DEBTS (Vinlanders' Saga Book 3) (4 page)

Aren Birgirsson stood to one side of the practice yard, waiting for Lord Fendrikanin to finish his lesson with the Jarl’s wife, Lady Celia. He’d been summoned here because it had been he who had found the man stealing the silver from the lower halls and selling it to traveling merchants in the village. He’d hoped his success where others had failed would bring him to Lord Fendrikanin’s notice. All he had to do now was convince the young lord to take him into the Jarl’s service. Simple, once he actually had the man’s attention.

“Celia, you’re still dropping your guard!” Lord Fendrikanin threw up his hands in disgust.

“You try guarding this much territory!” the woman shot back, indicating her gravid belly with the foot long blade of her wooden practice dagger.

“You’re leaving openings for attack as big as a whale, woman,” her trainer rejoined while repositioning her stance.

“I’m not your woman.”

“Thank Baldur for that!” Lord Fendrikanin smiled, taking the sting from his words. Aren watched as the man assumed a stance opposite her again. Without warning he attacked her, shouting, “Bitch! Whore!”

The ugly words and abrupt action jolted Aren into taking a step forward to protect her, but just as quickly he recognized the training tactic for what it was, an effort to shake the Lady’s focus. She didn’t waver in her defense, however. As pregnant as she was, she took a quick gliding step back, holding her knife at the ready and presenting her right side to her foe. “To me! To me!” she shouted as her maneuver forced her attacker to take another step to maintain his advance. She continued retreating as Lord Fendrikanin pursued her around the training yard.

Other men standing around the perimeter watched and commented to each other, but none bellowed the encouragement or insults they would have shouted to one of their fellows.

“Enough.” Lord Fendrikanin held up his hands. “Well done, Celia. You have mastered the most effective knife fighting technique I can teach you.”

“Run away and shout for help.” The lady panted with effort but still managed a wry grin. “Between my lack of skill and my girth I suppose that
is
my best strategy.”

“If you don’t like my training philosophy, Lord Dahleven would be more than happy if you’d stick to practicing the bow.”

“After six years of lessons, and being well into my third pregnancy, I probably ought to agree, but enemies tend not to stay at sufficient range to be archery targets, Fender. As you know all too well.”

What enemies would a Jarl’s wife encounter in the nursery?

Aren had been in Quartzholm long enough to hear songs of Lady Celia’s exploits, but he’d assumed they were exaggerations as all such tales were. If Lady Celia was training to defend her babies, perhaps the city was more dangerous than he’d thought. Had he erred in bringing his mother and daughter here? From what he’d seen, Quartzholm was an orderly place under Lord Dahleven’s rule. No longer the seat of the Kon—that was now Dalrik, the home of Lord Magnus—Quartzholm was frequented by Light Elves and Tewakwe. Even so, the city was prosperous.

Lord Fendrikanin tossed a towel to the lady, wiping his face with another. “Then I’d recommend you let a guard run point for you, my lady, for carrying a babe or not, the knife is not your weapon.”

Lady Celia stuck her tongue out at her trainer. “It would be a fairer fight if you had a twenty pound sack of grain strapped to your waist.”

The lord merely laughed. “Your enemies won’t do so.”

The Lady shrugged acknowledgment of his point.

“You did well today, but I don’t want to see you on the training field again until at least two months after you’re safely delivered.”

The tales were accurate on this at least; Lady Celia was not a conventional lady.

“As much as I’d like to, I can’t disagree.” Lady Celia tossed Lord Fendrikanin her towel and stretched, her hands in the small of her back. “I’m getting tired faster than I did with the first two.”

“You didn’t have a little lord and lady to keep up with then,” Lord Fender said.

“True enough.” Celia laughed. “I’m off. First a bath, then a nap,” she said as she left them.

Lord Fendrikanin drank a ladleful from the water bucket as the other men resumed their training. When he’d slaked his thirst he joined Aren in the corner of the practice yard. “You’re Aren Birgirsson, the man who Tracked the fools filching the silver.”

“Yes, my lord. Though they were not fools, or they would not have evaded the men you first sent after them.”

“Indeed? And how is it that you found them when the others failed?”

Suddenly Aren saw the danger he was in. Did this lord suspect him of being complicit in the thefts and of turning on his fellow thieves? “My Talent for Tracking is not quite the same as others’. Where most use Talented observation, I feel where my quarry has gone. I
know
their path. I cannot explain it better than that.”

The young lord nodded. “And what reward would you ask?”

“I want to serve Lord Dahleven, my lord.”

“You left your home to serve the Jarl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you brought your mother and daughter, as well.”

“You are well informed, my lord.” Aren cringed inwardly.
How much else does he know?

The corner of the other man’s mouth curled up as if he’d heard Aren’s concern. “It’s my honor to serve Lord Dahleven. I take that duty very seriously.”

Aren bowed his head. He understood what Lord Fendrikanin had left unsaid. “Then you know my father was an Oathbreaker,” he said quietly.

“I do.” Lord Fendrikanin’s tone was grave. “I know he swore loyalty to Lord Fellig, and then failed to answer a summons when called to arms. I do not know why.”

Aren lifted his head to meet the other man’s measuring gaze. “What does it matter? He failed in his duty. I will not. My mother and I have lived on the far edge of respectability since my father’s shame. My daughter was born into it. I have provided as well as I could for them by hunting and selling furs. I’m good at what I do, and they want for nothing, nothing but the honor my sire stole from us.

“My mother is ill and my daughter is on the cusp of womanhood. They need their family honor restored. I ask only that you give me the opportunity to prove myself a better man than my father. Allow me to serve the Jarl.”

The young lord was silent, while Aren held himself still, waiting.

“You reach high.”

Aren’s heart stuttered. He’d aimed high because he needed to overcome much. Had he wasted his chance?

“Will you serve me,” Lord Fendrikanin continued, “and through me, the Jarl?”

Aren released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I will.”

“Then I will accept your oath.”Lord Fendrikanin drew his sword and presented the hilt to Aren.

Aren gripped the pommel and met the lord’s gaze steadily and said, “I am Aren, grandson of Lars, known as Swiftfoot. I have come from Tracking cunning thieves and I will do yet greater deeds if you will accept my oath of fealty. I will fight for you, and not flee one foot from the battle. And when no battle causes the war horn to blow, yet will I remember my lord’s generosity and offer service where I may. May Baldur witness my oath, and if I fail, may every man’s hand turn against me and this sword pierce my disloyal heart.”

The scuffle and grunts of effort had ceased around them. Lord Fendrikanin nodded, and spoke into the now silent yard. “I accept your oath. In return you shall be accorded all respect due one in my service. I will protect your family, provide weapons, shelter, sustenance and opportunity for you to prove your worth and earn glory for your family name. May Freyr and Freya witness my words, and Baldur hold me faithful and hallow this vow.”

Relief leapt within Aren’s breast. He knew he could prove himself, given a chance. His daughter would be able to marry well.

Lord Fendrikanin sheathed his sword. “With one caveat.”

Aren held his breath. What condition would the lord put on his boon?

“In all dealings except the most formal, you will henceforth call me Lord Fender.”

Aren grinned. “Aye, my lord. Lord Fender it is.”

Chapter Four

With a task put before her, Benoia seemed to grow stronger. She gathered a change of clothes for each of them into a carry sack while Annikke packed food and filled the waterskins. She also filled a sack with products of her stillroom: rare herbs folded in cloth and several jars of ointments. Perhaps, wherever they ended up, they would again be able to use their skills, or at least they could sell their wares in the marketplace to gain a stake for a new beginning.

By the time they were ready, with packs, blankets, and oilskins, the rain had paused, but twilight had come in truth. Annikke hesitated just outside her door, looking at the herb garden she’d nurtured for many years, listening to the soft dripping of moisture from the eaves. The forest and its shadows loomed like a forbidding wall at the edge of the yard. The Elves had taken her from there, changing her life forever. She hadn’t ventured into the forest at night since she was twelve summers old.

Memories of bright colors, Fey laughter, and song teased, but Annikke pushed them away. She couldn’t think of that. Not now. The Elves were cold, as was their beauty. And even though the villagers had shown her little warmth, desiring something so
other
was wrong. It only led to heartache. Humans and Elves were not meant to mingle. Her parents and the villagers had taught her that. And so for years she’d shunned the places the Elves traveled, including the forest.

The forest where they must now venture.

“We could wait until sunrise,” Benoia suggested.

Annikke shook her head. “Tholvar won’t wait. We mustn’t either.” She made herself step off the porch. “What may await us in the woods is less a danger than what will find us if we remain here.” Annikke wished she felt as confident as her words implied. She took a step toward the trees, and then another, while her heart pounded.

Benoia followed.

At the edge of the forest Annikke paused again, her heart speeding. When she’d been a girl, she’d played in the shoulders of these woods, sometimes dipping into the green shrouded depths much further than her parents would have wished. She’d never felt afraid then, and she’d never gotten lost. The trees had felt like benevolent aunties, watching over her and never chiding her for forgotten chores. Now with darkness falling and the sky threatening further rain, all she could imagine were threats lurking in every shadow. Benoia touched her arm, looking up into her eyes with concern.

Annikke swallowed the tight knot in her throat. Her fear didn’t matter. She couldn’t let her foster-daughter be taken. She sucked a breath deep into her lungs and blew it out, then stepped into the trackless woods.

Shadow enveloped them as they slipped beneath the canopy. Pine needles and leaf mold quieted their steps. All that could be heard were insects and birds calling out their goodnight songs to each other. It wasn’t long before the light was nearly gone and they had to stop. There was little undergrowth to hide them among the pines, but there were a few stands of oak. Annikke chose a spot on the far side of a thicket for them to bed down. Annikke spoke softly to the nurseling trees, stroking their slender trunks. By morning the little ones would have shifted, obscuring their path. If they were pursued, she hoped it would be enough to conceal them.

They spread an oilcloth on the ground before sitting to eat a bite of bread and cheese. Neither of them had much appetite, and soon they wrapped themselves in their blankets and the second oilskin. Annikke drew Benoia close, needing the feel of her daughter’s warmth. The girl held her just as tightly, and soon Annikke felt tremors racking Benoia’s delicate frame as the girl wept.

She’d been so brave. Benoia had defended herself, and she’d understood immediately that they needed to flee. She hadn’t complained once about leaving all they knew behind.

“I’m so proud of you,” Annikke murmured. “I thank the gods every day that they brought you to me. I could not ask for a better daughter.”

Benoia’s breath caught on a quiet sob. “But I’ve cost you everything.”

“Hush. You’ve cost me nothing. All that’s important to me is here in my arms.”

Benoia’s arms tightened around Annikke as she wept anew.

All Annikke could do was rub slow circles on her daughter’s back until the girl fell into an exhausted slumber, her head pillowed on Annikke’s shoulder.

*

Near dawn it rained again. This rainfall was gentle, as if the earlier storm had exhausted the clouds. They pulled the oilcloth over their heads and it kept them mostly dry. Annikke was glad she’d used pine wax to waterproof the canvas, its clean odor was much more pleasant in close quarters than the alternatives, and the smell blended with that of the trees.

The drizzle had tapered off when Annikke heard voices coming from the direction of her cottage. Men’s voices, too far away for her to make out their words, but the tone was disgruntled. A kernel of satisfaction flowered in her breast. The men had probably thought to catch them easily, taking them by surprise in their beds.