The Jarl's Son, Chapter 1-2

The Road to Halvfjord, Part 2

---

---

The long walk was uneventful, save for a long-eared springjack that briefly stole Varro’s attention. The animal, with its tan fur brindled with streaks of black and white, was about the size of a dog and looked like a skinny hare with great, black ears that were half the length of its body. It must’ve heard and smelled their approach as they passed through the meadow and back into Ostock Forest, because as soon as they passed near the squat bush it was hiding in, the large-footed creature leapt from its hiding place and engaged in a panicked, springing sprint away from them. That its choice to flee is what drew the attention of Varro, who was doubtless the one among them that it most feared, was a bitter irony for the large hare. However, it managed to make its escape into a burrow at the foot of a large maple tree, much to its good fortune and Varro’s disappointment.

Halvfjord came into view about an hour later. As expected, they laid eyes on the city just a little before midday. Its main entrance still stood about half a league away from the edge of Ostock Forest, so they had about thirty minutes of walking still to do, but it was good to have their goal in sight. Palisade walls surrounded the eastern and southern borders of the city. They were tall, sharply pointed, and mostly consisted of tall logs of pale birch and slightly more golden alder. A gate stood near the center of the eastern wall, manned by guards wearing domed helmets of dull steel and cloaks of drab green with a stripe of pale yellow down the middle. These colors were matched by old cloth banners that hung on either side of the gate. Even from so far away, Gaiur could tell that their edges were frayed and their bottoms tattered. However, each of them still showed the symbol of a pike’s head pierced by a bone hook painted in crisp, bright white; the symbol of Halvfjord’s founding trade and now of the Jarldom itself. 

“The sigils show clear while the banners fray and rip,” Gaiur muttered to herself. “This Jarl has strange priorities.”

She resumed her approach, Varro still at her side. Unbidden, Hunin took flight from his perch on her shoulder. The ends of his pale pinions clapped together with each beat of his wings until he drew high enough to glide upon them, and he drifted out toward the city. This wasn’t unusual for him. Shortly before Gaiur was saddled with her supposed destiny, Hunin’s master, an old seer named Hedda, had been killed. When she departed from the old woman’s village, she soon noticed that Hunin had followed her. It was Gaiur’s first lesson in the nature of the bone white raven’s comings and goings. That he traveled with her was a decision entirely his own, and no amount of shooing, swatting, or even the couple of rocks she tried to throw at him after he imposed himself into her life, managed to deter him. Over time she grew used to his presence and came to accept his wandering whims. Then she learned that if she willed it, she could still see through his eyes, just as she had with Hedda’s aid. At that point she saw little reason not to accept him, particularly since he’d significantly eased his annoying habit of crowing at each and every little thing. He even started to build something of a friendship with Varro, and she caught the two playing together on many occasions, usually fetch or stick chase.

He soon disappeared from sight, his white body blending into the pale gray overcast that lingered above the fjord. Now she was left to approach Halvfjord with Varro alone, a firm reminder of the complication he posed. The remaining half league to the city gates was mostly open field. There were a few trees and boulders dotting the hills and clifftops, while some of the surrounding land had been used to farm fields of grain. Most were filled with tall stalks of yellow-green barley and flowering buckwheat, but a few golden plots of summer wheat still needed to be harvested. Yet the wheat fields appeared to be oddly empty of laborers. There were numerous gaps among those plots where the grain had already been reaped, but a good number of them appeared to be entirely untouched. Summer had already drawn late, with autumn as little as two to three weeks away, so why was no one working the harvest?

The strangeness continued from there. As she neared the eastern road that led to the main gate, Gaiur noticed that a small crowd of people were gathered in front of it. The barley fields had blocked them from view before and they were a little too far off for her to see clearly just who they might be. Initially she thought them to be some of the laborers. However, as she drew closer she was better able to see the state of distress many of them were in. Dirty and disheveled, their clothes were often split or torn and frequently stained with splatters of brown mud. Those in the front, at least those few she could see, pounded against the gate as the crowd gave a many voiced cry to a man looking down at them from his perch near the top of the palisade wall. Gaiur couldn’t tell if he was one of the guards or not. He wore the same green and yellow cloak they did, but no helmet.

The crowd quickly grew more restless. She couldn’t hear what he’d told them, but it clearly wasn’t what they’d wanted to hear. She decided this would probably be a good time to stop her approach and either find someplace for Varro to keep out of sight, or find another entrance into the city all together. If she was spotted traveling with the large wolf, chances were good that she’d cause a panic. But even if she approached without him, the mix of a rowdy crowd and the guards they set on edge invited a lot of risk for a woman traveling alone, even armed as she was with her black bladed axe. Such numbers could easily see her overwhelmed if tensions escalated, and she had no desire to start hewing her way through frightened people when her goal was simply entrance into the city itself.

Yet this unusual situation did leave her to wonder about the cause. Why were these people pounding on the gates of Halvfjord? More importantly, why were they apparently being denied entrance? After all, if it turned out these people were the local laborers as she suspected them to be, then she imagined that wouldn’t bode well for her chances at getting through the gate. She decided that it would behoove her to draw a little closer after all, that she might be able to listen in. So, leading Varro to the nearby buckwheat fields, she instructed him to wait for her out of sight. Those fields wouldn’t be ready for harvest for a few weeks, so chances were good that even the elk sized wolf would be able to remain hidden there until she returned. He whined in protest when she first tried to leave, but leaving her gloves with him, something that carried the scent of them both, was enough to keep him relatively calm.

The crowd had started shouting, but it was difficult for Gaiur to pick out what about over the din. The same helmetless man spoke down at them from the palisade. His voice was strong, as was his jaw, which had been accentuated by the cloak clasped at his neck. She settled in at the back of the to get a better look and listen. The crowd itself was fifty, maybe sixty people strong, but it was the helmetless man who chiefly drew her attention. He was handsome, with rugged features to go along with that strong jaw of his. Bright, icy blue eyes scanned the crowd beneath a strong brow as he spoke. Unlike the four guards standing watch beside him he was clean shaven, though she could see the shadow of stubble upon his cheeks and chin, and red blonde hair framed his face in long waves.

“The Jarl’s mind is already decided,” he said sternly. “Until a cure is found for the sickness, he will not open the gates.”

“What of us?” a man in the crowd called out, and a chorus of angry voices followed him, crashing against the palisade like the churning seas against ocean cliffs.

“You condemn us!” called another, a woman this time. Now that she’d drawn closer, Gaiur could better understand their sentiments. While not true for all, more than a few of those whose clothes were tattered or torn showed signs of injury. They nursed broken limbs, sported crudely bandaged cuts or burns, and in some cases actively tried to staunch wounds that reopened in their ruckus. Gaiur could also see that for many of them, the brown splotches she thought were mud stains were, in truth, old dry blood spatter.

“There is nothing more I can do!” the blonde man called back. His own frustrations were starting to get to him. “None are to enter until a cure has been found!”

Gaiur frowned. That was the second time he mentioned a cure. Nearby to her a slightly younger woman with chestnut hair cradled her young child against her chest, a little girl barely more than a year old whom she swaddled in a thick blanket of red and yellow wool. She admonished the blonde man loudly, so much so that her voice cracked twice. When she quieted, Gaiur tapped her shoulder. She snap-turned her head toward Gaiur, giving her a confused and irate frown.

“What cure does he speak of?” she asked curtly. “Has pox taken the city?”

“You don’t know?” she chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “Jarl Ostock’s son has gone ill. He is bedridden, and made his father so fearful that he no longer opens his gates to those he is meant to protect!”

She shouted the part about the Jarl’s fears at the man and his guards, joining right back in with the rest of the cacophony. When she finished, she looked down at her child. The screaming had upset the baby girl, and she fussed and cried in her mother’s arms. The young woman gently bounced and cradled her, whispering soft shushes to the mewling babe.

“Best beg the gods for a miracle if you hope to get in,” she said, glancing up at Gaiur. “If Jarl Ostock won’t permit his own people, I doubt a war ready stranger stands much chance.”

‘War ready stranger.’ The phrase drew a chuckle from Gaiur. She supposed there was truth in that. Her appearance certainly lent credence to the idea, in particular the axe she kept slung over her shoulder. The black bladed axe, as she’d taken to calling it, was a hefty boarding axe sporting a broad blade and a long spike on the back of its steel head. Forged in the style of southerners, it originally belonged to her late husband. She took up the weapon back when she still lived in the tiny arctic village of Valdun, just before she joined an expedition to the expansive glacier they called the Glimmerfrost. In the few years since then the axe had been chipped and damaged and eventually destroyed, burned and remade into what it was now.

Regardless of all that, the young woman was right. She was a stranger, armed and bearing nothing to trade. She had no ties with this city or the people from the surrounding region, and she wouldn't trust in the vain hope that she’d just get lucky and be let in. Disappointed in this turn of events, she realized there was nothing for it but to turn back. She’d hoped to buy some decent provisions in the city market, maybe even splurge on a hot meal at a local kiosk. Half a day’s walking with no breakfast had left her hungry. Perhaps she could at least find a way down the fjord’s cliffs and get to the water? The city had originally been a cliffside fishing hamlet, so there must’ve been paths that lead down. Likely they all joined to the western cliff facing side of the city itself, but if she could at least access one she might be able to catch a fish or two and at least feed herself today.

No matter what she chose to do, standing around with this crowd wouldn’t see it happen. With a frustrated shake of her head, she turned back and started up the road again. Varro should still be waiting for her amongst the buckwheat. She’d go retrieve him, then they could see about heading down towards the water.

“You there, woman!” rang the voice of the handsome blonde man.

Gaiur stopped and peered back at him over her shoulder, pointing to herself.

He nodded. “Aye, you,” he said. Then he made a quick sweeping motion with his hand, acknowledging the crowd gathered below him. “You’re not of our people, have no ties with this crowd. Who are you and why do you come to Halvfjord?”

“Does it matter?” Gaiur asked with a half shrug. “Your city is closed by your Jarl’s orders.”

“It matters if you’re who I think you are.”

That gave Gaiur pause. She half turned to face the man, who looked down on her with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. He continued, “I’ve been told to watch for a woman of your appearance; dark of hair, fair of skin, with eyes the color of rusted iron. I was told she walks with beasts and carries an axe with a black blade and a haft of braided wood. Are you the one they call Wolfmother?”

Now he had her attention, and as his pronouncement placed the attention of the crowd on her. Whoever this man was, he must’ve known something of Gaiur’s previous exploits. The question was how, or from whom, he learned of her.

“Where did you hear this name?” she asked.

“A trader from the south. He went by Jerrin,” he said, and from the smile that formed he was pleased with her reaction. “He had much to say of how you aided him and his words greatly interested Jarl Ostock.”

The crowd swiftly set to murmuring amongst themselves, and many began shouting again, incensed by the idea that a stranger received a better welcome than they had. She couldn’t blame them, but neither was she keen on passing up an opportunity to talk her way into the city. She’d have to choose her words carefully, though. Jerrin indeed was someone she’d helped recently. While stopped at a waypoint a tenday’s walk from Halvfjord, he started having fitful sleeps. Every night he awoke to the feeling that something was trying to strangle him. Gaiur encountered him some three days later, drawn along a winding path through the wilds by a feeling she couldn’t quite place. It was only once they met that she realized it was Jerrin she’d been drawn to. Rather, it was the malignant little spirit that latched itself to him at that waypoint. She disposed of the thing, ending its miserable existence and freeing him from what would soon have been an unceremonious death. Admitting outright, however, would likely be a mistake. To the angry crowd she was still just a stranger, and now she appeared to be a stranger who stood to get special treatment where they, citizens under the very ruler who’s aid they beseeched, were being turned away at his city’s gates. She’d have to choose her words carefully, lest she end up with a riot on her hands.

“You presume much of me,” she called out over the din. “What makes you so certain I am who you say?”

The man grinned and stood confidently upright with his arms crossed. “Jerrin told us of the beasts you travel with, your wolf and your raven. Nigh inseparable, he said of you. If you are the one he spoke of, then they are surely close by?” He paused, letting the shouting of the crowd once more reduce to a curious murmur. “Call them,” he said once they quieted. “Show us the truth of his words and you’ll be given an audience with Jarl Ostock.”

That whipped the crowd back into a frenzy. Men and women started pounding at the palisade gate and hurling balls of mud at both the guards and Gaiur alike. The four helmeted guards along the wall aimed long spears down at the crowd below, whilst others further down the palisade hurried over with bows drawn.

Once again, Gaiur shouted over the crowd, and the strength of her voice cut through the noise. “What is your name?” she called out to the handsome man.

“Marten,” he replied.

“Did Jerrin happen to speak of my wolf’s size?”

Marten looked puzzled, but shook his head. When he did, Gaiur regarded the crowd and the gate behind them. She had an idea. Past experience told her it would be best if the crowd wasn’t here when Varro came up the path. That would surely cause panic, and that might be even worse than the riot which threatened to brew. Best to avoid that, and if she could do so while ingratiating herself to the crowd? Then all the better.

“Let these people through your gate first and I’ll call my companions,” she said.

Marten’s expression hardened. “I can’t do that. Jarl Ostock’s orders -”

“My wolf is nearly the size of a horse,” Gaiur stated flatly. The statement drew disbelieving murmurs and half-chuckles from the crowd. She wasn’t surprised. Greatwolves were a rarity this far south. Nevertheless, she didn’t budge in her demand. “What do you think these people will do when they see him coming?”

Marten cast his gaze down in thought, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment’s quiet, Gaiur called up to him again, impressing that this was the only way she’d do as he asked. Could he afford to let an opportunity his Jarl was clearly so interested in pass him by? Apparently he couldn’t, and before long he ordered the guards to open the gate, admonishing any who protested. It took five, perhaps ten minutes for the heavy log gate to be lifted. It swung up and in, like a trapdoor stood up on its side. It was made in the palisade style just like the rest of the wall, but the bottoms were blunted and sat level against the hard packed dirt road. As it opened, she could see a team of three men on each side of the gate pulling taut chains that they then weaved through the spokes of  sturdy iron wheel racks, locking the gate into place. Only when everyone was inside and the guards lined up behind the now open gate did Gaiur call for Hunin and Varro.

Her whistle cut sharply into the midday air. Answering cries came back almost immediately. First was the familiar “hawr” of Hunin’s caw. This was swiftly followed by the flutter of his wings as he swooped in from whatever perch he’d found in the city. The guards and the crowd behind them started to ooh and ahh as the bone white bird settled on her shoulder, but their marvel cut to sudden silence when they heard the “haroo” of Varro’s howl.

Suddenly, that silence was broken by shocked cries, including from Marten. “Voice of Luthmor!” he spat as Varro bounded up the road and stopped alongside Gaiur.

Holding his head low, the greatwolf studied the people behind the gate with his golden canine eyes. Only when he felt Gaiur’s hand rest at the nape of his neck did he relax and turn to her, bumping his muzzle against her chest. She laughed when she realized why. He had her gloves in his mouth! She took them, gave him a pat on the flank, then looked up to the astonished Marten.

“Clear these people off the streets,” he called to the guards, though he never took his eyes off Gaiur or her animals. “Take them someplace where they can shelter for the night. I’ll escort the Wolfmother and her beasts to Jarl Ostock personally.”

What few guards could be spared were quick to move, and as they led the crowd deeper into the city Marten stepped through the gate to greet her. Now that she could see him more fully, she realized he was a good head taller than herself. He also had a straight sword sheathed at his hip, nearly three feet long from tip to pommel. Once outside, he smiled and motioned for her to follow him. With little more than a nod of assent, she did so, and the gate thumped shut behind them after they passed through it.

“Seems we’re blessed this day,” Marten said as he led her along the main road. “Ever since he heard the trader’s story, Jarl Ostock has been praying that he might meet you.”

Gaiur let out a frustrated grumble. The road was taking them in the direction of the markets and the sea winds carried the rich smells of cooked food down to them. Her stomach groaned in response and she said, “I’d sooner pray for a hot meal.”

Marten chortled at that. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to open his larder to you,” he said.

Nice as that sounded, Gaiur knew there was something far more to this than simple curiosity on the part of the Jarl. He wanted something from her, something only she could do. Marten wouldn’t have made mention of Jerrin’s story if that weren’t the case, so she pushed the issue.

“What would your Jarl have me do in return?” she asked.

Marten’s expression sank and he sighed, trying to hide the weight of it by huffing it out of his nose. “Save his son,” he said.

Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter