Chapter Seven #3
“Ready your witchfire,” Baedi murmured to Sif, as they both watched the increasing number of Skraelings filling the opposite side of the town square.
Both of them were so absorbed in their quiet crossing and keeping a wary eye on the enemy across the square that they did not see the other danger until it was too late.
The single Skraeling that had spotted them and was quietly lying in wait rose up like an angry bear, his heavy axe raised high above his head.
The warrior let loose a feral, awful howl, and presented such an image of sudden horror that both Baedi and Sif recoiled and lost their footing on the wet stones of the town square.
Terrified, Sif tried frantically to propel herself backwards, but she could find no purchase on the slippery cobblestones. She tried to concentrate her thoughts to cast witchfire, but the awful spectacle of the howling warrior standing above her drove all coherent thought from her head.
“No, no, no!” cried Sif, and sudden thought unwound calmly in her mind. So this is how you’re going to die? How foolish. What a waste.
The Skraeling’s arms were raised, the axe ready to fall.
Then, the frenzied light in the warrior’s eyes faded, to be replaced by a look of sudden confusion as the man’s legs folded beneath him and he collapsed, axe clattering onto the street.
Behind the fallen Skraeling stood Hakon, pulling his bloody sword from the warrior’s back.
“Come on,” said the man Sif loved most in the world, “we’ve got to get out of here.” He pulled her up then did the same for Baedi.
“I thought I was dead,” said Sif, and as that realization came crashing over her, she sobbed.
Hakon gave her a swift kiss. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he said fiercely.
Then his gaze shifted to the other side of the square, and he said, “If either of you have any power left, now would be a good time to use it!”
Sif and Baedi turned to look at the Skraelings who had gathered and were beginning to charge across the square.
The young witch’s terror and despair was replaced by rage.
“Scum,” she hissed between her teeth. Sif flung her arms towards her enemies, and green crackling witchfire shot from her fingertips, doubling and redoubling upon itself until it resembled a massive net of green fire.
When it struck the assembled Skraelings, the effect was immediate and dramatic. The mob howled in pain, and despite the downpour, the square was filled with the stink of burning flesh.
“Time to move,” said Hakon and turned both witches around and set them running. He trailed behind the pair, with frequent looks backwards, until they were finally through the East Gate and out of the city.
***
Thorulf’s farm, the site of the treacherous ambush by Jarl Birger’s soldiers, was a beehive of activity.
In the distance, thick columns of smoke rose from the city of Visby, joining the clouds of the overcast sky.
Sif’s sorcerous downpour had finally broken, and the Skraelings had set to burning once more.
Those who had been able to flee the city had gathered on the acres of Thorulf’s farmland.
The farm was far enough away from the city to afford some sense of safety but close enough that even injured and infirm refugees had been able to reach it.
Sif, Hakon, and Baedi had only just arrived when a young witch found them and escorted them to the center of the camp where Gunhilde and Sigrid sat.
Although both Elder Sisters had seen many winters, Sif had never seen them as old until now.
Their faces showed their exhaustion, and Gunhilde in particular looked as though she had aged a decade in a single day.
Nevertheless, the Elder Sister managed a smile as the trio joined them in their tent.
“Well met,” said Gunhilde warmly. “Come by the fire and let those clothes dry. You have done great things this day and done well to emerge unscathed. Such a mighty rainstorm! And thank you, young warrior, for seeing them safely back here.”
“Are we safe?” asked Hakon bluntly. “Here, I mean. How much time will the Skraelings spend sacking the city before they turn their gaze towards us?”
Sif wanted to remonstrate with her man for taking such a tone with one of the Elder Sisters, but the truth was that Hakon was right.
Besides, for all that her love for Hakon had never faltered, she was not sure where she stood with him.
He had ordered her to stay by his side, and she had refused. What consequences would she face?
“Well, young man, you come to the heart of the matter,” said Gunhilde.
“And it is here that we have a problem. At Visby, we achieved a partial success that could be deadlier than failure. We had no chance to save the city itself, but we have saved many lives. Now those lives—the refugees of Visby—are our responsibility.”
“Surely not!” exclaimed Sif in protest. “They didn’t want us—they tried to kill us. And still we risked our lives to save them! What possible obligation could we have to these people?”
“I understand your bitterness,” said Gunhilde, “and there are some gathered in the camp who were party to the treacherous attack upon us. But there are also many innocents who have raised no hand against us. Who would we be if we turned our backs on them now?”
Any response was forestalled by the arrival of another witch, who poked her head through the tent flap.
“Lady Gunhilde,” she said, “Jarl Birger demands to speak with you.” Sigrid drew in her breath sharply, and Sif bristled, but Gunhilde simply closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “He may enter,” she said.
The young witch swallowed, and said, “Lady, he demands that you attend him at his tent.”
Sigrid’s eyes widened, and she was about to speak, when Gunhilde raised her hand.
“Thank you, Frida,” she said calmly. “Please convey to the Jarl that we will be doing no such thing. Inform him that unless he arrives at this tent within ten minutes—and with a considerably improved attitude—the Sisters of the Ironwood will depart and leave him to whatever tender mercies the Skraelings may have to offer.”
The young witch nodded and rushed away.
“Five minutes with him, Lady Gunhilde,” said Hakon. “That’s all I would need to improve his attitude.”
Gunhilde smiled and replied, “Thank you, young man. I appreciate your offer and the spirit in which it was made. However, the day I cannot cut a man like Birger down to size is the day I join Lady Freyja’s hall in the afterlife.”
It was significantly less than ten minutes later when Jarl Birger entered the tent. He folded his arms and said, “All right, you’ve made your point. We’d all be dead in a ditch were it not for you and your ladies. The question is, what happens now?”
Gunhilde invited the Jarl to sit by the fire in the center of the large tent. She watched the smoke curl upwards and pass through clever openings in the cloth then turned to regard the ruler of Visby. “What are your thoughts on the matter?” she asked.
“I’ll take my people north,” he said. “We’ll go to the fishing villages on the northern tip of Gotland, and take boats across to the isle of Faro. We’ll wait the cursed Skraelings out there. What more can they want of us? They have the city.”
“What do the Skraelings want?” mused Gunhilde.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? What brought them down from the north?
They’ve sacked Sigtuna, and now Visby. No one has seen anything like it for more than a generation.
” Gunhilde waited, drawing out the silence, but if Jarl Birger knew anything about it, he kept his own counsel.
“But enough of that,” Gunhilde continued, mildly irritated.
“So you and your people will go north. A reasonable plan. What would you have us do?”
“Go east,” said the Jarl promptly. “Back to the Ironwood. You can do nothing further for us.”
Sif did her best to swallow her anger. The arrogance of the man! She and her Sisters had risked life and limb on behalf of the city. Their only thanks had been suspicion, betrayal, and death. It was too much.
“How dare you,” said Sif, seething. She rose to her feet. “How dare you! You lie to us, you cut my Sisters down in the night, and still we come to the aid of your people. My Sisters have given all. You have the gall to turn us away without so much as a word of thanks? You miserable old stoat!”
“Who do you think you are, girl? You—” began the Jarl, before he stopped abruptly. Hakon had loosened his sword in its sheath with a quiet but audible snick. Jarl Birger turned in appeal to Gunhilde, who regarded the city’s ruler with a raised eyebrow.
“She’s not wrong, you know,” observed Gunhilde. “Her name is Sif, by the way. She’s the one who summoned the rainstorm. You know, the one that quelled the fires and bought your people the time to flee.”
The Jarl stood. “And yet the city burns now. I will not sit here and be insulted. Go home, witches. Nobody wants your help. My people head north within the hour. Do not think to join us.” He swept out of the tent.
“You know, I don’t think that man likes us,” said Sigrid dryly.
“You could be right, Sister. And who put ginger up your bottom, young witch?” Gunhilde asked, turning to Sif.
Sif blushed and looked down, but Gunhilde put a hand on her arm.
“I do but tease,” said the Elder witch. “It was well said, and the right time to say it. In truth, the ungrateful old wretch has done us a favor. He’s taken a great deal of hungry mouths and wounded bodies off our hands.
Clearly the refugees are no longer our concern. We will simply take care of our own.”
Hakon cleared his throat, and Gunhilde smiled. “Yes, young man. Ignetha and her family count as part of our numbers. We will not abandon them.”
“So what is our plan?” asked Hakon.
Whatever Gunhilde was about to say was interrupted by a noise at the entrance to the tent. The broad face of Eirik, the Jarl’s councilor, poked into the tent. His expression was a portrait of unhappiness.
“Has the Jarl forgotten something?” Gunhilde asked dryly. “Has he drawn up his accounts and found that we owe him?”
Eirik flushed and turned his gaze downwards. “I am not here on behalf of the Jarl. I speak only for myself.”
“Then speak, young man,” replied Gunhilde. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
The big man appeared in his body language to be trying to make himself smaller.
He frowned. “I was wrong, and my Jarl was wrong,” he began.
“You and your Sisters have done great deeds and received poor thanks. Worse than that, you were attacked, and by my hand.” Eirik went down to one knee.
“My lord has been wrong in his treatment of you, more than once and more than twice. I can no longer serve Jarl Birger. My life is yours. Take it if you wish, or let me live and I will serve you.”
Hakon glanced at Gunhilde and raised an eyebrow; the old witch shook her head and stood, walking over to the former councilor and placing a hand softly on his head.
“I have no wish or need for your death, Eirik Norvikson. You may have been a fool, but you were a fool serving a foolish man. There is still room here to do the right thing. Up you get, big fellow.” Eirik rose to his feet, keeping his head bowed before the Elder Sister.
“We will need aid, and quickly,” said Gunhilde. “Jomsburg must learn of what is happening here in Gotland. You strike me as a resourceful man, Eirik; the kind of man who has his own emergency route planned at all times. Perhaps a quick boat in a hidden cove not far from here?”
Eirik nodded.
“Good fellow,” said Gunhilde. “Take that boat and sail for the Jomsburg as if the very trolls of the sea were behind you. Tell the Jomsvikings that we need their aid, and that if they fail to answer, they may find Gotland to be a charred waste upon their next sailing.”
The councilor’s face was a picture of resolution. “I shall do this thing,” he said stoutly.
“You had better, Eirik Norvikson,” replied Gunhilde, “our lives are in your hands.”
The man nodded once more and left the tent.
Hakon couldn’t restrain himself. “By the gods, you put a great deal of trust in a man who has given us no reason to grant him any.”
The old witch cocked an eyebrow. “Are not the Witches of the Ironwood able to look deeply into the hearts of men? Besides, I hope you realize that will not be the only attempt I make to contact the Jomsburg. I sent a message bird when we arrived at the gates of Visby and plan to make use of your woman’s remarkable spellsinging talents to attempt a third approach. ”
“My woman,” echoed Hakon then paused. “We need to talk about that.”
Sif swallowed, tried to lift her eyes to meet his gaze but found that she could not.
Gunhilde’s expression was carefully neutral. “Indeed. The two of you need to talk. Tell me the results of the discussion when you are done, at least insofar as they relate to the Ironwood and its Sisters.”
Hakon nodded and stood. “Sif, walk with me,” he said and left the tent. Without a word, Sif followed him.