Preview: Sword of Vengeance

I met Jon Sprunk when I was editing an SF&F imprint when he intrigued me with his description of Shadow’s Son, the first book in what became his SHADOW SAGA. He is also the author of the excellent BOOK OF THE BLACK EARTH series. A writer of hard hitting fantasy, I’m very pleased to have him in the anthology. For today’s preview of Tales from Stolki’s Hall, we look at the fifth story, “Sword of Vengeance.” And check the end of this post for the sword in question, as illustrated by the fabulous Ksenia Kozhevnikova.

Geth yawned as he opened his eyes. Errant rays of sunlight pierced the roof above the loft where he slept. Judging by the angle of the light, it was well past dawn.

He stretched as he rolled over, luxuriating in the soft furs that made up his bed. He should get up. His mother would be calling any minute to demand that he rise, but Geth wanted just a few more minutes of blissful sleep.

The ladder leading up to the loft creaked. Geth lifted his head, and groaned aloud as Calder appeared. The oldest thrall working on the farm, Calder claimed to be eighty years old, and Geth believed him. Despite the old thrall’s age, he was a tireless worker, up before the sun and always the last in the household to retire for the night.

“It’s past time to be up and about, young master,” Calder said as he climbed up the ladder.

After a moment to catch his breath, Calder reached into a satchel slung over his shoulder and pulled out folded clothes, and not just any clothes. They were Geth’s linen shirt and pants, the ones he only wore on holidays. Suddenly, he remembered what day it was. Gustav Hidasson was coming! He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed.

Calder had also brought a pitcher of water. It was warm – thank the Gods! – as Geth splashed it on his face. He ran a comb through his hair as Calder laid out his clothes on the bed. Along with the pants and shirt, there were woolen socks and his good boots, cleaned and polished.

Calder went to a chest in the corner and sighed as he knelt down to root through the contents. He pulled out a pair of tooled leather bracers and the silver torc that Geth’s father had given him last year.

Getting up with another small sigh, Calder took up the comb while Geth dressed and fussed with his hair, which hung down to his shoulders. “Hold still, young master. You need to look presentable today.”

Geth glanced back over his shoulder. “So why is this man coming all the way out here?”

It was several days’ travel to the farm from the town of Morheim. With winter’s bite still hanging in the air, it was considered an ill time for a journey.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Calder answered as he lifted a fur-lined buckskin vest for Geth to put on.

“They say Gustav Hidasson is the richest man in Norrøngard. Even richer than the jarl.”

Calder brushed Geth’s shoulders for imaginary lint. “Idle talk is worth less than the air that carries it. Hidasson may be rich, but he’s not half the man your father is.” With a grunt, he added, “He’s coming here to pay his respects. It’s an honor.”

Calder held up a bronze mirror, which Geth ignored. “Speaking of my father, where is he?”

“Out in the barn, I believe. Overseeing the preparation of the gift.”

Geth left the old thrall to tidy up the loft. Their home had three sections. The family slept in the north wing, while the servants and housecarls bedded in the south. Between those two wings was the great hall. The interior was paneled in dark wood, with a high, sod-covered roof. The house had originally been built by Geth’s great grandfather and expanded over the generations.

Servants and thralls passed him in the hallway, all of them moving with purpose. A moment later, he heard his mother’s voice coming from the great hall.

There, Geth was greet by a host of delicious smells. A pair of servant girls rolled dough and minded the ovens at the rear of the hall. Over the large fire put in the center of the room hung half a steer, with several iron pots nestled in the coals.

Geth’s mother stood in the center of the maelstrom, overseeing the work. She was a beautiful woman, almost as tall as Geth, with wheat-blonde hair that hung down her back in a long braid. She was wearing a kirtle of sea-blue wool, and silver earrings shaped like tiny crescent moons, which he only saw her wear once or twice a year.

Geth gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It smells good in here, and I’m starving.”

His mother held him at arm’s length so she could inspect his outfit. “You missed breakfast, so you’ll have to wait until the feast.”

“That will be hours! Do you want me to waste away until I’m as skinny as Helga.” He winked at the heavyset cook, who was cutting up turnips.

His mother pursed her lips. “You are too thin. Take a biscuit.”

“How about some meat to go with it?”

Helga swatted him with a hand towel as she went back to her work.

Geth stood beside his mother and admired the cool efficiency of the work. She ran the house like a warlord on the battlefield. And, he knew, she could wield a sword as well as shoot a bow. Fierce and proud on the outside, warm and kind on the inside, she was the best mother in the world. Yet, today, she looked anxious. She kept rubbing her hands together.

“Mother, is something wrong?”

She spared him a small smile. “Today is a big honor. I just want everything to be perfect. Now go on, Geth. Go bother your father. We’re busy here, and the guests will be arriving soon.”

Swiping a hot bun on his way out, with a wink to the girls, Geth left the hall and headed out back.

* * *

Gustav Hidasson shaded his eyes as he gazed up at the mountains rising in the distance. Sunlight glinted on their snowy peaks. Dark forest blanketed their sides and spread across the flatlands. A lone road cut through this land, south of Dragon’s Bay.

He rode on a painted gelding of high breeding, the best horseflesh available in the markets at Morheim. Behind him followed six bodyguards, loyal only to him and his gold, and two servants leading a pair of pack mules. He usually traveled with far more retainers, but this was a special journey.

Gustav shivered under his thick fur cloak. “This damned winter is lasting forever.”

The man riding beside him replied with a voice that rumbled like boulders rolling down a mountainside. “You Skagilund folk are soft.”

Several inches taller than Gustav, who was not a small man by any standard, Azulf stood out as the oddity of the group. Almost every inch of his flesh was inked with woad-blue tattoos. He came from Araland, far to the southeast, where his people lived in caves amid primeval forests, or so Gustav had heard. He had never been there and had no intention of visiting. He had purchased this man from a foreign flesh-peddler, which was not strictly legal by the laws of Norrøngard. But he with the most money made the rules, or so Gustav’s father had told him, and this tattooed savage was as investment in his future.

“Soft, eh?” Gustav reached up to touch the antique bronze amulet hanging around his neck, and had the satisfaction of watching the pale thrall shiver. The talisman had cost more than Azulf, but its value was priceless, for it allowed Gustav to keep him on a tight leash. For Azulf was no ordinary man.

“You may hold my soul in that bauble. But one day I will be free and I will make you—“

Gustav grabbed the amulet in a tight hold and squeezed. Large beads of sweat ran down Azulf’s face, until he finally bowed his head in acquiescence.

Gustav allowed himself a smug chortle. “Good. You may have been a powerful shaman back in your barbaric land, but here you are my property. You will speak to me with a respectful tongue, or I will have it torn out. Now attend to my words.”

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