The clearing was filling with people, come from many leagues around for this Althing. Tents filled the meadows around Fellur, as the Althing could go on for a number of days and all who lived within the boundaries of Jarl Sigrún’s land were supposed to attend, or at least a representative from every family. Orka saw fisherfolk and farmers, tanners and blacksmiths, shipwrights and leatherworkers, all manner of people who dwelled within the boundaries of Jarl Sigrún’s domain, and that had been growing each year, along with the fair-fame of her name.
Orka caught Virk’s eye and she beckoned him over.
“Our thanks,” she said, “for rowing us over.” She offered him a nugget of hacked bronze.
“Keep it,” Virk said, “and think kindly of me when you next bring your pelts to the village.”
Orka nodded. “That we can do, as long as we have a seat on your boat back to shore when this is done.”
“That would depend on how kind you will be with your pelts,” he smiled.
“Tell me,” she said, leaning closer and whispering, “is there any word of Asgrim’s boy, Harek?”
Virk’s smile withered and he shook his head.
“Guevarr sent some scouts to the river, where your husband followed the tracks. But no more than that. No boats sent down the rivers, no hounds.” He shook his head. “He did not care. Asgrim and Idrun were freedmen, had as much right to justice as any, but…”
Orka knew. She remembered Guevarr’s words.
They were asking for trouble, Guevarr had said. Orka felt her lip curl in anger at the memory of it. Asking for trouble, as if living a life apart from the village makes us less.
“And other children?” she asked Virk. “You said Harek is not the first child to be taken.”
Virk shrugged. “The Haraldursons from Howbyr, they had two daughters and a son taken, their cots empty in the morning, just gone. And a family in Kergarth, I forget their names. Found dead, like Asgrim and Idrun, and their sons missing.” He looked at her. “That does not sound like a coincidence to me.”
Orka nodded. Howbyr was ten or twelve leagues north, and Kergarth was six leagues east along the coast.
“There are other rumours, of more children taken, but I do not know for sure.”
“It must be nieing, lawless men,” Orka said, “stealing children and selling them on as thralls.” An image came to her mind of Breca being snatched in the night, dragged away. An iron collar snapped around his throat. Wings of fear fluttered in her chest, followed by a shiver of anger. She rested a hand on Breca’s shoulder.
“I agree,” Virk said. “Maybe we should try hunting them, see if we can do better than Guevarr. That shouldn’t be hard: he is a pup playing at being a jarl.”
“Catching thieves and killers is different from catching fish,” Orka said.
“I have not always been a fisherman,” Virk said with a shrug, dropping a hand to rest on the axe head that hung at his belt. “And I do not think you and your husband have always been trappers.”
“We live in Vigrie, the Battle-Plain,” Orka said with a shrug. “Only fools do not learn how to protect themselves.”
Virk held his hands up at Orka’s flat stare. “Your past is your business. But I’d rather have you or Thorkel at my shoulder in a scrap than that snivelling weasel.” He nodded towards Guevarr. “And these nieings…” His face twisted. “Murderers and child-stealers, they do not deserve to breathe our air.”
Orka nodded. She had known there was more to Virk than fishing, had seen men like him before, their emotions always bubbling below the surface like serpents beneathe the fjord’s still waters, violence only a short explosion away. She knew well enough that the braggarts like Guevarr were not the real warriors. It was the ones who never threatened violence…
The murmur of many conversations faded and Orka looked up to see warriors enter the clearing: a dozen drengrs, Guevarr among them, swaggering in his brynja and sword at his hip, the permanent drop of moisture still hanging from the end of his nose. The women who had accompanied him to Orka’s steading were there, Orka remembering Arild, the one with a face like a butcher’s cleaver. They were all gleaming in mail, polished leather and arm rings of silver or bronze, spreading in a half-circle before the shattered remnants of the oath stone, allowing Jarl Sigrún to step out into the clearing, another dozen drengrs behind her.
She was tall, though not as tall or wide as Orka, but there was a strength and grace in her walk that spoke of a warrior. She wore a coat of riveted mail and had a silver torc around her neck, more rings of silver upon her arms. She had not become a jarl by kind words and good deeds; she was a warrior who had carved a piece of land for herself and fought all who challenged her. Men and women had stood with her, drawn by her strength and promises of land and status, and so her power had grown. It was a story Orka had seen a hundred times over. Where once this land had been free, it was now being swallowed piece by piece by petty jarls, men and women who hungered for wealth and power. Some were more successful than others, their battle-fame spreading, their wealth growing, warriors flocking to them. Jarl Sigrún was not the most powerful, but she was still a force to be watched. The fact that she had ruled here for eight years and was still breathing said much.