Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 4

  “We hear you have the best mead in all of Snæland, but we want proof of it before we exchange silver.”

  Ásta smiled back at them and answered, “I would be happy to give you a sample if you show me your silver.”

  The men’s grins fell from their faces and they walked on. Ásta had watched her father request the same of his customers countless times before. Everyone wants a free sample, he’d say, but that leaves me with little to sell. If they intend to purchase it, they will have no issue with proving their wealth.

  “Here is my silver,” a deep voice said, interrupting her thoughts.

  She looked up into a familiar face. Russet bangs were trimmed above thin brows, and a well-manicured beard hung from his angular chin. Gunnar’s embroidered sleeve was drawn up to reveal the gleaming metallic cuff around his bicep. He flashed a smile at Ásta before stepping back again to stand beside his female slave. Although the woman’s hair was trimmed short, the thrall had large green eyes and a beautiful face. She handed him an intricately carved drinking horn, which he accepted.

  “I barely recognized you, Ásta. Your face is changed since we last saw each other so many years ago.” He parted his lips to reveal a wide grin. Then he touched the trim of his elegant cloak. “I suppose you would not recognize me either. I found my fortune with the Saxons.”

  This did not seem to be the same man who’d made a marriage offer so many years ago. His lanky body, lewd stares and pockmarked face had seemed to follow her wherever she went at the Althing. There was something about him at the time that unnerved her. But now he’d filled out and had come into his own. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be his wife.

  Another man walked up and said, “I would like a bladder full of ale.”

  She broke away from Gunnar to ladle a serving of the dark golden liquid into her other customer’s weathered drinking pouch. The man offered payment and didn’t waste time lifting the drink to his lips. Seeing that he seemed satisfied, she returned to Gunnar.

  He held out his drinking horn. “Might I have a sample before I buy your mead?”

  Ásta nodded and lifted the top of a casket to dip her serving spoon into the golden bath inside. She funneled a stream of drink into his horn. She felt his eyes trace over her face, breast and waist. He tossed the liquid into the back of his throat and said with a wince, “Oh, what is that! I hate to say it, but I think your mead has turned. Or maybe they just have better honey in the east.”

  Everyone in the vicinity looked with wide eyes at Ásta and her booth. Her pulse quickened, and she grew worried. She hadn’t tasted her mead stores before she left for the Althing. What if he was right and it had turned?

  Ásta didn’t want to taste it for herself with everyone looking, so she held steady and said, “I have not been to the east, so I do not know for myself.”

  “It is a better place than this. I will voyage there again next season to seek more treasure with my father’s sword.” Gunnar rested his hand on his sword’s pommel. Then he lifted it high enough from its scabbard to reveal the Ulfberht inscription along its shiny edge.

  “Blades should remain secured at the Althing,” her other customer mumbled into his drinking bladder.

  Gunnar slid the crucible steel back into its sheath and glanced at the man, the precious metal singing over the hum of the crowd. He offered an unapologetic shrug. “It is not just a weapon but a thing of beauty. You should feel lucky to have survived seeing it.”

  “The gothar do not wish to deal with more disputes than they have to. Put it aside and your intention will be clear,” the man retorted.

  Ásta sensed the tension mounting between the two despite their dispassionate expressions. “It is quite a thing,” she said to Gunnar. “I wish you luck in your ventures.”

  Gunnar nodded at her before glancing at the stranger who hadn’t bothered to turn to face the man he was addressing. He’d continued to drink from his bladder like someone who was searching for answers at the bottom of it.

  After a tug on the sleeve from his slave, Gunnar stepped away from her booth and walked into the crowd, out of sight. She looked at her remaining customer, who paid her no attention, so she snuck a sip from her ladle to taste her mead. The sweet yet strong flavor rinsed her mouth. It may have been many months since she’d had the occasion to drink it, but she would never forget its flavor. It was truly the beverage of the gods.

  Ásta recognized its full body. It was at its peak. But she had never been to the east to taste their honey or mead. Maybe it was as Gunnar said.

  “I would offer to argue against his point by trying a drop, but I already know it tastes like the mead of poetry.”

  She lowered her ladle, feeling embarrassed getting caught checking her goods. The man’s blue eyes were focused elsewhere, and his pale mustache and beard were unkempt. Blond locks tumbled past his brow to his shoulders. He might have been attractive if he cared about his appearance.

  “Torin! Are you buying yourself some marriage mead?” a voice thundered behind him. “That’s the spirit! Most find a wife first, but that will come if I have anything to do with it.”

  An older man wearing a yellow tunic with elaborate stitching clapped the younger man’s shoulder.

  “No, Uncle—” her customer said, but he was cut off as his relative wandered away with a group of men following. He was left wearing a frown.

  She watched him wash back one more mouthful and sigh. The man turned away from her stall to trail after his uncle. He called over his shoulder, “Your ale has done me good.”

  The summer sun continued to hover and gleam, slowly taking its path across the sky. By the time it reached its mid-evening place, Dagný arrived back with plenty of stories. Rolf listened, eager to hear about what was happening in their gothi’s booth. Ásta, however, stayed to her tent, her mind weighed with worries and concerns. She hadn’t sold any caskets of mead yet. However, there were two weeks remaining at the Althing. Time still for her luck to turn around.

  During the morning measure of the sun the following day, the assembly officially began. All of the freemen went to support and stand with their chieftains. There were very few people left in the outskirts by the lake where Ásta’s booth was. She knew that by midday, when the opening had concluded, the numbers would increase again and she would have the opportunity to conduct business.

  The crowd did, indeed, begin to grow. She called out to passersby and drew interested customers. Rolf sat on the other side of the open booth, telling stories to people who had no place better to be. Ásta had just sold a casket of mead and was feeling her luck was beginning to change when Dagný rushed up through the milling bodies with a strained expression on his sun-drenched face.

  “Ásta, you must come with me—you are needed at the southern quarter court!”

  She was puzzled. Ásta had never observed the gothar in session while resolving disputes and could not think why she needed to go with her cousin. She glanced at Rolf and interrupted his story. “You must watch the booth for me.”

  He paused midsentence and grumbled. “Fine, Mistress. I will look after it.”

  She caught Bergljot’s eye as she ran past with her cousin. Dagný’s wife appeared just as surprised as she was at the sudden departure.

  “What is this about?” Ásta asked, wiping her palms on her apron skirt and trying to keep up with her cousin, who had already begun to hurry ahead of her.

  He noticed she’d fallen behind and slowed to answer her question. “There has been a complaint about your walls—that you are unable to tend your land.”

  The sense of hope she’d had only minutes earlier dissipated. She felt like she’d eaten dried fish that hadn’t been left to cure. Her stomach pinched and twisted, making her wish she had a sip of ale to settle it down.

  She couldn’t respond to her cousin, for fear had taken hold. If she lost her farm, shame would follow her wherever she went. It was not uncommon for hardships to befall farmers, and there was no disho
nor in that, but she did not want to fail her ancestors. The land had value. Most of all to her.

  They made their way through the stalls of vendors until they reached the assembly fields. Large circles of men sat throughout the area. She searched for the face of her gothi, Hákon Freyrson. She’d met him on many occasions with her father and brother by her side. He seemed to be a fair man who would stand by her family.

  “This way,” Dagný called.

  He led her to a ring of nine seated chieftains. Before and behind them sat their advisors. All wore bright colors of red, blue or yellow and appeared eager to conclude the day’s session after a long morning of procedure and listening to the elected lawspeaker.

  Standing at the center of the seated gothar was a familiar face. She was struck by his venomous sneer and thought of his visit nearly a week ago. He stood amongst two other men whose backs were to her. Prayers for protection and luck skirted her thoughts as she stood at the center of the ring, waiting for someone to speak.

  Chapter 3

  All eyes focused on the woman who joined the assembly. Her scars gleamed in the sunlight as she gazed at the ground. Torin recognized the ale vendor from the day before.

  While he watched her discomfort from the front row, he heard the gothi sitting beside his uncle call out from behind, “Are you Ásta Calderdóttir, head of house of the coastal farm in the southern territory once farmed by Calder Thorison?”

  She nodded and lifted her blue eyes to look at the chieftain who addressed her. “I am.”

  “I hear word that your kin died last fall. Is this true?”

  “It is true, Gothi Hákon.” Ásta pulled her shoulders back, appearing to draw strength from the mention of her family. “We have suffered misfortune since then, but with a little time I can—”

  The broad man standing near her interrupted. “Was it only me who heard the lawspeaker recite our rules for keeping boundary walls? Landowners must spend three months of every year tending to their walls so that they remain intact. The working half of the year is half over, and the damage is more than one woman can handle.”

  Torin observed Bárthur, the one who had brought the complaint to the assembly, gloat. The furs thrown over the warrior’s shoulders made him seem even larger than he was, which was an impressive size to begin with. He watched him smirk at the lady, and Torin suppressed the instinct to smack him with the hilt of his sword.

  He turned around to whisper to his uncle, “Do their families feud?”

  Fólki, in his yellow tunic, glanced at his neighboring gothi before leaning forward and answering, “I do not think so.”

  “The reason I bring this to the assembly,” Bárthur said, “is because I grow concerned she will not be in the position to repay the silver she borrowed from me.”

  One of the gothi asked the maiden, “Tell us of your contract.”

  Ásta stole a glance at Bárthur, then lifted her face to the assembly. “Since my father and brother’s deaths, my farm has had some struggles. Silver was offered to me, which I accepted with the agreement to repay it with goods by harvest. I had plans to make mead with the hives that were purchased.”

  “And how goes it?” she was asked by the same gothi.

  From where Torin sat he could see her cheeks flush before she answered, “They were destroyed.”

  The circle of gothar spoke to their advisors and neighbors. A hum of noise filled the air until they quieted down as Gothi Hákon, a redheaded man of forty-five, spoke up. “You are well respected here, Bárthur. We know of your successful raids with your kin and of your skills on the battlefield, but we would like to hear from your witness.”

  Bárthur nodded and answered, “Gunnar is right here.”

  One of the other men who stood by his side turned around, and Torin recognized him immediately. His valuable sword was still fastened to his belt, Torin noted. The man grinned to the audience of gothar, letting them appreciate his fine clothing and adornments before he spoke. “Bárthur and I live to the east of Ásta Calderdóttir’s farm. My cousin asked me to ride with him to visit the maiden to see if she appeared to be in good position to repay the silver she had borrowed, and we saw her turf walls had been destroyed. By what, I could not say. Even from my perch on my horse, I could make out the path the beast must have carved. So much work to repair, I say.”

  Torin eyed Gunnar. The dark-haired warrior was not exactly built for the raiding parties he’d gained stature from. He seemed to be enjoying the attention he was getting and was oblivious to Ásta’s discomfort.

  “Beast? What do you speak of?” Hákon perked up a little, sitting a little taller. “Harrold Olavson—have you let your bear go free over the bluffs again?”

  Everyone looked around, craning their necks to locate Gothi Harrold, who rose to his feet and called out, “He died last winter, sadly—Snæland didn’t agree with him. Has any other man seen anything amiss?”

  Torin heard a voice behind him say, “It’s Fenrir, come to claim the land.”

  Bárthur stood, watching the audience with his pronounced brow and long face. Torin thought he saw the corner of his lips curl. Ásta, however, appeared agitated.

  “It’s not true,” she whispered, glancing at her kin.

  Hákon raised his hands in response to the murmurs and spoke up. “Let us get back to our business here. We understand there has been damage to the boundary walls and your hives.”

  “What is your trade and how would you judge the damage?” Fólki asked Bárthur’s cousin.

  The man answered, “As you can see, I have been successful on my raids to the east. I am no stranger to farming and know a good wall when I see one. By what I saw, there is work for at least six men to repair the walls by harvest—and to my cousin’s disappointment, I am not one to make stories.”

  “And how many men are on your farm now that your kin have passed through the halls of Valhalla?” Gothi Hákon directed his question to Ásta, who appeared to be trying to collect herself from the last exchange.

  Torin watched her pause before responding. “Two, but I have come to sell my mead stores so I may hire other farmhands. I hope to afford two more, and I will learn to use the turf shovel. I inherited my ancestors’ land—I will take care of it, and I will repay my debt.”

  “She is unmarried,” Fólki muttered to his nephew. “A husband would be a benefit to her.”

  Hákon overheard and leaned in. You could barely see his lips move from beneath his mustache as he spoke. “Já, she is unmarried, but none would have her. Fenrir, the king of the wolves, has claimed her.” The older gothi dragged his fingers across his cheek to illustrate his point. “It is too bad. Her land is quite a site with the gifts of the sea, cliff birds, nearby hot springs and decent planting—it was once a prosperous location.”

  His advisor, who sat beside Torin, muttered, “If she had accepted her first marriage offer, this might not have happened.”

  Another of Hákon’s advisors joined the conversation to ask, “What about the hreppr? Would she be able to collect silver for her hardships?”

  Hákon shook his head and said, “No. She would not qualify, since her cattle are untouched and she is not destitute—that has nothing to do with the assembly or us. We only settle disputes.”

  Fólki rubbed his beard. “She is in quite a bad spot. I do not see how she will get herself out of it.”

  Suddenly, Torin recalled a memory from his youth when he’d wrapped his cloak around his little sister as they rode away from the farm of their birth. He remembered the frightened look on her face. He might have been too young to inherit the land and unable to take his absent father’s place, but he’d wanted to take up the challenge. His uncle had done his duty by taking them in and providing for them, but every day Torin resented not having the chance to defend the place where his mother was buried. He thought he recognized the same indignation lacing Ásta’s expression.

  The whirlwind of voices around him seemed oblivious to the woman at the center of it
all. She stood with her shoulders back with as much pride as she could muster in the face of adversity. There was something about her that Torin responded to. Maybe it was her situation or the pretty blue glint of her eyes, but he found himself saying, “Would it not be fair if the landowner is allowed to show her ability to take care of the farm before it is sold? There are many good long days yet before the harvest comes with winter on its heels. Let her prove herself before it is taken away.”

  Hákon shook his head. “That is true. Nothing can stop the lucky, and little can help the unlucky. If she does not have hamingja on her side, then it will be taken care of soon enough.”

  Fólki nodded in agreement. “Já. She seems a might determined. Let her prove herself and her luck.”

  Gothi Hákon rose to his feet and spoke loud for all to hear. “It is long we have dealt with a matter like this. I put to vote that the landowner has until the start of winter to heal her boundary walls and pay her debt, or she must sell her farm to the sort who can tend to it properly.”

  Torin’s uncle called, “Já.”

  A chorus of yeses were hollered around the circle of gothar. Torin’s gaze fell on Ásta as she heard the ruling. She took a deep breath and lifted her chest. He thought he saw a mixture of pride and fear etched on her face. Beside her, Bárthur was stealing glances Ásta’s way as well. Annoyance spiked the raider’s eyes as he watched the maiden try to hold her chin up.

  The lady Ásta began to walk out of the circle with her kin by her side. Bárthur was close behind with his cousin and friend. Torin didn’t like the way he was looking at the maiden and would have liked to chase him away for good. Since the assembly was still in session, and his uncle required him by his side, he called out, “Bárthur—what kind of pelts do you wear? I have seen none like them before.”

  Torin observed Ásta walking away from the assembly, back toward the lake and the vendors’ stalls. Bárthur paused, looking after her, then answered. His lips curled into the closest thing to a smile he could likely muster. “Gunnar and I brought them back from my raids to the east. Wolves are fierce, but no fiercer than myself.”