Geirmund's Saga Page 7

  “We have no ship,” Geirmund said. “Guthrum is our only way to England.”

  “Then we can’t let the Danes sail without us.”

  “Will any of the men you gathered still join us?”

  “As you said, we have no ship. And word will have spread that the king wants the warriors of Rogaland close at hand.”

  “Then we are alone.”

  Steinólfur said nothing for a few moments. “Any idea what Bragi wants with you?”

  “None,” Geirmund said. “He mentioned that he wanted to give me something.”

  “Bragi is strange,” Skjalgi said.

  Steinólfur chuckled. “He’s a skald. Strange is to be expected.”

  Two rests from Avaldsnes they came to the ridge where burial mounds of past kings rose above the water, visible to any ships travelling the fairway. A distant fire flickered at the base of Half’s grave, and the three halted at the sight of it. Then Geirmund broke from his companions and continued onward until he reached the light, where he found Bragi seated on the ground, wrapped in bear fur near a lit brazier. The skald had set up a hnefatafl board, with its pieces of coloured stones and bone, on a flat rock in front of him, and he motioned for Geirmund to join him on the other side.

  “I regret I don’t have time for a game,” Geirmund said.

  “Then I will defeat you quickly,” the skald said. “Sit.”

  Geirmund sighed and dismounted. When he sat down, he found the grass cold and already wet with dew. “Which side will you play?” he asked.

  “You shall be the king.” Bragi winked.

  “You’re thinking of my brother.” Geirmund took the first move, an opening feint to make Bragi believe he intended for his king to escape to one of the bottom corners, when he aimed his true strategy towards the upper right.

  “I did not say you would be king at Avaldsnes.” Bragi made his first countermove, but it was tentative, and Geirmund couldn’t tell whether the skald had taken the bait. “Perhaps you will be a king of Saxons,” Bragi said.

  Geirmund looked up from the board. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “No one. I went to my bed after you and I spoke last night. But you are going with Guthrum, are you not?”

  Geirmund made his second move, then his third, and with each of Bragi’s turns, the skald placed his warriors as if he knew Geirmund’s true, hidden strategy. As the game progressed, and it became clear that Geirmund would lose, he wondered about something he had wanted to ask since he was a boy, and he realized he was unlikely to have another opportunity.

  “Are you a seer, Bragi?”

  The skald’s eyes seemed to flicker with the flames in the brazier. “The gods and the Three Spinners do not speak with me, if that is what you mean. I have simply lived long enough to read the weather.”

  “And long enough to read the hnefatafl board.”

  “I promised you a short game.” Bragi moved a warrior into position, suddenly trapping Geirmund’s king on two sides. “If I am reading the weather correctly, your father refused Guthrum because of his fear of Harald.”

  As angry as Geirmund was with his father, he did not like hearing the truth that the king was afraid, especially from a skald who would tell stories, and in frustration he made a reckless, aggressive move.

  “I mean no offence or dishonour to your father,” Bragi said. “Hjörr is right to fear Harald, and he is not alone in that. It is what he does with that fear that will determine the fate of Rogaland.” The skald then moved a warrior and closed off a third escape route for Geirmund’s king. “But I do not think the fate of Avaldsnes is your fate. You are leaving with the Dane?”

  Geirmund moved one of his warriors to clear a path for his king’s retreat. “I am.”

  “I anticipated that, which is why I summoned you here.” Bragi paused before taking his next turn and twisted to look up at the burial mound. A thin mist had risen around it, and a raven cawed somewhere nearby. “What does your father say when he speaks of his father?”

  “Very little,” Geirmund said.

  Bragi nodded slowly. “That does not surprise me. Your father has even forbidden me from telling the story of Half inside the hall that Half built.” He inhaled the cool air deeply through his nose. “But right now, we are not inside the hall.”

  “Tell me,” Geirmund said.

  So Bragi continued. “Half was younger than you are now when he first took to the whale roads. The tales say he chose his crew only from the men who were strong enough to lift the millstone from a large quern, and that he and his warriors had their swords shortened so they would have to get closer to their enemies. When their ship rode too low in a storm, each of Half’s warriors fought for the honour of throwing himself overboard to save the others.”

  “Is that true?”

  Bragi smiled. “It is true that Half and his men were very brave.” From within the bear fur Bragi produced a knife in a leather sheath. “It is also said that Half and his warriors killed no women or children on their raids, and if a warrior wanted to bring back a woman for himself, your grandfather made the warrior marry that woman and bestow generous gifts upon her.”

  Bragi pulled the knife from its sheath, and Geirmund was surprised to see it had a thin bronze blade. Other than that, it was a common knife with a wooden grip and a simple copper heel.

  “Half raided for eighteen summers, gaining much silver and a fearsome reputation. During that time, his stepfather, Åsmund, ruled Rogaland in his place. When Half returned to reclaim his seat, Åsmund welcomed him with a warm embrace and held a feast in honour of Half and his heroes. They ate and they drank late into the night, singing songs and telling tales. Then, while Half and his men slept, Åsmund barred the doors to the hall from the outside and set it afire.”

  “What? His stepfather–”

  “Yes, Åsmund murdered your grandfather. Only two warriors survived that bloody night, a man called Utstein, and another called Rok the Black. They gathered an army and slayed Åsmund, avenging their fallen king, and they took back Avaldsnes for young Hjörr, the son of Half.”

  Geirmund had long known that a great betrayal had led to his grandfather’s death, but he had never heard the details of what happened, and he had never dared ask his father. It was a story with the power to alter how a man sees himself and is seen by others, and that may have been the very reason the king had never shared it. Geirmund wished his father had talked more openly about it, but it was too late for that now.

  Bragi slid the blade back into its sheath and offered Geirmund the knife. “This is my gift to you.”

  “Oh.” Geirmund accepted it but struggled to hide his confusion. “I’m… grateful.”

  “You are not,” Bragi said.

  Geirmund looked down at the board, where the skald’s warriors had surrounded his king on three sides, and he knew he could not lie to the old man. He doubted anyone could. “It’s a good knife,” he said.

  “And yet you think it is a common gift.”

  “I do.”

  “Because it is common. It isn’t made of steel. I’ve had it for many years, and I’ve sharpened it countless times. I used it to cut my meat last night. I give it to you now because it is common.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As you leave your father’s hall, and leave you must, take with you the memory of your grandfather. Though I did not know him, there are still some in Rogaland who remember him, and they see much of him in you.” Bragi reached across the hnefatafl board and laid a hand on Geirmund’s arm. “Before you enter any door, it should be looked around and spied out, to know for certain where enemies are sitting in the hall ahead. A common knife is worthless against an axe or sword on the battlefield, but it becomes the most lethal of weapons when wielded from the shadows or, worse, by someone close whom you should not have trusted.”

  Geirm
und tightened his grip on the knife’s handle, beginning to understand. “I am grateful, Bragi.”

  The skald released his arm and looked down at the game. “It is my turn.”

  “It is, but I think the victory is plainly yours.”

  “I haven’t won yet,” the skald said. “But I will end the game here and leave your king with one path open. That allows him to go out and meet his fate, while possibly preventing a blood feud. I would rather consider no man my enemy.”

  Geirmund nodded, and just then the first rays of sunlight reached over the horizon to crown the crest of Half’s burial mound in gold. Steinólfur would be fretting, wondering what was taking so long, and Geirmund still had one more visit to make before boarding Guthrum’s ship.

  He stood and tied the skald’s knife to his belt. “I have often wondered what my life would have been if you hadn’t come to my father’s hall.”

  Bragi shrugged. “The Norns will not be denied. But I am proud of my part in your story.”

  “It saddens me that our paths will likely not cross again.”

  “They will not.” The skald stood slowly under the weight of the bear fur. “I will also leave Rogaland, very soon.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Bragi looked eastward. “It feels as if the World Tree is shaking, Geirmund. The wars we now fight are not just between Northmen and Danes and Saxons, but between gods. I would return to my people and my land at Uppsala.”

  “May the gods protect you as you travel,” Geirmund said.

  “I offer the same prayer for you.”

  He gave the old man another nod and went to his horse.

  “One more piece of advice,” Bragi said.

  Geirmund climbed into the saddle. “I welcome it.”

  “Watch out for sea men. Half’s father, Hjörrleif, once caught a sea man in his net, and the creature gave a prophecy that later saved the king’s life.”

  Geirmund had questions but no time. “Farewell, Bragi Boddason.”

  A few moments later, Geirmund rejoined Steinólfur and Skjalgi, and the three of them set a brisk pace south towards Avaldsnes. The sun had almost fully risen before they reached the town, and Geirmund could see distant movement on the wharf around Guthrum’s ship.

  Steinólfur leaned in his saddle towards Geirmund and lowered his voice. “Do you still plan to go to her?”

  Geirmund nodded. “Ride ahead and tell Guthrum I am coming.”

  The older warrior opened his mouth as if to object, but nodded.

  “Tell him I will be there soon,” Geirmund said.

  “See that you are.” Steinólfur then spoke to Skjalgi. “Come on, boy.”

  They kicked their horses into a trot down the road, and a few fathoms on Geirmund took a path that led west towards a small grove at the base of a grassy hill. When he reached the treeline, he dismounted and walked his horse inward along the track, feeling his stomach tighten with each step. He worried it might be too early in the morning for such a visit, but the smell of woodsmoke reassured him that someone had awakened to rouse the hearth.

  The building that soon came into view was a humble house set into the hill behind it, with a steep peaked roof covered in soft turf. Geirmund led his horse to the empty stable that extended from the south side of the house, and as he tied its reins to a post, Ágáða came outside carrying a sack of feed for her chickens. She jumped in fright and dropped the sack at the sight of him, then held a hand to her chest with a sigh and a smile.

  “Geirmund, you awful boy,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He kept his voice low to match hers. “Is Loðhatt–”

  “He’s sleeping.” She walked over to him, tossing her long, thin braid of yellow hair over her shoulder. “Best we don’t wake him.”

  Geirmund hadn’t visited this place since the previous summer, before the fateful hunt with Hámund, and he felt as much unrest over his absence as he felt when he thought about seeing her. She wore the same apron-dress she had worn the last time he was here, its red now faded almost to brown, but the silver brooch he had given her gleamed, free of any tarnish. The wrinkles around her storm-colored eyes seemed deeper.

  She took one of his hands firmly in hers and led him away from the house. “Are you well? I heard you were injured.”

  “I was,” he said.

  “I made an offering to Óðinn, asking for you to be healed.”

  “I was healed.”

  “Then I will make another offering of thanks.” She smiled and let go of his hand. “What brings you here this morning?”

  Geirmund felt awkward, as he always did in her presence, unsure of his words, and even his reasons for coming. He knew only that it had to be done. “I’m leaving Avaldsnes, Ágáða.”

  “Oh?” The muscles in her slender throat tightened. “Where are you going?”

  “To fight the Saxons,” he said.

  “You–” She swallowed. “You will be gone for some time, then.”

  “I will. I am here to say goodbye.”

  She nodded and clutched herself tightly. “You honour me.”

  “No, Ágáða.” Geirmund stepped closer to her. “The honour is mine.”

  Tears wet her eyes. “Is Hámund going with you?”

  “No.” He didn’t know when she had last seen or heard from his brother, but it had to be a silence of years, and he didn’t have the time or the desire to burden her with the full truth, so he simply said, “He will remain here, with King Hjörr.”

  “And with his mother,” she added.

  Geirmund hesitated. “Yes, and the queen.”

  “As it should be.” She shook her head, blinking away her tears. “When do you leave?”

  “Today,” he said. “This morning.”

  “So soon?”

  “It was only decided last night.” That was another matter he didn’t want to explain, so instead he pointed towards the stable. “I’d like you to have my horse.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened. “Geirmund, I can’t accept–”

  “You can. His name is Garmr, but despite that he is even-tempered. If you don’t have a use for him, you can sell him. And here.” He pulled a small bag full of silver pieces from his belt and pressed it into her hands. “Take this.”

  She looked down, then shook her head, trying to push the bag away. “Geirmund, I don’t want–”

  “Take it,” he said. “Please, take it. I wish I could do more for you. You deserve so much more, for what my mother did to you.”

  “She didn’t do it to–” Ágáða pulled away, leaving the silver in Geirmund’s hands, and smoothed her apron-dress. “That was all settled long ago. The queen made it right.”

  But there were some injustices and some injuries that no weight of silver or gold could heal, no matter the price the Althing gave them. “Then accept these as gifts,” he said. “This silver and Garmr are not to make things right. They are to honour and show my gratitude to my first mother.”

  “Geirmund!” She glanced around as if to make sure they could not be overheard. “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “I am saying just what I came to say.” Though Geirmund had only now realized it. “You did not have to treat us as your sons, Ágáða.” He gestured towards the house. “Loðhatt saw us as dogs, and I don’t blame him. But you did your best for us, and I stand here as I am because of it.”

  She bowed her head and was silent for several moments, as if measuring her words. “The pride I feel when I see you is the same as a mother’s pride in her child.”

  Geirmund felt his own tears rising, and he realized that he had not gone there only to speak, but to hear. “I will continue to make you proud,” he said.

  “I know you will.”

  He tried again to place the bag of silver in h
er hands, and this time she accepted it.

  “May the gods watch over you,” she said.

  “And you, Ágáða.”

  Geirmund turned away and returned along the forest track, waiting until the house was far behind before he broke into a run. The effort was intended to speed him towards Guthrum’s ship, but the pounding of his boots and his heart also helped to beat back the waves of grief and pain that threatened to swamp him, and the wind dried his eyes. The harder and faster he ran, the greater the distance he placed between himself and everything that had come before. All that mattered now was what lay ahead.

  He reached the wharf and found Guthrum’s ship still moored, but nearly ready to set sail. Steinólfur and Skjalgi had sent their horses back to the stables and were standing on the dock nearby, waiting for Geirmund, laden with heavy packs containing all their gear. Steinólfur held a familiar sword.

  Geirmund’s boots drummed the wooden planks as he approached them. He looked at the sword in the older warrior’s grasp. “Was Hámund here?” he asked.

  “He was,” Steinólfur said. “He asked me to give you this.”

  Geirmund accepted the sword without much surprise, assuming Hámund had given it to him out of shame over his betrayal, the same shame that had compelled him to leave the weapon with Steinólfur rather than waiting to give it to Geirmund himself. “Did he say anything?” Geirmund asked.

  “No,” Steinólfur said. “He must have forgotten. But if I might speak for him, I think he meant to say that he knows you’ll feed it better than he ever will.”

  If Hámund had waited and offered it in person, Geirmund might have refused the weapon, because no gift would ever erase his brother’s betrayal. But since Hámund had left the sword behind, Geirmund could hardly abandon it on the wharf. He had envied the weapon since the day his father had given it to Hámund.

  “It’s a king’s blade,” Steinólfur said.

  “It is a fine weapon,” Skjalgi said.

  Geirmund looked down at the boy. “I think it’s time you had a sword to call your own.” He unbuckled his own weapon, a plain blade of good steel, and presented it to Skjalgi. “This is not a king’s blade, but it has served me well, and it will serve you well, if you let Steinólfur show you how to care for it.”