Fearful hours turn to tense days as weeks and months of waiting mount in a blur of dry throats and held breath, but aimless anxiety often bears little fruit. No foreign men come knocking at our door, no words of shame linger in our wake.
Worries settle as the seasons change. There is much work to be done, so able hands must be ready to see it through. Cloaks, mittens, and ear-covering hats disappear as winter''s bite heals and summer passes in through the door. A warm, sun-wrought embrace brings beads of sweat to working men''s brows as many soon wish for times of snow and cold.
The seeding season comes and passes in the blink of an eye as shoots of growing green rise in sprawling fields. With the coming harvest but a distant dream on the horizon, men rest their weary working bones as they turn to matters of more import: ordstirr.
Summer is the time of adventure. It is when one journeys from home to find fame and fortune in whatever shape it may come. Whether by skillful sword-work or clever haggling tongue, there is much glory to be won by those ambitious enough to seek it out.
Summer too is the time of social upheaval, as young men return home having made improvements on their strength of arm and store of ordstirr. They wield their newfound power to the collective benefit of family and allies alike, upsetting the current balance by advancing their standing. A new hierarchy must be found come the arrival of winter.
Until such time, however, the gains of the young are to be celebrated, for a chain is never stronger than the weakest link. The stronger each warrior is, the stronger their community grows as a whole.
And celebrate we do.
"Come, Stigmar!" Vidar Smash, Bear''s father, declares with a broad grin as he pounds his drinking mug against the table. Amber liquid splashes, the scent of spilled alcohol rising alongside a round of cheers. "Come, tell us the tale of your victory again!"
We—Dad, Eric, Asva, Salgrun, and I—are gathered in the home of Kerr Skippingstone, Sticks'' father, amidst a throng of faces to celebrate the success of a certain adventure. If I were to take a moment to count the present families, I''d probably come to about ten or eleven or so separate households all collected beneath one roof.
Stigmar Kersson, the younger of Sticks'' two older brothers, answers the cheering with an easy, confident smile that has many of the present young ladies batting their eyelids and tugging at their fathers'' sleeves. Standing up from the high seat—which Kerr had leant him as a show of respect—the barrel-chested young lad spreads his thick-wristed arms as he begins to recite the tale for the umpteenth time that night. "On a warm evening many weeks ago, when the planting had only just finished, the son of Gleb Moss, Snorri, approached me as I was examining the newborn lambs for any signs of deficiencies. Snorri spoke welcome words and I answered in kind. He said to me, ''Stigmar, you are good with animals and my father and I have need of your talents''. I asked him what need they had of me and he said, ''Stigmar, a wild wave-horse has broken into my father''s fields and feasts upon the growing oats. It refuses to leave and we need you to calm its madness and free us of its curse.''"
"A wave-horse?" One of the newer arrivals to the festivities asks with head tilted in interest. Hints of black color peek out from the roots of bleached-white hair as the man known to many as ''Rudolf Strong-Steed'' purses his lips, "I can see why that would be cause for alarm! Such beasts are impossible to lay hands upon, save for under the light of the full moon."
"Unless you know certain secrets," Stigmar replies with a gleam in his eye, "secrets known only to the Franks, a tribe my grandmother happens to belong to." Whistles rise as toasts are made to an elderly woman wrapped in cloth. Gray hairs tumble down a face permanently twisted in a sly smirk, her eyes just as sharp as any blade despite the advanced age wrinkling her skin, "Using the knowledge of her people, Alflent wove the moon into a canteen and, armed with this tool, I went to where the wave-horse ravaged the land."
"Wha'' did da horsie look like, Tigma?" The youthful voice of Stiga, Kerr''s youngest, asks with big ol'' eyes wide. She can''t quite speak right, not yet anyways, but she''s getting there. She''s sat on the ground by her mother''s feet, playing with a collection of dolls and carved figures.
"You already know what the horse looks like, little Stiga!" Stigmar laughs as Stiga pouts, the gathered crowd laughing alongside him, "but fine, fine, I''ll tell you what I saw as I approached the beast."
The lights dim by their own will as a hushed silence falls across the gathered masses. Stigmar leans in, face shadowed by the hearth-fire. His eyes glint as his fingers splay wide, conjuring specters in the shadow-filled hall. Ripples run across his flesh like water shining in the hearth-light.
"The wave-horse was like nothing I''d seen before. Sea-foam clung to its body like a mane, flowing in the wind as it galloped. Quicker than any ship and swifter than any storm, the earth rippled like water beneath its hooves as it tore up one end of the field and then the other. I could see straight through its body, for its skin was water and its bones were ice. Whenever it found itself facing an obstacle, it merely turned into so much liquid, flowing around whatever was in its path with a simple ease. Nothing could touch it, not man, monster, or myth." Stigmar takes a deep breath as he locks eyes with each and every guest, "and it was my job to stop it."
"I knew I would never be able to get close, not with how fast it was and how deftly it avoided the traps set by Gleb and his family," Stigmar says with a nod towards where Gleb sits slightly away from a corner—a spot that is quite prestigious to one of his status.
The households with the highest status here are Dad''s, Vidar''s, and Kerr''s, for they not only own land but also have the means to hire other families to work said land if they so choose. Of the Karl class, men like my Dad, being prosperous landowners, are at the highest rung of society. Thus, they and their family''s ordstirr gains are significant indeed for ordstirr growth is enhanced by one''s standing.
"So, I devised a plan," Stigmar says with a smile, "No beast as proud as the horse would ever refuse a challenge, so that''s exactly what I would do. One morning, after discussing the plan with my hosts, I climbed the fence and made my approach. The wave-horse eyed me as I bowed, but stayed near with my display of respect. I told it I thought it a coward, for it ran away at the slightest sign of contest." Many men in the audience voice their agreement with Stigmar, saying that any man who fled was no friend of theirs, "This angered the beast and it prepared to strike me down, except I had my secret weapon ready."
"The beast struck, but I was prepared. Tossing the canteen''s contents, the moon-water mixed with the wave-horse''s flesh and allowed me to drive my sword, Goatbite, through its chest!" Stigmar roars as he leaps on the spot, waving his hand above his head as if he were holding his sword then and there, "The beast took off but I held on tight! In one motion, I split the beast from chest to hip and spilled its guts across the ground as it continued to sprint all across the land!"
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Cheers erupt as Stigmar nears the end of his tale, but he holds his hands for silence, "With my foe now felled, I tore free its beating heart and brought it to my lips, feasting on its life-blood and taking its might for my own!"
At once, Stigmar''s hair turns to sea-foam as his flesh gains a watery glow. He stands there, smiling, with bones of ice and skin of the sea. Men toss empty bowls and barren cups, but all simply splash through his body without the slightest bit of harm.
Cheers erupt once more as the festivities resume in full swing. I sit off in a corner, a spot quite shameful for one of my status but a place I feel is fitting for right now.
I really should be out there, partying with my friends and family, but... My fingers twist tight around the wine cup in my hand, its aroma tickling my nose with its sweet succor.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the dark thoughts by burying myself in a study of those nearby.
Most of the other households present are of lesser standing, largely being those who lack the means to own land and so work the fields of those who do. Salgrun counts among the lowest of these fellows, being an unmarried shepherd, though Dad is likely to promote him to farmhand in the coming weeks should he prove himself worthy of such responsibility. Should that happen, Salgrun will be counted amongst the likes of Borri and Brandr Kettilsson or Tormod Bransson and his son, Bran Tormodsson—the Kettilssons are in the employ of Kerr as farmhands but while Tomord is a farmhand in Vidar''s employ, Bran is only a shepherd.
Though such men are of low standing, they still possess the right to eat and drink at festivities without challenge, for they serve the house-master or his allies. Men like Gleb Moss, who own land but remain unprosperous, must provide some measure of reason—often in the form of valuables and such—why they should be allowed to attend such celebrations. This is to prevent unknown enemies from having an easy time of entering one''s home.
Such festivities are opportunities to forge alliances and make deals unhindered by one''s enemies as might be the case at the yearly Thing. A scandal earlier this year involving Snorri Glebsson''s bride-to-be and a roguish trader''s son left Gleb Moss lacking much in the way of allies—the last anyone saw of Kjellaug Njordsdottir she was on the trader''s ship, embraced by the roguish son, while her father shook hands with the trader—and so he''s probably now seeking out new friends to go and extract vengeance alongside.
It''s what I would do in Gleb''s position, after all; make new friends and go after either Njord for breaking the deal or the trader''s son who ran off with the bride, probably both, actually. Well, if I were Gleb I wouldn''t even wait to make allies, I''d just go off after them the moment I heard about what happened. I''m a strong, proud warr–
...No, no, no I need to stop thinking like that. I have to, I just have to. Otherwise I''ll lose my sense again and get Dad and the others in trouble.
I look towards the hearth-fire, its light seeming almost sad to my eyes.
Or, maybe I''m seeing myself in its glow?
“Hail you all, hale this day,
And to Halla and friends.”
A voice cuts through my thoughts, drawing all eyes to its master. An old man of advanced age stands in the middle of the room, having made his way there from the shadows. One single eye gleams from beneath a large, wide-brimmed hat as he lifts his arms high.
“Their deeds done, their fathers
The words they wove I speak.”
With that, the skald begins his tale, reciting a poem most familiar to my ears; a poem concocted by Dad, Vidar, and Kerr.
Outside a gaunt outlaw,
Out to earth from the hearth.
Stick spear in shear shin clean,
Stigandr’s strike spikes leg.
About to try flee bout,
Abjorn’s shield makes chest yield.
Alive is an affront,
A few chops and that stops.
The skald finishes the poem and lowers his arms as the ordstirr reserve of Sticks and Bear more than doubles. They smile amidst the cheers and applause of the gathered crowd, eyes gleaming with pride as their chests swell.
I stare from my shadow-wreathed corner, a frown on my face as a meager trickle of ordstirr adds itself to my supply, the gains of being closely associated with Bear and Sticks. It should be me up there, I should be with Bear and Sticks, and yet...
Nobody saw the truth, so nobody knows.
The skald spins slowly on his heel, invisible amidst the applause as his sole gleaming eye falls on mine.
I blink, realization striking like a lightning bolt as I jerk upright. Someone did see the truth! Someone who listens to ravens, someone who governs from on high, someone who wields mysteries a foolish few might consider feminine.
All-Father Odin, divine progenitor of the Volsungs; he saw my deeds, he knows my glory. Whether by raven wings or by witnessing it with his own eyes, the truth is known to him.
The skald nods, stepping back into the shadows, and I grit my teeth in a fierce smile.
All men are descended from the Gods. All those who are born speaking the Law-tongue can trace their lineage all the way back to the Gods, if they are willing to accept they may be descended from Thrall rather than Karl or Jarl.
We Volsungs have no such fear, for we are directly descended from the highest of the Gods. Odin fathered the first of us, Volsungr, from whom came many, many generations of Kings, Jarls, and Heroes each grander than the last. Divine blood runs through our veins; blood that refuses to kneel, to yield to such petty things as fate.
I climb to my feet, my motions unnoticed by all in attendance—all save the Skald.
I will grow strong and I will have my name in that poem. Even if the time is not yet right, my goal is set and the path is known.
My eyes settle on the crackling hearth-fire merrily burning away in the middle of the room. I stare unblinking yet unbothered by the flames, for I have never known the pain of fire''s kiss.
We of the dragon-slayer''s lineage, that illustrious line of Kings and Heroes, know well that fire is our ally. It calls to us, welcomes us to its embrace. Never would it char our flesh, for our heart beats with the strength of dragons—with the strength of Fafnir, wyrm of fire.
If I am to carve my name into the heavens, I will need more than I have at my side. I need the strength of fire, for my heart knows it like the back of my own hand.
And yet, how can one claim to wield flames without knowing it in all ways?
I walk forward, my hair flowing behind me like a Kingly cloak. A dark red waterfall gathers about my body as my strides carry me to the hearth-pit. Dad''s gaze falls on me, his lips parting as his eyes widen, but it''s too late.
I grip the cobblestone edge of the hearth, the fire flickering before me, and bury my head in the flames.