Northern Wrath by Thilde Kold Holdt

Author:Thilde Kold Holdt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

Chapter Thirty-Two

HAD SIGISMUND NOT known to look for them, he never would have noticed Ash-hill’s ships. They were moored close to the trees on the bank, their colourful outer planks hidden with leafy branches and the masts had been lowered.

Sigismund counted as they approached. If all the ships were as large as his own, there were fourteen.

Fourteen ships. Nineteen, including the Storm and the other ships from the far north who sailed with Sigismund. Hundreds and hundreds of warriors had gathered to fight the southerners. They had gathered at the mouth of the great Albis river. They had come from all over the north, not to protect Jutland or to retaliate against the southerners, but to fight for their way of life. Should they fail, there would be no more true Norse warriors in Midgard.

The paint chipped off Ash-hill’s ships. They had not been cared for after the summer raids. The Storm’s summer journey too had been rough, and the dark pinewood hungered for tar. It would need repairs over winter, if there was anyone alive to sail it home.

Sigismund ordered his crew to moor on the starboard bank of the stream behind Ash-hill’s warships. The other ships from Frey’s-fiord and further north pulled in behind them.

While they secured their ships and unpacked, people gathered in the shade of the woods. Warriors who had half a hundred questions and as many compliments.

‘Sigismund,’ a familiar voice bellowed. Vigmer had gained new stripes of grey hair since they had last met. His grey eyes looked different from usual beneath the dark bushy eyebrows that he had not plucked since summer. His expression was grim, although he smiled. Everyone’s expressions were grim, Sigismund noticed, as he gained the starboard bank to greet the chief.

They embraced each other.

‘Is it true you worked on an Ulfberht blade up in Iceland?’ Vigmer asked as they parted from their embrace, never patient.

‘My teacher worked on one when I apprenticed with him.’ There could only be one reason for asking. ‘How did you get an Ulfberht blade?’

Named swords were rarely ever for sale. On the rare occasion when they were, the price was higher than a longhouse, and everyone with gold in the northern lands flocked to give an offer. With Jutland ravaged, there was no chance in the nine worlds that Einer’s father could afford such a sword. He had not even bleached the fresh strands of his beard.

‘I need a sword hilt,’ the chief said, without acknowledging Sigismund’s question.

Sigismund followed him away from the curious crowd of warriors.

They walked in silence through the woods and entered a muddy campsite. Sigismund hoped they would not need to stay there long. During the few weeks he had been back in Frey’s-fiord after the summer raids, he had already forgotten the discomfort of getting mud everywhere: trudging through, sleeping in it. The weather was not in their favour. This would feel like a long raid.

Vigmer disappeared into a tent and re-emerged with a brown cloth bundle.

Carefully Sigismund took it and flipped back the cloth to reveal the shining weapon hidden inside.

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