Chapter Twenty-Five: Elvar

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ELVAR

Elvar took another draught from her mead horn and swallowed, feeling some of it trickle down her chin.

“You’ve had enough,” Grend said.

She gave him a dark look, one that she had learned from him on the many occasions he had inflicted it upon her. Grend shrugged and leaned back in his bench.

They were still sat in the tavern in Snakavik, Elvar drinking an endless river of mead and ale. It was growing dark outside, torches lit and smoke thick in the air, though it always grew darker in Snakavik before the rest of the world, the sun blotted out by the serpent’s skull. Agnar and many of the Battle-Grim had returned, filtering in like mist-wraiths as Elvar’s thought-cage was consumed with all that her father had said to her, picking over his words like a carrion-crow over old bones.

You should not have left, he said, I want you back at my side, he said. Agnar of the Battle-Grim is a mercenary whore, he said…

She ground her teeth.

“What are you going to do?” Grend said quietly, his voice sinking into the hum of the tavern. “I mean besides grinding your teeth to dust.”

“Don’t know,” Elvar muttered sullenly.

Shock had shifted to anger as Elvar sifted through her father’s words. As ever, he said more in the words unspoken. Their meeting had not been what she had expected.

Judgement, disappointment and a sense of my own inadequacy are my most vivid memories of growing up with Jarl Störr as a father.

“He offered you drengrs of your own. A warband of your own,” Grend said.

Elvar nodded. That was what she had wanted, to lead, to prove herself, but her father had wanted her to be sold off as a prize brood bitch to Queen Helka’s son, Hakon, so that her children would rule all Vigrið. That was why she had left, to escape such a fate.

It would have been a thrall’s life, no matter if the collar were gilded with gold.

“What would you have me do?” she asked Grend.

The old warrior snorted. “As if you have ever taken my advice.”

“I might,” she said.

Grend shrugged. “He is offering you what you wanted, so take it. But I am no deep-thinker, and all know that Jarl Störr does not say all: for every plan spoken, there is another hidden within it.” He shrugged again. “Whatever you do, I will follow you.” He looked at the palm of his hand, at a white scar that ran along it. Elvar remembered seeing the blood well, remembered the words he had spoken, the oath he had sworn.

“It is… confusing,” Grend said. “When a thing does not go as you expected.”

“Aye,” Elvar said, nodding and drinking.

“At least Thorun has remained the same,” Grend said.

“He can always be relied upon,” Elvar grumbled. Thorun had only ever made things worse. “Thorun was born an arseling and just grew bigger.”

Both of them snorted laughter.

“Something funny?” a voice said beside her. She looked and saw Biórr sitting and playing tafl with the boy, Bjarn. She had not noticed them return to the tavern or sit so close to her.

Elvar shrugged, not knowing where to start.

“You are Elvar Störrsdottir, then,” Biórr said to her, his voice remaining steady, eyes fixed on the board and wooden carved pieces.

She took another drink from her mead horn.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Why would a jarl’s daughter leave a life of privilege behind her, a life of wealth and power, and trade it for an oar-bench, for a life of violence and death?” he said to no one in particular.

Grend shifted beside her.

“To prove my worth,” Elvar said before Grend had a chance to threaten the young warrior. “To earn my reputation.”

“You have done that, right enough,” Biórr said, eyes flickering to the troll tusk around Elvar’s neck.

“Elvar is the bravest warrior I know,” Bjarn said, looking up at her with his large, dark eyes. “She saved me from the serpent.”

“Grend saved us both,” Elvar said.

“So, you left Snakavik in search of a reputation?” Biórr asked.

“Yes,” Elvar said. “And to live free, to be my own master, not some play-piece on a tafl board that my father can manoeuvre and sacrifice.” She waved a hand at the board between Biórr and Bjarn. The boy moved his jarl-piece, making a break for a gap his oathsworn guards had carved through the ranks of their attackers. Biórr’s carved wooden warriors were circled around the jarl, a net drawing tight to capture and kill him.

That is how I feel, Elvar thought. No matter how far I travel, the weave of my life tugs me back here. To Snakavik and my father’s web of plans. Should I leave the Battle-Grim and take a place at my father’s shoulder, involve myself in his politics and struggles, involve myself in the war for Vigrið? She blew out a long breath and realised that Biórr was staring at her.

“What?” she said, glaring.

“I am thinking that you have a pleasing face,” he said, with a twitch of his lips, showing his white teeth. “Fine cheeks, eyes that snatch my breath, and such lips…”

Grend’s chair scraped as he shifted his weight, turning to glare at Biórr.

“But there is far more to you than just what the eye can see,” Biórr finished.

Elvar’s brows knotted.

“You are fighting a battle in your thought-cage, one that I cannot see, but it is a great struggle; one that is heavy on your shoulders.” He leaned forwards. “I could help you.”

Grend growled deep in his throat. “She is not for the likes of you,” the old warrior said, his voice like a slow-drawn blade.

Biórr shrugged. “From what I am learning of this shieldmaiden, that is a choice you cannot make for her, old warrior.”

Thrud was sat close by, sitting at his usual pastime, picking his nails with a small seax. A sliver of bone hung from a leather cord around his wrist, hacked from the skull of a wight he had slain when he had first joined the Battle-Grim. He huffed a laugh.

“Something funny?” Grend asked him.

“Just waiting to see if the young cub is fast enough to escape the old wolf’s teeth and claws,” Thrud said.

Grend reached out and put a hand on Biórr’s wrist.

“You are right, Elvar will choose her own path. She always has. But I am there to stamp on the rats in the shadows, those that smile at her and hide their intentions. I am the one who crushes their skulls before they can scratch or bite.”

Biórr took his gaze from the tafl game and looked at Grend, then at Grend’s fist clamped around his wrist, Elvar seeing a shift in the young man’s eyes. The smile and hint of humour that seemed ever-present was gone, replaced with something hard and cold.

There was a slap of boots and Sighvat was looming over them.

“Chief wants a word,” he said to Elvar.

Elvar stood and took a moment as the world swayed around her. Grend stood too.

“Didn’t hear the chief ask for you, big man,” Biórr said.

“Where Elvar goes, I go,” Grend growled. “Agnar knows this, and the sooner you understand that, the better.”

Sighvat nodded an agreement, and then he was leading Elvar and Grend across the tavern, winding between tables and benches, his bulk bashing the elbows and shoulders of all in their path, warriors of the Battle-Grim mingled with locals, fisherfolk, traders and craftsmen, warriors, whores. Agnar was sitting in a corner, his bearskin cloak cast over a chair behind him. Like Elvar, he still wore his coat of mail, his weapons belt unbuckled and lying upon the table, beside a horn carved cup and a jug of ale.

Agnar gestured for Elvar and Grend to sit, Sighvat stomping off in search of food.

“I am not prying; your business is your own,” Agnar said. “I just wanted to check that you are… well.” He looked from the mead horn in her hand to the mead that glistened on her chin.

“I am well enough,” Elvar said with a twist of her lips as she sat heavily, Grend pulling up a chair.

Agnar nodded, as if she had said much more than her words.

Above them the roof rafters creaked rhythmically. When Agnar rented the hayloft of the tavern the landlord had evicted half a dozen whores who rented the space. By the sounds of it they were making up for their lost coin, most of it from the Battle-Grim now that they had been paid.

Sighvat returned and slammed a trencher of food on the table: a joint of cured ham, cheese and flatbread, a bowl of butter, cream and strawberries.

Elvar moved to cut herself a slice of ham.

“That’s mine,” Sighvat said, waving a protective hand over the food. “I’ll get yours now.”

He stomped off again.

“Sighvat doesn’t share food,” Agnar smiled.

Sighvat returned with another plate of ham and flatbread.

“That’s yours,” Sighvat said as he sat, the bench creaking. He carved himself a thick slice of ham, chopped some cheese and wrapped it all in the flatbread, then took a huge bite.

“What?” he said to Elvar’s staring.

“Nothing,” Elvar said and reached for her own plate.

Agnar smiled and shrugged.

“My father has asked me to take my place at his side, offered me drengrs and a warband,” Elvar said.

I owe him the truth.

Agnar had been good to her, taking her in when she had only seventeen winters on her back. She had told him the truth then, and he had kept his lips closed about it for almost four years. He had promised her no special treatment, that she would earn her place in his shield wall or be cast out, for which she had been grateful. That was all she had ever wanted, the chance to be judged on her own merits. Her own skill, her own courage. Her hand drifted up to the troll tusk around her neck.

And I am still here.

Agnar opened the chest beside him, pulled out two pouches and thrust them across the table at Elvar and Grend.

“Your share of the Battle-Grim’s spoils,” Agnar said. “Your father pays well for Berserkir, and troll meat fetches a good price in Snakavik’s markets.”

Elvar just looked at the bags of money.

Grend took the two pouches and slipped them into his cloak.

Agnar leaned across the table.

“Follow where your heart and thought-cage lead you,” he said, “but know this. Whatever your choice, whatever your road, you will always have an oar-bench on the Wave-Jarl. You have proved your worth, Elvar Troll-Slayer.”

He offered her his arm, one warrior to another.

She felt a flush of pride swell her chest at Agnar’s words, reaching her face to twitch a smile. She leaned forwards and took his arm.

He is a merchant whore. Her father’s words spiralled through her head.

He is my friend, Elvar snarled back at her imaginary father, though the memory of Agnar in Jarl Störr’s mead hall, negotiating over the Berserkir, lingered in her memory.

“Tell me your decision when you are ready,” Agnar said, then reached for some food.

Elvar sat back with a sigh.

In truth, she did not know what to do.

And then it came to her.

She stood, her chair tumbling over behind her. “My thanks, chief,” she said over her shoulder as she made for the tavern’s door. A hand grabbed her as she reached it.

It was Uspa, her hood pulled up over her head. Thrud was leaning in the shadows, watching her.

“When are we leaving Snakavik?” Uspa asked her pleadingly.

Elvar blinked and shook Uspa’s hand off her.

“I don’t know,” Elvar said.

“I told you, I need to leave,” Uspa hissed.

“Tell me why, and I’ll talk to the chief,” Elvar said.

Uspa looked into Elvar’s eyes.

“You are mead-drunk,” Uspa said with disgust. “When you are sober, I will tell you.”

Elvar shrugged. “You may be waiting a long while,” she said and pushed her way through into the twilit town. She took a few swaying steps before she paused for a moment, sucking in cleaner air.

“Where are we going?” Grend said as he stepped out of the tavern behind her.

“I’m going to speak to Hrung’s head,” Elvar said.

Elvar climbed the steps of her father’s mead hall. Gytha led her, Grend following behind. The climb through Snakavik and the skull tunnel had cleared her head, and the searing winds that howled about the fortress had seemed to scour the alcohol from her veins.

Gytha led her into the mead hall. The tables were being made ready for the evening meal, thralls bringing out trenchers of meat and jugs of mead, tending to the hearth fires. Elvar reached out and grabbed a jug, Gytha raising a hand to the thrall who was trying to take it.

Elvar stepped up on to the dais and walked past her father’s high seat, empty now. Gytha stopped before the head of Hrung, whose eyes were closed, the muscles of his face slack, his mouth drooping like his long moustache in what looked like sleep.

“He is sleeping,” Gytha said. “I said I would bring you here, but I told you there would be no point. The giant sleeps longer and more heavily than he used to. Though your father may still flay me for it.”

“He will not,” Elvar said. “I am Elvar Störrsdottir, how could you refuse me?”

Gytha raised an eyebrow. “I have not sent him word, for which I will be judged.”

“Then send him word that I am here now,” Elvar shrugged. “Just, wait a little longer before you do. Give me a few moments with Hrung and then I shall be gone.”

“The ancient one is asleep, anyway,” Gytha said as she turned. She paused beside Grend, her fingertips brushing his arm. Grend looked straight ahead and Gytha walked away.

“You should talk with Gytha,” Elvar said. “Spend time with her, while we are in Snakavik.”

“No,” Grend grunted.

Elvar looked at him and sighed.

“Hrung,” she said, but the giant head did not move.

Elvar held the jug beneath the giant’s huge nose, dipped her fingertips into the mead and flicked droplets on to his lips.

A ripple passed through the head, a tremor of flesh. An inhaled breath through the nose, the lips parting and Hrung’s fat tongue tasted the mead. The eyelids flickered, opening to reveal Hrung’s clouded eyes.

“Elvar,” he rumbled.

“I brought you a gift,” she said, holding the jug up.

“Ah, but you were always my favourite,” the head said, a grin spreading across his face.

“Not much of a compliment, when you are choosing between my father, brothers and me,” Elvar said. She tipped some of the jug into Hrung’s mouth, mead trickling over his tongue and down his throat. She watched as a stain spread slowly through the wood at her feet.

“Ah, but it tastes good, even if it does not have the effect it once did,” Hrung sighed.

“That is because you are only a head,” Elvar said, looking at the stain seeping about her feet.

“You are still full of wisdom, then,” Hrung rumbled.

“I’ve missed you,” Elvar smiled, only realising the truth of it as her words left her mouth. Few of her memories from Snakavik had any warmth to them, save for some scattered moments with her younger brother, Broðir, and her conversations with Hrung.

“I have missed you, too, little one,” Hrung said. “It has been dull without you.” He licked his lips. “And dry.”

Elvar poured some more mead on to Hrung’s tongue and his throat rumbled his pleasure.

“Ah, but the years have been parched and empty since you left. Not a day has passed since then that I haven’t wished Jarl Störr and Silrið had left me dead in Snaka’s throat.”

“I remember the day you were hoisted from the fjord,” Elvar said, though she had only seen three winters, then. She had been sitting upon Grend’s shoulders, down on one of the harbour piers. “I thought you looked sad. There was red algae covering your eyes and cheeks. It made you look as if you had wept blood.”

“Perhaps I had,” Hrung said. “It is no pleasant thing, being swallowed by a serpent-god and having your head bitten clean from your body. Worse still that a small fragment of Snaka’s dying power seeped into me and condemned me to life when I would rather rest in death with my giant-kin. As bad as this life can be, though, it is better than the three hundred years I spent sitting in the deep fjord, only Snaka’s fangs and fish to count.” His eyes took her in, lingering on the troll tusk and rings draped about her. He took a deep breath through his large nostrils, strong enough to stir Elvar’s braided hair.

“You have found what you sought, then,” he said. “You reek of battle-fame and great deeds.”

Elvar shrugged.

“And you have not managed to rid yourself of old loose-lips,” Hrung said, his cloudy eyes shifting to Grend. The old warrior just stared flatly at the giant.

The sound of voices echoed in the corridor beyond the mead hall, the slap of many feet on timber.

Gytha has told my father of my presence here, then.

“I would stay longer, but my father is coming to spoil our reunion,” she said.

“Ask your question, then,” Hrung said.

“Is it so obvious?” Elvar said.

Hrung chuckled, a sound that vibrated through Elvar’s chest. “As much as you like my company, I think need has driven you to me. Ask, little one,” he said.

“My father has bid me return to Snakavik, to stand at his side. He has offered me warriors, a warband. Everything that I wanted.”

Hrung’s head shifted, severed muscles in his neck contracting. A nod.

“This is known,” he said, “but that is no question.”

“My question is: Should I take his offer?”

Gytha appeared at the mead hall’s entrance, gesturing for Elvar to leave.

Hrung stared at Elvar, his opaque eyes swirling like storm clouds.

“I have to go,” Elvar said.

“Silent and thoughtful and bold in strife, the jarl’s bairn should be,” Hrung intoned.

Elvar frowned. “Silent, thoughtful, bold, I strive to be those things,” Elvar said. “But that does not answer my question. When to be bold, that is at the heart of my question. Are my father’s words strife? Is that what you are saying? Or, should I be bold in the battle for Vigrið and join my father as he moves against Queen Helka?”

Hrung was silent, only the clouds in his eyes moving.

Voices in the corridor.

“Please,” Elvar hissed. “Give me a straight answer, just once.”

Hrung’s mouth twisted in a grin. “That is not my way, little one,” he said. “Blame old Snaka, he made me and my giant-kin with a love for words and riddles. You must sift through my gift to you and find the gold in it.”

“A riddle, then, anything,” Elvar said, her eyes flickering between Hrung and the doorway.

“To answer your question, I will ask you another. Can the sun be cold, or the sea be dry, or the wolf become a lamb?”

Grend growled in his throat. “What use is a talking head, if it only ever spouts shite?”

Hrung’s eyes fixed on to Grend.

“Eyes are for seeing, ears for hearing, and a thought-cage for understanding. Unless your thought-cage is already stuffed full of straw, such as yours, Grend the Talker,” Hrung rumbled.

Grend’s eyes narrowed, his hand moving to the axe at his belt.

“What are you going to do, offended warrior, cut off my head?” Hrung laughed, the sound echoing, filling the hall.

Elvar laughed too as she tipped the rest of the mead on to Hrung’s tongue, then turned and ran, Grend following her. She flew through the doors, past Gytha and out into the sunset as the shadow of her father filled the corridor behind her.