Chapter 13 The Neighboring Jarls

The ice held for another fortnight, and then it broke. The sound of the thaw was a chorus — the crack and groan of the ice sheet splitting along the fjord, the rush of meltwater through the gaps, the deep groaning of the Grey Fang's hull as the water rose around her timbers. The men hauled the ship back into the shallows, patched the hull where the ice had scarred it, and loaded her for a voyage that would determine whether Sortholm lived or died. Aldric chose his crew carefully. He took Torben, because Torben was steady and because the men trusted him. He took Haldor, because Haldor was strong and loyal. He took three other men — Reach, Olaf, and the young fisherman Ketil — because they were willing and because they could fight if the meeting turned violent. He did not take Bren. "Someone must hold the settlement," Aldric told Bren. "If the king's men come while I am gone, someone must organize the defense." "You are leaving me in charge?" Bren's voice carried surprise. "I am leaving you with a task. Not with authority. The authority stays with Vondra. You will advise him. You will train the fighters. You will follow his commands." Bren nodded. The calculation was still there, in the set of his jaw and the movement of his eyes, but it was different now — muted, contained, channeled toward a purpose that was not purely self-serving. The Grey Fang sailed south on a morning of pale sun and cold wind. The fjord opened before them, the ice clearing in long white rafts that drifted on the current. The sea beyond was dark and choppy, the swells rolling in from the northwest with the slow power of deep water. Their first stop was Kolvik, a settlement three days' sail to the south. Kolvik sat at the mouth of a wider fjord, sheltered by forested hills, and was ruled by Jarl Estrid — a woman of fifty winters who had held her seat through two husband's deaths and three of the king's tax collectors. She was known for her sharp tongue, her sharper mind, and her absolute refusal to bend to any authority but her own. They beached the Grey Fang on a strand of grey gravel, and Aldric walked up the path to the longhouse with Torben at his side. The settlement was larger than Sortholm — perhaps seventy families, with a hall of dark timber and a storehouse that was twice the size of Sigurd's. The people of Kolvik watched the newcomers with the wary attention of a community that had learned to assess threats quickly. Estrid received them in the hall. She was a tall woman, thin, with iron-grey hair braided in a crown around her head. She wore a cloak of blue wool and a torque of gold at her throat. She sat on a raised bench and looked down at Aldric with eyes that missed nothing. "Jarl of Sortholm," she said. It was not a greeting. It was an assessment. "Jarl Estrid. I come seeking alliance." "You come seeking help. There is a difference." She gestured to a bench. "Sit. Tell me what happened." Aldric told her. The shrine. The blood-debt. Sigurd's death. The king's decree. He told it simply, without embellishment, the way Sigurd would have told it — facts laid out in order, each one leading to the next, the chain of events unbroken. Estrid listened without interrupting. When he finished, she was silent for a long time. "You are sixteen winters old," she said. "I am." "Sigurd was a fool to name you." "Perhaps. But he did." "Sigurd was a fool in many ways. He was also a brave man and a good sailor. His death is a loss." Estrid leaned forward. "The shrine's law is real. I know this because my grandmother told me the same stories your mother told you. The drowned god, the oaths, the blood-debts. I believe in the old ways. But belief does not win wars." "I am not asking you to fight. I am asking you to shelter the women and children of Sortholm if the worst comes. If the king's fleet arrives and we cannot hold the fjord, I need a place where the families can go." Estrid studied him. "You would leave your people to fight while the families flee?" "I would leave my fighters to fight while the families survive. There is a difference." "Your mothers and daughters. Your old men. You would send them to me." "I would ask you to receive them. Not as refugees. As guests. With the dignity that guests are owed." Estrid's expression shifted. Something moved behind her eyes — recognition, or respect, or the memory of a time when she had faced the same choice. "I will receive them," she said. "On one condition." "Name it." "If you survive, you sail to Kolvik and pay me back. Not in silver. In service. One season of rowing for my ship. Your men, your oars, your strength." Aldric nodded. "Done." "Done." Estrid stood. "Eat before you sail. The food at Kolvik is better than what Sortholm produces." They ate — dried fish, barley bread, and a stew of root vegetables that warmed the bones. Torben ate in silence, as was his way. Haldor ate with the enthusiasm of a man who had not tasted hot food in days. The younger men ate quickly, eager to sail. Before they left, Estrid walked Aldric to the shore. The fjord was calm, the water grey-green under a sky of thin cloud. "There is another jarl you should visit," Estrid said. "Thorvald, at Strandheim. He is two days' sail to the west. He is a coward and a flatterer, and he will not help you. But visit him anyway. It will show the king that you sought alliances, that you did not sit in your fjord and wait to die." "Will Thorvald tell the king I visited?" "Almost certainly. That is also useful. It tells the king that you are not alone, even if you are." The Grey Fang sailed west. The sea was rough, the wind against them, and the voyage took three days instead of two. Strandheim was a poor settlement — a cluster of houses at the end of a shallow inlet, surrounded by pine forest, with a longhouse that listed to one side like a drunk. Thorvald was a man of soft hands and nervous eyes, a jarl who held his seat through compliance rather than strength. Thorvald received Aldric in his longhouse with the fidgeting hospitality of a man who wished the visit were already over. He listened to Aldric's account of the shrine and the king's decree, and when Aldric finished, Thorvald shook his head. "I cannot help you," Thorvald said. "The king's law is the king's law. If the king has declared you an outlaw, then you are an outlaw. I cannot shelter outlaws without inviting the king's wrath upon my own settlement." "The king's law does not apply at the shrine," Aldric said. "The shrine's law is older." "Older does not mean stronger. The king has ships. The king has men. The king has iron. Your shrine has stones." Thorvald wrung his hands. "I am sorry, Aldric. I wish you well. But I cannot stand against Harald." Aldric looked at the jarl of Strandheim — at his soft hands, his clean nails, his hall that had never seen a sword drawn in anger — and he understood that this man had never made a hard choice in his life and did not intend to start now. "I understand," Aldric said. "I will remember your hospitality." The words were polite. The meaning was clear. Thorvald understood it, and his face went pale. The Grey Fang sailed home. The voyage took four days, with a storm on the second day that nearly took the mast. The men rowed through the wind and the rain, their backs bent, their faces set, and when they reached the mouth of the fjord and saw the cliffs rising on either side, a sound of relief passed through the crew. Bren was waiting on the shore. The red-haired raider stood at the waterline with his axe at his side and his eyes on the horizon, and when the Grey Fang touched the sand, Bren walked into the shallows and looked at Aldric. "Well?" Bren asked. "One jarl will shelter the families. One jarl will do nothing." "Which is which?" "Estrid of Kolvik will shelter them. Thorvald of Strandheim will pray for us." Bren nodded. "Then we fight alone." "We fight with what we have. It is enough." "Is it?" "It must be." Aldric stepped onto the shore. The snow was melting. The air smelled of wet earth and salt and the first faint green of new growth. Spring was coming. And with it, the king's ships. ---