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I have done some minor work to this excerpt which I posted many moons ago. I am still not overly happy with it and would appreciate any helpful comments.
TROMSFJORD, 1080V.P.
The winters arrived quickly in the north, something that Sitric had forgotten during his long sojourn in Janter. Sharp winds bringing freezing rains, swept down from the high mountains to the east, driving folk indoors to gather about their fires. Ensconced in the warm confines of the King’s great hall at Tromsfjord, Sitric sat close to the roaring fire at the centre of the hall and observed the goings on about him. Two shaggy hounds had flopped down by his feet and were gnawing at bones thrown to them from the dinner table. The feasting was over and now the serious business of drinking was about to begin. Helgi’s thanes and carles were all bedecked in their finest clothing and wore their long hair unbraided. Voices were raised in loud ribaldry as the men quaffed horn after horn of mead. Sitric knew that as the night wore on and as the revellers became increasingly more drunk, words that were now spoken in jest, would then be perceived as insult and tempers would flare.
He swished the slops of mead around in his gilded horn and wondered where the serving girls had gone. More than likely being tumbled by some young buck, Sitric thought ruefully, remembering his own youth and the times he had spent carousing with Kali Swegnsson in this very hall. Kali, whose bones now bleached the ground on some high fell in Kelstrom. The warrior looked to the high dais and the figure of King Helgi, who sat there holding court with his jarls and favourites. He should be up there trying to ingratiate himself in to Helgi’s inner circle. But plans made in Nanter were not so easy to put in place here in Tromsfjord. A month had passed since he had arrived and he had done nothing but kick his heels around the hall. His men had dispersed back to their homes across Kalnordia and all that was left to him were a few crewmen of his own ship and Creswaldyr. Clever, but impetuous Creswaldyr. It shamed Sitric that he was tricking such a man, but such where the whims of the gods and kings.
Friends and confidants had being hard to win when so few were willing to talk to him until his standing with Helgi was made clear. And that was the rub, Helgi just ignored him, although he wanted for nothing and was treated with a cold courtesy by the servants of the court. One of the dogs began to lick at Sitric’s boots and he looked down with a strained smile. Well at least they had taking a liking to him, he thought. A loud raucous cheer rang out from one of the tables drawing the attention of Sitric. A group of men were gathered about a struggling pair of warriors.
Both men had each other locked in a bear hug and they cursed as they strained against each other. It was Creswaldyr again, aiming to prove his superiority over the warriors of the court. In general he came off quiet well in these contests earning some coin on wagered bets and gaining a reputation as a man of strength. Sitric shook his head and turned his attention back to the dais. The jarls on either side of the King were men of some repute in Kalnordia and had all approached Sitric at some stage over the previous days seeking to employ him. He had turned them down.
Helgi might ignore him, but Sitric had made it known through idle talk that he wanted to serve him. So the days passed and Sitric sat in the hall accepting the hospitality extended to him by Helgi on their first meeting as was his right under the guest laws of the Kalnordians. But he could not shake the feeling that all knew of the real reason for his presence in Tromsfjord. Olvir, the captain of Helgi’s carles, had made his suspicions known to him one day as Sitric exercised in the weapons yard. The tall, scarred warrior had walked up to Sitric fully clothed for battle. His shield was slung over his shoulder and he wore the knee length mail shirt favoured by the men of the north.
“ ‘Blood-Axe’ I will fight you now and end this pretence. I will allow no harm to come to the King,” Olvir had said.
Sitric had admired the man at that moment. There was something refreshing about a warrior who did not dissemble or begin his challenge with insults or boasts. It had seared Sitric's heart to lie to such a man.
“Helgi has nothing to fear from me or you, so there is no need for us to fight.”
Olvir had stared intently at Sitric for a long moment. He had stood there in silence for so long that Sitric had feared that Olvir would persist with his challenge. But in the end the warrior had simply walked away leaving Sitric to think about his parting words.
“I do not trust you, ‘Blood-Axe’ and I will be watching you closely.”
The noise in the hall grew as the mead flowed. The wooden pillars of the hall shook with the din. From above, the carved faces of the gods which decorated the crossbeams of the roof, seemed to look down with disapproval at the revelry. Sitric stood up and decided to seek the cold fresh air of the night. In truth he was at a loss as to what to do. He could not imagine himself cooped up in this place for the whole winter with nothing to do. As to how he would get closer to Helgi he did not know. The King would not speak to him, his warriors wanted to kill him and the townsfolk of Tromsfjord were afraid to converse with him for fear of drawing the displeasure of Helgi upon them. Creswaldyr and the dozen men of his crew were the only people he could speak to and even they were now striking up new friendships.
Sitric began to walk through the throng with the hounds faithfully following him. A man detached himself from one of the tables and joined Sitric.
“Going for a piss?” he asked.
“Fresh air. This place is stifling,” Sitric replied not looking at the man who just grunted at Sitric’s reply.
“There is no need for you to join me Svalbard,” he said.
“Need a piss,” Svalbard replied, his craggy, wind battered face set in a permanent scowl.
Sitric sighed knowing from long experience that if Svalbard wanted to join him then nothing he could say or do would dissuade him. Svalbard of Herlungian was one of the few men who had remained at Sitric’s side since they had arrived at Tromsfjord. He had a reputation as a hard headed and quarrelsome man, but during all the years he had served in the King’s Men, he had carried out Sitric’s orders diligently. The two men exited the hall out in to the dense blackness of the freezing night. Sitric drew his fur lined cloak up about his face. Rain fell steadily, but the men were protected by the wooden canopy that stretched from the halls roof. The wind howled about them and they retreated closer to the walls for better protection.
“Well Svalbard? Are you going to tell me what you have being up to? I have not seen you these past few days,” Sitric began the conversation.
“Fishing,” Svalbard replied as he pissed against the wall, exclaiming in relief as the pressure on his bladder was released. “And the fishes have some interesting tales to tell,” he continued.
“Strange creatures fish. Especially ones that can talk. What tales do they speak of?” Sitric asked.
Svalbard looked out in to the darkness and shivered. He had forgotten how desolate the north was.
“There is trouble in the northern provinces. It seems that the Jarls of Herlungia and Rikkarken do not hold with the rule of Helgi. There has been fighting along the borders of those lands for the last number of months,” Svalbard said with obvious pride in his voice. He hailed from Herlungia and that land, though sparsely populated, bred hardy folk. It was also the area that Swegn’s forebears had originated from.
“I have heard nothing of this,” Sitric said.
“Nothing unusual there. Helgi according to the what I hear has made it known that you are not to hear of any dissent to his rule. There is also a rumour that you are here to rouse the people against him.” Here Svalbard stopped and looked at Sitric searchingly.
“Is that true Captain. Are we here to kill Helgi?” Svalbard asked.
“You were there, Svalbard. You witnessed the fight with Einvarr. Was that a ruse?” Sitric said.
Svalbard remembered the duel, the savagery of Einvarr and the hatred in his words when he had spoken to Sitric. Then he remembered the ease with which Sitric had slain Kofi Kofisson and wondered…
“I am here because I was dismissed from court in disgrace. All that is left to me is to gain a place in Helgi’s warband,” Sitric said.
It was spoken with heart for Sitric did feel bereft. Ever since he had heard of Swegn’s death and that of his first and true sword-brother, Kali Swegnsson, had he not wished to slay the fiend that ended Sitric’s long remembered and loved memories of the north. But in that guise, he was the ‘Blood-Axe’, the man Swegn had sent south to win a kingdom for Ranald. Now he must appear as a bitter exile returned home to seek shelter with this Helgi. Yes, Sitric would have preferred to fight Olvir and revel in his own ancestry, but blood-oaths now conspired against him.
“Sval’ you have fought with me these many years. Have I ever played you false?” The question was carefully laid. It spoke of a score of years of court politics.
Looking at the man who would always be his ‘Captain’, Svalbard sighed.
“The fishes are never wrong, Shield-Breaker’,” he said, giving Sitric an even older name and a more feared one.
“What memories you talk of, but the ‘Shield-Breaker’ is dead.” Sitric’s voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke. No one had called him by that name in over thirty years.
“I was there when the shields were broken. It is not a memory that dies easily,” Svalbard replied, his voice catching with an audible choke.
Even you, old companion, thought Sitric, know, but it is still good to talk of yesteryear. Of times when we could speak openly to each other without fear. A streak of lightening sundered the night sky above them drawing the men’s eyes as more thunder rumbled in the distance.The Winters of the North spoke their own doom.
TROMSFJORD, 1080V.P.
The winters arrived quickly in the north, something that Sitric had forgotten during his long sojourn in Janter. Sharp winds bringing freezing rains, swept down from the high mountains to the east, driving folk indoors to gather about their fires. Ensconced in the warm confines of the King’s great hall at Tromsfjord, Sitric sat close to the roaring fire at the centre of the hall and observed the goings on about him. Two shaggy hounds had flopped down by his feet and were gnawing at bones thrown to them from the dinner table. The feasting was over and now the serious business of drinking was about to begin. Helgi’s thanes and carles were all bedecked in their finest clothing and wore their long hair unbraided. Voices were raised in loud ribaldry as the men quaffed horn after horn of mead. Sitric knew that as the night wore on and as the revellers became increasingly more drunk, words that were now spoken in jest, would then be perceived as insult and tempers would flare.
He swished the slops of mead around in his gilded horn and wondered where the serving girls had gone. More than likely being tumbled by some young buck, Sitric thought ruefully, remembering his own youth and the times he had spent carousing with Kali Swegnsson in this very hall. Kali, whose bones now bleached the ground on some high fell in Kelstrom. The warrior looked to the high dais and the figure of King Helgi, who sat there holding court with his jarls and favourites. He should be up there trying to ingratiate himself in to Helgi’s inner circle. But plans made in Nanter were not so easy to put in place here in Tromsfjord. A month had passed since he had arrived and he had done nothing but kick his heels around the hall. His men had dispersed back to their homes across Kalnordia and all that was left to him were a few crewmen of his own ship and Creswaldyr. Clever, but impetuous Creswaldyr. It shamed Sitric that he was tricking such a man, but such where the whims of the gods and kings.
Friends and confidants had being hard to win when so few were willing to talk to him until his standing with Helgi was made clear. And that was the rub, Helgi just ignored him, although he wanted for nothing and was treated with a cold courtesy by the servants of the court. One of the dogs began to lick at Sitric’s boots and he looked down with a strained smile. Well at least they had taking a liking to him, he thought. A loud raucous cheer rang out from one of the tables drawing the attention of Sitric. A group of men were gathered about a struggling pair of warriors.
Both men had each other locked in a bear hug and they cursed as they strained against each other. It was Creswaldyr again, aiming to prove his superiority over the warriors of the court. In general he came off quiet well in these contests earning some coin on wagered bets and gaining a reputation as a man of strength. Sitric shook his head and turned his attention back to the dais. The jarls on either side of the King were men of some repute in Kalnordia and had all approached Sitric at some stage over the previous days seeking to employ him. He had turned them down.
Helgi might ignore him, but Sitric had made it known through idle talk that he wanted to serve him. So the days passed and Sitric sat in the hall accepting the hospitality extended to him by Helgi on their first meeting as was his right under the guest laws of the Kalnordians. But he could not shake the feeling that all knew of the real reason for his presence in Tromsfjord. Olvir, the captain of Helgi’s carles, had made his suspicions known to him one day as Sitric exercised in the weapons yard. The tall, scarred warrior had walked up to Sitric fully clothed for battle. His shield was slung over his shoulder and he wore the knee length mail shirt favoured by the men of the north.
“ ‘Blood-Axe’ I will fight you now and end this pretence. I will allow no harm to come to the King,” Olvir had said.
Sitric had admired the man at that moment. There was something refreshing about a warrior who did not dissemble or begin his challenge with insults or boasts. It had seared Sitric's heart to lie to such a man.
“Helgi has nothing to fear from me or you, so there is no need for us to fight.”
Olvir had stared intently at Sitric for a long moment. He had stood there in silence for so long that Sitric had feared that Olvir would persist with his challenge. But in the end the warrior had simply walked away leaving Sitric to think about his parting words.
“I do not trust you, ‘Blood-Axe’ and I will be watching you closely.”
The noise in the hall grew as the mead flowed. The wooden pillars of the hall shook with the din. From above, the carved faces of the gods which decorated the crossbeams of the roof, seemed to look down with disapproval at the revelry. Sitric stood up and decided to seek the cold fresh air of the night. In truth he was at a loss as to what to do. He could not imagine himself cooped up in this place for the whole winter with nothing to do. As to how he would get closer to Helgi he did not know. The King would not speak to him, his warriors wanted to kill him and the townsfolk of Tromsfjord were afraid to converse with him for fear of drawing the displeasure of Helgi upon them. Creswaldyr and the dozen men of his crew were the only people he could speak to and even they were now striking up new friendships.
Sitric began to walk through the throng with the hounds faithfully following him. A man detached himself from one of the tables and joined Sitric.
“Going for a piss?” he asked.
“Fresh air. This place is stifling,” Sitric replied not looking at the man who just grunted at Sitric’s reply.
“There is no need for you to join me Svalbard,” he said.
“Need a piss,” Svalbard replied, his craggy, wind battered face set in a permanent scowl.
Sitric sighed knowing from long experience that if Svalbard wanted to join him then nothing he could say or do would dissuade him. Svalbard of Herlungian was one of the few men who had remained at Sitric’s side since they had arrived at Tromsfjord. He had a reputation as a hard headed and quarrelsome man, but during all the years he had served in the King’s Men, he had carried out Sitric’s orders diligently. The two men exited the hall out in to the dense blackness of the freezing night. Sitric drew his fur lined cloak up about his face. Rain fell steadily, but the men were protected by the wooden canopy that stretched from the halls roof. The wind howled about them and they retreated closer to the walls for better protection.
“Well Svalbard? Are you going to tell me what you have being up to? I have not seen you these past few days,” Sitric began the conversation.
“Fishing,” Svalbard replied as he pissed against the wall, exclaiming in relief as the pressure on his bladder was released. “And the fishes have some interesting tales to tell,” he continued.
“Strange creatures fish. Especially ones that can talk. What tales do they speak of?” Sitric asked.
Svalbard looked out in to the darkness and shivered. He had forgotten how desolate the north was.
“There is trouble in the northern provinces. It seems that the Jarls of Herlungia and Rikkarken do not hold with the rule of Helgi. There has been fighting along the borders of those lands for the last number of months,” Svalbard said with obvious pride in his voice. He hailed from Herlungia and that land, though sparsely populated, bred hardy folk. It was also the area that Swegn’s forebears had originated from.
“I have heard nothing of this,” Sitric said.
“Nothing unusual there. Helgi according to the what I hear has made it known that you are not to hear of any dissent to his rule. There is also a rumour that you are here to rouse the people against him.” Here Svalbard stopped and looked at Sitric searchingly.
“Is that true Captain. Are we here to kill Helgi?” Svalbard asked.
“You were there, Svalbard. You witnessed the fight with Einvarr. Was that a ruse?” Sitric said.
Svalbard remembered the duel, the savagery of Einvarr and the hatred in his words when he had spoken to Sitric. Then he remembered the ease with which Sitric had slain Kofi Kofisson and wondered…
“I am here because I was dismissed from court in disgrace. All that is left to me is to gain a place in Helgi’s warband,” Sitric said.
It was spoken with heart for Sitric did feel bereft. Ever since he had heard of Swegn’s death and that of his first and true sword-brother, Kali Swegnsson, had he not wished to slay the fiend that ended Sitric’s long remembered and loved memories of the north. But in that guise, he was the ‘Blood-Axe’, the man Swegn had sent south to win a kingdom for Ranald. Now he must appear as a bitter exile returned home to seek shelter with this Helgi. Yes, Sitric would have preferred to fight Olvir and revel in his own ancestry, but blood-oaths now conspired against him.
“Sval’ you have fought with me these many years. Have I ever played you false?” The question was carefully laid. It spoke of a score of years of court politics.
Looking at the man who would always be his ‘Captain’, Svalbard sighed.
“The fishes are never wrong, Shield-Breaker’,” he said, giving Sitric an even older name and a more feared one.
“What memories you talk of, but the ‘Shield-Breaker’ is dead.” Sitric’s voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke. No one had called him by that name in over thirty years.
“I was there when the shields were broken. It is not a memory that dies easily,” Svalbard replied, his voice catching with an audible choke.
Even you, old companion, thought Sitric, know, but it is still good to talk of yesteryear. Of times when we could speak openly to each other without fear. A streak of lightening sundered the night sky above them drawing the men’s eyes as more thunder rumbled in the distance.The Winters of the North spoke their own doom.
