8. EIGHT #2
“Hervor, the man is part giant. He's lived ten times as long as you have.
He's probably killed more men than you've ever met in your whole life. He beat your uncles to death all by himself. Besides,” he says, “he honoured your kin—even though they were a bunch of niddings—and had the island folk build a great tomb for their bones.”
“Is this is supposed to appease me somehow? You think I should be glad he's dead, the way you're talking.”
“What do you want me to say? Your father was evil. I never wanted you to know his name! Hel and Loki! The way he treated your mother …”
He looks away as if ashamed.
“They were married,” he says, “briefly. Angantyr and his brothers came here a few weeks before the hjolmgang, expecting that as their jarl, I'd send them off with a great feast. I upheld this custom, of course, and after three days of drunken revelling I brought out my chests of treasure so they might each choose for themselves one trinket from my wealth.
Most of them chose a gold ring or a silver buckle for their belts—your Uncle Hjorvard took a fine dagger with which he said he'd cut out Hjalmar's liver—but your father had no interest in loot that night.
He said he wanted your mother for his wife.
“I was furious, but I knew the kind of trouble it would bring if I refused.
I looked over at Asger, and I saw in his eyes that he was thinking the same as me—swoop down on them quickly and cut them to pieces before the berserk frenzy takes them!
But before I could draw my sword, your mother stood up and said she'd marry Angantyr. We had the wedding the next day. But that night, instead of going into the bridal tent we had put up for them, Angantyr led your mother down to the quay and took her on his ship. I knew then the kind of night that she was in for.”
He shakes his head. “She's never spoken of it, and I doubt she ever will. It changed her, you know. She never used to have that hardness in her eyes. She's a brave, brave girl, your mother. We'll never know how many lives her actions saved.”
“What are you talking about? How could such a thing have saved anyone?” I'm trembling now, caught up in a hurricane of emotions.
“Well, you see, your other grandfather, Arngrim, had given your father his sword for the duel. Tyrfing it is called—a wicked thing, possessed by dark magic that thirsts for men’s blood.
No helm, nor shield, nor shirt of mail can guard against it.
It can never be dulled or broken. Anyone it cuts will be dead by nightfall, even if it’s the smallest scratch.
Worst of all, it cannot be unsheathed without taking a life.
Every time that blade is drawn, someone will die.
If we had set on them while your father had that thing in his possession they would have butchered us like pigs. ”
“Really? It didn’t seem to serve my father very well on Sams? Island.”
“No, Hervor, Tyrfing has never served anyone. If anything your father served it, as did his father and your great-grandfather before him. It is the curse of your line, and not a day goes by that I don’t thank the gods your father took it with him to the grave.”
He chuckles bitterly. “You don’t know how I rejoiced when I heard of his death. The fearsome Arngrimssons—all of them struck down in a single day! The gods had answered my prayers! And then I learned your mother was with child.
“I knew,” he says, “that if you grew up knowing about your father you would idolize him. So we kept it secret, all of H?logaland, and did everything in our power to keep you from taking after him. But his blood is strong in you, and our efforts were in vain.”
I know what he means by that, and there’s a long silence between us.
“I thought,” he says, “that perhaps it would good for you to know that truth … before—”
“Tell me my fate.”
He sets his jaw firmly and stands up from the bench.
“The crimes you have committed, are Nid.
The people are in an uproar. I have consulted the priests and shamans and the wise men from the neighbouring villages to come to a just and fair ruling.
The burden you have placed on me is truly great.
I am an old man, sick of bloodshed and harsh sentences.
You do not know how much I long to forgive your actions and grant you mercy. But there can be none.
“Hervor, you been found to be an outlaw. You shall remain imprisoned here until the Festival of the Midnight Sun, at which time you shall be led to the docks where you shall be chained to four ships and ripped to pieces in the fjord. Your death will serve as a sacrifice to the sun god, Sol.”
A cold tingle pricks my palms. I dig my fingernails into the bench as I start to shudder uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his face softening, “you know I wish that it were not this way.”
But I can barely hear him. My chest is tightening and I can’t quite catch my breath. I’m panting like I just ran some far distance. I’m going to be sick. Oh gods, I’m going to be sick!
I turn away and retch my guts all over the floor.
But at that moment, as vomit burns the back of my throat, my path is laid out clearly before me.
An image flashes in my mind, a vision where I descend into my father’s tomb to claim my inheritance.
I can see myself reaching out and taking hold of Tyrfing’s jewelled hilt.
There is no decision to make, only a succession of actions to carry out.
I lurch again and sweep my hand underneath the bench.
Then I sit up, wipe my mouth, and slouch back against the wall.
“This is what you’ve decided?” I huff, “to have me ripped apart by ships?”
My grandfather sighs helplessly and his eyes glisten in the torchlight. “I know it isn’t easy for you to see, but I have very little say in matters such as this. My hands are tied.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” I say. My voice is trembling almost as badly as my hands. “To think I always thought you loved me …”
“You know that I love you, I know you do! It’s just that …” his voice trails off and he turns away toward the wall. “Look,” he says, “no one wants for things to be the way they are, myself least of all. But the things you’ve done … I’m sorry, Hervor.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
The shackle clatters to the floor as I dart off the bench. He whirls around, dropping the torch to throw up his hands as I come at him with the nail. He cries out and it breaks my heart, but I’m glad he does because it means I don’t have to kill him.
The door crashes open and Asger bursts in with the others, blades drawn. But I’ve already got my grandfather turned around with the nail pressed under his throat.
“Not another step!”
They stop dead, and Asger cautiously holds out his hand. “Whoah, Hervor... Easy now. That’s your old grandfather you’ve got there.”
“And your jarl, Asger! Now give me your sword! Hilt first! With the belt! And the scabbard!”
“Don’t be stupid, Hervor,” my grandfather snarls.
“Shut up! You shut up! I’ll kill you! I mean it! I’ll kill him, Asger!”
“Alright, alright,” says Asger, “just let me—” He sheathes his blade and lifts the baldric strap over his head. He flings it to me across the floor with a loud clang.
It’s right at my feet. I’d like to make a go for it, but the way that Asger’s watching me I don’t dare.
“Give me your word of safe passage.”
Asger tries to hide a smirk. “Safe passage? Are you serious?”
“Asger!”
I push the nail more firmly up under my grandfather’s chin. He’s making terse, raspy breaths, and his warm blood is trickling down my hand along my wrist. “You swore your life to your jarl! If I kill him because of you, then you’re no better than I am! Asger!”
“Fine! Fine,” he says, “you can have safe passage!”
“For three days!”
“Loki’s children, I give you my word you’ll have safe passage for three days! Now let him—”
I shove my grandfather toward them and dive for Asger’s sword.
The other huskarls raise their blades defensively as I whip it from the sheath.
But Asger tells them to back down and they move away from the door to let me through.
Warily, I inch past them, shaking and sobbing, keeping them at bay with the sharpened tip of Asger’s sword.
My grandfather’s pressing a bloody hand against his neck.
He can’t even look at me as I back out into the cellar.
“Three days,” says Asger, “After that, we better not see you in H?logaland again.”
“Just let her go, Asger,” my grandfather says quietly.
Hating myself, I take one last look at my dear old grandfather. Then, without a word, I tear up the cellar stairs and put Ofotfjord behind me.