quarters. “Oh?”

“He said he was a Sage of Tomlok.”

Linden wiped froth from his mouth. “Tomlok?”

Anna set her own bowl beside him. “That’s the Helmsman, husband.”

“He ferried those who wanted their future’s told to Muradoon’s Isle,” Engli added. “But he became jealous of Muradoon’s gift. So he tried scoop out his eyes.”

“Ah.” Linden nodded. “So you asked ask him for your future. And that’s what’s got you so down.”

“You better not have,” Anna warned.

“I didn’t ask him anything, other than his name,” Engli said. Linden shrugged, and resumed eating. “He did mention some things about Gudmund.”

“Gudmund,” Linden muttered. He noticed his wife scowling, so smiled and took a breath. “What did he say then, son?”

Anna shared the still steaming bread. Linden groped for a piece while watching his son. Fingers touched the crust, and he jerked them back.

“He said that Gudmund wouldn’t marry his daughter to someone…”

“Like you?” Linden asked. He blew on his fingers. “So what? I tell you that all the time. You’ve got Gertrude, or Dalla, neither of them taken, and both would make a fine wife. Good women with wide hips and useful skills. You should forget about being a household guard, and go back on the road.”

Anna was scowling. “Husband.”

“I mean to say,” Linden said, smiling at his wife, “that it doesn’t matter. You had to have known, son. You’re not children anymore. You even went with Sybille and her brothers on the trip to Timilir. Did you not consider that she might end up married when the whole purpose of her visit was to swear herself to Jarl Thrand’s son? Or were you hoping that Hjorvarth would murder her other suitors, as well?”

“Murder?” Engli asked with anger. “Thorfinn tried to stab Geirmund in the back.”

Linden proffered his palms. “I made no judgement. I only meant that Gudmund aims to find her a husband, a rich man, or an important man, and more than likely both.” He carefully pulled away a piece of bread, then tossed it into the soup. “Take any notions you have for that girl, and throw them away. That’s what I say.”

Engli sighed. He dipped bread into his soup.

“You saved her life,” Anna reminded. “And that’s a fine thing, Engli.”

“But not fine enough?” he asked.

“Might have been,” Linden said. “If his sons didn’t get themselves killed.”

Anna swatted his shoulder. “Do not speak ill of the dead, husband.”

“If his sons hadn’t died,” he amended. “But Gudmund’s never been a pleasant man. And now he’s got no sons, and he’s got no wife either.” Linden sighed. “I don’t know why you don’t just work for me, instead of risking your life for less coin.”

Engli knew that men often learned a family trade, but he knew as well that his real father had been a fighter. “I’ve no mind to be a blacksmith.”

“Why not?” Linden asked, struggling to smile. He took a breath, shying away from his wife’s warning stare. “I know why, of course. We’ve talked about it enough. But not every man has to become his father. The man that made me was a drunkard and a bully, and I might beat a lot of things but I’ve never hit a woman.” He raised his brows, drummed his fingers against the table, then reached once more for his spoon. “Forget I made mention.”

Anna rubbed her husband’s shoulder. “Any idiot can swing a sword or an axe, Engli. But it takes skill to make one.”

Smiling, Linden leaned over to kiss his wife.

Engli watched them and grew uneasy with the settling silence. “And what if I can’t forget about Sybille?”

Linden’s answering smile was apologetic. “Then I’d say you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Is it so much to ask for a wife that I love?”

“Love?” Linden scoffed. “That—”

Anna placed her hand over her husband’s own. “You don’t love her. And even if you did—and you don’t—what could you do? Do you think Linden says these things to hurt you?” she asked. “Gudmund will not let you marry his daughter, even if she wanted to marry you. You guard her, and you saved her, but that doesn’t mean she owes you her hand. Gudmund has already paid you back, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was angry at you for letting his sons die.”

Engli blinked. “How would that be my fault?”

“It isn’t,” Linden assured. “But Gudmund has turned mad and spiteful. Just tell me this… how are you going to convince him to marry his daughter to you?”

Engli decided to study his soup.

“And does she love you?” he pressed, despite having no answer. “If she does, can you be sure that it isn’t because of her grief? That it isn’t because she lost her brothers, and she has no one else? And if you love her, Engli—and I agree with your mother that you don’t—is it right of you to trade on her loss for your gain?”

“I would never do that,” Engli nearly shouted. “That isn’t what I’m trying to do.”

Linden only smirked at his anger. “I know it isn’t, son. But I prefer anger to brooding.” He shrugged. “And what’s your answer to the rest of my questions?”

“The Salt Sage told me that he is going to the Hall of Hrothgar, and asked…” Engli noticed his mother’s dark regard. “He asked if I would go with—”

“You are not going,” Anna quiet words were clearly heard. “And you will never speak of that place in my hearing again. Do you understand me, Engli?”

Engli smiled in confusion. “But—”

“Engli,” Linden spoke in a low, warning voice that he often used when he was fearful of his wife’s ire. “Eat your food, and think about what I said. You’re not too old to learn a new trade. And you’re still young and handsome enough to find a wife that will help you instead of hurt you.”

Engli almost let the matter rest. “He said that Hjorvarth would be going, ‘one way or the other.’ Like a promise. Or a threat.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Linden said. “Unless this Salt Sage happened to be built like a hill giant.”

“He’s leaving this morning, isn’t he?” Anna asked.

Engli blinked. “For where?”

“Grettir put him in charge of the Autumn Trip,” Anna explained. “He’ll be gone for a season or more. So you can go and check the gate and make sure that he’s gone so that you won’t need to worry about this other journey. But I’d be honestly surprised if your new friend survives even a day in Gudmund’s Hall if he speaks as freely as that.” Engli started to rise. “Eat your food first. They won’t leave for a while.”

Engli sat back in his seat and started to eat, wondering if he shouldn’t now ask to leave with the rest of Horvorr’s Guard. Hjorvarth had saved his life after all, and now might be the time to repay the favour. Or he might make a fool of himself and become further indebted. But Engli would never forgive himself if the huge warrior went without him and died.

Maybe Linden was right. It was time to give up on being a household guard.