Book 7: Chapter 35: A raven’s farewell
People stared at their entry, which was understandable. Martel imagined everyone had heard about the foolhardy group venturing north to fight a wyrm; in a small city like this, such news would spread fast, and everyone would know the jarl’s sister and the only berserker in the tribe on sight. She walked in front, causing a stir with her half-burnt appearance in contrast to the wide smile on what remained of her face. She had stuck the wyrm tooth in her belt like a naked dagger and slung her great axe across her uninjured shoulder as she sauntered into Svartheim.
As the crowd began to gather around them, Halfrid’s mood only seemed to become further exuberant, while Rolf looked more and more morose. It was practically a procession by the time they reached the mead hall, though the narrow entrance forced them to enter one by one. Inside, their appearance caused the same commotion as outside. Halfrid raised the wyrm fang in her hand up high for everyone to see, and the warriors inside shouted and stomped their feet against the floor or their cups against the table.
Sitting in his chair, the jarl was silent and showed no emotions. At length, when the clamour had receded, he finally stood up. Silently, he removed the raven coronet from his head and placed it on the ground before he disappeared out the back door. With a triumphant smile, Halfrid picked up the circlet and crowned herself before she took a seat in the jarl’s chair. Around her, the warriors renewed their sounds of approval.
“I feel like there’s something we’ve not been told,” Martel mumbled.
Eleanor clenched her jaw. “Indeed.”
The evening meal began early that day, and given the exuberant mood, it quickly became a feast. Mead and ale flowed without limits, and in between drinking, the different warriors approached Halfrid in her seat, one by one, to declare fealty. Placed further back in the room, Martel and Eleanor turned to Rolf. “What exactly is going on?” the battlemage asked.
“I should have known the motives behind Halfrid’s insistence to slaying the wyrm,” the skáld mumbled. “It did not occur to me until the moment when she claimed the fangs as trophy.”
“But what exactly has taken place? Why did her brother abandon his seat for her?” Eleanor wondered.
“It is not our custom to choose those with magic as our rulers,” Rolf explained. “There are different reasons for this, but regardless, when their father died, Halmund was chosen to succeed him rather than his sister. That never sat well with her, and she finally figured out how to undo this.” “By killing the monster?”
“A deed like that cannot be overlooked. She would challenge Halmund at the next thing, I’m sure, claiming herself more worthy to be jarl. He decided to spare himself the confrontation,” Rolf considered.
“I don’t like it, but I suppose it’s got nothing to do with us. At least this will make it easier for her to fulfil her promise,” Martel muttered. “All the same, I best remind her, in case all the celebrating has made her forget.”
“Choose your words carefully,” Eleanor cautioned him.
Nodding to her quickly, Martel pushed his way forward through the hall until he stood before Halfrid on her little throne.
“The firemage. I trust you enjoy the feast?”
“I make no complaints about the hospitality of this hall. Your hall,” Martel added. “I only seek to remind you of our agreement. In return for our aid, every slave must be set free.”
An expression ran across the berserker’s face. “I said it would be done, upon my honour. Tomorrow, the rings around their necks shall be broken.”
Martel inclined his head. “I appreciate it.”
But before he could step away, she spoke again. “Asterian. I suggest you and your companion hurry to find passage on the next available ship out of Svartheim. It is time you return to your own kind.”
Martel locked eyes with her, realising they had effectively been banished. He was not certain what would cause such a strong reaction; it seemed unnecessary, especially given the service they had rendered Halfrid, and he could think of no insults toward her that warranted being thrown out. On the other hand, they had no intention or desire to stay, so he did not truly care. “We’ll be on our way as soon as we can.” He turned around on his heel and went back to the others.
Two days later, a ship stood ready to depart for Aquila, filled with furs, the oil and ivory of a whale, and various trinkets that might sell. By the docks, only Rolf stood to bid the Asterians farewell. The slaves, freed thanks to Martel, had for the most part simply dispersed upon receiving their freedom, though a few had expressed their gratitude toward him beforehand, if also their bewilderment at his actions. Martel was indifferent; he had not done it because he wanted praise or cared what they did afterward. He had simply wanted to correct what felt wrong to him.
“My friends, our time together has been short in days, yet long in memories,” Rolf declared. “When next we meet, I shall sing the songs of your deeds.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you for your company and showing us your home,” Eleanor told him.
“It’s certainly been a trip to remember,” Martel confessed. They both embraced the skáld before walking down the pier. A small vessel with a wide bottom full of cargo lay swaying in the water, with a handful of Tyrians tying everything down and preparing for departure.
A handful of coins were exchanged with the captain, who smiled and gestured for them to step aboard. They found room for themselves in between a stack of furs and a barrel of oil. Shortly after, the moorings were undone, the sailors pushed the vessel free from the pier, and with the help of oars, they pushed out of the harbour. The sail became unfurled and was quickly filled by the wind, with an initial helping from Martel, to help them on their journey. As the cliffs on either side watched their progress, the small vessel sailed out of the fjord, destined for the old Imperial city of Aquila.