The Blade from the Barrow (High Fire Episodes 1-3): High Fire

By Timothy J. R. Rains

Hel herself won't stand in her way ...

Hervor has been lied to her entire life. All along she thought she was a daughter of the proudest lineage. In truth, her father was the most reviled scoundrel on the face of Midgard.

But infamy has its allures. Especially when she learns what's waiting for her.

Vowing to claim her inheritance and carry on his name, Hervor sets a course for her father's tomb. It'll be a dangerous voyage, beset with terror and treachery. But there's no sea she won't cross ... and no village she won't burn.

For buried with her father is a weapon of incredible power. A weapon feared by the greatest kings and the mightiest warriors.

A sword called Tyrfing ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy J. R. Rains
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201215804

Book preview

The Blade from the Barrow

High Fire Book One

Timothy J. R. Rains

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real life persons, places, or events are purely coincidental. Opinions and beliefs of the characters do not necessarily reflect the opinions and beliefs of the author.

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The Blade from the Barrow

Copyright © 2020 by Timothy J. R. Rains

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in brief quotations for the purpose of critical review.

timothyjrrains.com

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Layout and cover design by author.

Map design by author

Edited by J. J. Wolfe

For my brother Jon, whose valuable insights informed the composition of this book; and for Chris, who was the first to read it and who cheered for it the hardest.

Contents

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

6.SIX

7.SEVEN

8.EIGHT

9.NINE

10.TEN

11.ELEVEN

12.TWELVE

13.THIRTEEN

14.FOURTEEN

15.FIFTEEN

16.SIXTEEN

17.SEVENTEEN

18.EIGHTEEN

19.NINETEEN

20.TWENTY

21.TWENTY-ONE

22.TWENTY-TWO

23.TWENTY-THREE

24.TWENTY-FOUR

25.TWENTY-FIVE

26.TWENTY-SIX

27.TWENTY-SEVEN

28.TWENTY-EIGHT

29.TWENTY-NINE

30.THIRTY

31.THIRTY-ONE

32.THIRTY-TWO

33.THIRTY-THREE

34.THIRTY-FOUR

35.THIRTY-FIVE

36.THIRTY-SIX

37.THIRTY-SEVEN

38.THIRTY-EIGHT

39.THIRTY-NINE

40.FORTY

41.FORTY-ONE

42.FORTY-TWO

43.FORTY-THREE

44.FORTY-FOUR

45.FORTY-FIVE

46.FORTY-SIX

47.FORTY-SEVEN

48.FORTY-EIGHT

Sneak Peak of Two Measures of Grief

PART I

ONE

HERVOR

Ofotfjord, Hålogaland—400 A.D.

The thralls have already sheared half the sheep in my grandfather’s flock, and I’m supposed to be spinning the wool into yarn for my mother. I should be proud to come from such a wealthy family with so much wool to spin. It’s noble work, my mother says, the honour of women everywhere. Even the goddess Frigg spins yarn in Asgard.

I hate spinning yarn.

I can deal with a fleece or two, but my father said that last night the thralls dropped off two whole sacks. Two whole sacks! I’ll be spinning yarn for days. Loki! One hour of rolling wool onto a spindle and I’m ready to throw myself into the fjord.

Of course, my parents would just send my spinning tools along with me in the funeral boat so I could keep spinning in Valhalla …

Gods!

I don’t see why the thralls can’t do it. They’re used to endless, mind-numbing work. I’d rather pick rocks out of a field. I’d rather muck out the latrine. I’d rather slip head-first into the latrine than spin yarn.

My mother comes in from outside. Her eyes harden into points of steel when she sees I’m still sitting on my fur-covered bunk across from the smoking fire pit.

Hervor, what are you doing in here? I thought you started spinning over an hour ago.

I’m still eating breakfast.

She glares down into my half-eaten bowl of porridge. It looks to me like you’re finished.

It got cold.

Well you shouldn’t have taken so long to eat it. Now go get your spinning tools and get started on the wool. There’s really a lot to do today.

I can’t find my spinning tools.

Loki, Hervor!

She stoops down at my feet and sweeps her hand under the narrow space beneath my bunk and pats the furs where I’m sitting. Then she searches the bunks where my brothers sleep. I can’t resist a smirk as she whips back the furs on Young Frodmar’s bed and hisses an oath as she snatches up my spinning tools.

Looks like Young Frodmar would rather be spinning wool than framing the new barn with father, I say.

She thrusts the spindle and distaff into my lap. Frigg and Freya, Hervor! You’re the oldest child! Why must you always act like you’re the youngest? That’s enough fooling around for one day. Go down to the stream and get started on the wool.

The stream? You mean the wool hasn’t even been washed yet? Or combed?

Of course it hasn’t.

Hel and Loki.

Hervor Frodmarsdottir! Get going!

Fine! Gods!

When I arrive at the stream, my nine-year-old brother Heidrik is filling up two wooden buckets to water our horses. There’s still patches of snow along the bank where it’s shaded by the trees and as Heidrik stumbles up from the water I can hear the ice sloshing against the sides of the buckets. The last thing I want to do is get down on my knees on that muddy bank and dip my hands into that freezing stream. I don’t see why those thralls couldn’t have washed the wool. Lazy ingrates. Ugh. I’d rather die than spin this wool into yarn.

I stretch my back and groan miserably as I watch my brother.

Are you going up to the stable Heidrik?

Yes.

I think I’ll come with you.

Can you carry a bucket?

No.

Please, Hervor? They’re heavy!

No. It’s your job to water the horses. And how will you become a man if you can’t even carry two buckets of water by yourself?

Fine, he says. Then he looks back over his shoulder. But what about the wool? Don’t you have to start spinning it into yarn?

I glance at the two bulging sacks on the muddy bank and make up my mind.

Hel can spin this wool it into yarn.

Heidrik gasps as I fling my spindle and distaff into the stream. Hervor! Father is going to beat you!

It’s worth it not doing my chores.

He shakes his head. He’s worried. He’s still afraid of Father, and I know he hates when Mother makes him stand outside with Rugga and Young Frodmar to watch while Father beats me. I try to show my brothers how to be strong by keeping a straight face and never crying out when Father hits me, but sometimes if he beats me bloody I can hear Heidrik sobbing. That always feels worse than any beating Father can dish out.

I guess I can carry one of his buckets for him.

I follow Heidrik up to the stable, and while he’s feeding and watering all the other horses, I go into Trumdi’s stall and start brushing down his glossy coat. Trumdi was a Yule gift from my grandfather for turning sixteen years old. Everyone knows the best horses come from Borg, and my grandfather says that as the Princess of Lofoten it would be beneath me to ride a lesser breed. Of course, I’ve hardly ridden him at all yet since it’s only just begun to get light during the day again. It’s not good for such a fine horse to stay penned up inside a stall.

What are you doing? Heidrik asks as I throw the wool blanket over Trumdi’s back and start fitting him with the bridle.

Taking Trumdi out for a ride. Tell Mother you haven’t seen me.

What? I’m not going to lie to Mother!

You’d better. I lead Trumdi from the stall and climb up on his back.

Hervor—

But before he can argue, I crack the reins; Trumdi rears up with a wild whinny and we thunder off from the stable.

Spring has turned everything yellow and brown. The fields are soggy and full of mud, and the leaves haven’t come out yet on the trees. The air is heavy and damp from the melting snow, and my lungs are burning as we gallop through the woods up to my grandfather’s sheep pasture.

The split rail fence that goes around my grandfather’s sheep pasture is the best place in Ofotfjord for jumping. I’m not allowed to jump that fence. My father worries I’ll knock down the rails and let the sheep out, and he says he doesn’t want me causing trouble for the thralls.

But I’m already in for a beating, so I might as well jump it.

Some thralls are at work in the sheep pasture sheering the other half of the flock while others gather the wool and stuff it into huge brown sacks. It annoys me to see them doing this because I know that tomorrow I’m going to find two of those sacks down by the stream with the others, waiting to be washed and combed and spun into yarn.

I’m starting to dread going home to my father. He’ll be pretty mad when he hears I threw my spinning tools in the stream. I can already see his face turning red, his beard bristling. That was a stupid thing to do. I’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure. That’s what I get for showing off in front of Heidrik.

The water will be freezing, but maybe I can go back and find my spindle. Then I could say I did some spinning, even if I don’t get through very much. There, I’ll jump the fence a couple times and go back and try to fish my spinning tools out of the stream. I could always say I dropped them in the water while I was washing the wool.

I wish those thralls weren’t there to watch me though. I haven’t done any jumping yet with Trumdi. They’ll be laughing if I mess it up. Filthy, ungrateful shepherds—my grandfather treats them far better they deserve. I’ll show them. I’ll show them how to jump this fence.

I crack the reins and Trumdi lurches into motion. We’re galloping hard toward the fence, churning up clods of mud as we thunder across the wet field. I lean in low to prepare for the jump as he speeds up for the approach. I breathe out as we vault the fence. My heart stops. We’re airborne for a single exhilarating count—then we land again in hammering cadence, easing off into a mild canter.

There’s a good boy, I say, stroking his mane. But as we circle around for the second jump I get a warning bark from the shepherd dog. Some of the sheep on the other side of the pasture are distressed by our commotion and have scattered from the rest of the flock. The thralls are staring at me.

Impudent shepherds. If they were my thralls I’d scoop their eyes out for looking at me like that. As if I’m going to stop jumping the fence and go away on their account. Dirty ingrates. My grandfather shouldn’t be soft on them.

The pasture slopes gently down towards the woods where it’s fenced off again at the treeline. It’s not very steep, but as I set Trumdi into a gallop, I forget to take into account that from this side I’ll be jumping the fence uphill. We fly toward the fence, but this time as we make the jump I feel something jerk beneath me.

I look back and see I’ve knocked the two top rails off the fence. One of the thralls is coming down, a wiry man with short-cropped hair and an iron collar around his neck.

Ho there, Hervor! he calls, and waves me over.

Here we go.

I ride up to him, and Trumdi stamps and snorts as we circle around him like some captured runaway.

What do you want, thrall?

This thrall isn’t afraid of Trumdi like most thralls are, and he even has the nerve to take hold of the bridle to steady him. And then, as if that isn’t brazen enough, he looks me right in the eye and points to the two rails lying in the muddy grass. These thralls I tell you …

Hasn’t your father told you not to jump the jarl’s fence? he says.

It’s none of your business what my father says to me. And if you like having two hands you better let go of my horse.

Pretty sure that’s what he said, he says, without unhanding Trumdi’s bridle, But I tell you what, Hervor, if you put those rails back up on the fence and go away, I won’t say a word about it. And if your father comes looking and asks if we’ve seen you, I’ll even tell him you came by and helped us with the sheep for a bit until you got bored and went elsewhere. How does that sound to you?

Unbelievable. The balls on this shepherd! I jump down off Trumdi’s back, about ready to cave his head in for his insolence.

It sounds to me like you can’t tell the difference between the jarl’s granddaughter and some scabby thrall-maiden. You think I’ll allow myself to be coerced by some turd-mongering thrall into doing something other than whatever what I feel like? Go lie in your bed of dirt!

I spit in his face and kick down the remaining rails, knocking out a whole section of the fence.

Now the other thralls are coming down.

Folki! What’s going on?

What do you think? Folki says, wiping the string of saliva out of his patchy beard and flicking it into the grass. Same thing as always. Then he glares at me like he’s about to lose his temper.

If this Folki fellow was a free man I’d already be pounding his face in for looking at me that way. But there’s a pretty steep fine for assaulting another man’s thrall and I’ve already let Heidrik spend my allowance for this month, so I can’t afford to hit him first.

You better fix that fence and get back to those sheep, I tell him, or I’ll let Asger know I saw you sitting down and you’ll all be whipped for slacking off.

The thralls running over hesitate and look between themselves, but this thrall, Folki, keeps looking me in the eye.

And just what is it you’re slacking off from, Hervor? he says, All the other girls your age are spinning yarn for their mothers at home. How come you have time to come out to the jarl’s pasture and play? I think it’s you who needs a whipping.

You better be prepared to fight if you’re going to speak to me that way!

He snorts. I’m not about to throw away my life.

Fine, maybe I’ll go right now and tell my grandfather you said I need a whipping and demand he have you fed you to the hounds!

At which point the jarl will ask you what you were doing in his sheep pasture instead of spinning yarn out of the wool he made us take down to your mother. Just let us be, Hervor. We’re only trying to do our work and no one wants to fight you.

This thrall is getting on my nerves, scolding me and looking me in the eye. He’s a foot taller than I am but I give him a hard shove. He says an oath behind his beard and staggers back, nearly losing his footing. If he shoves me back I’ll tear his head right off his shoulders. Gods in Asgard I hope he shoves me back!

Just walk away Folki! cries one of the other shepherds as they come running over, Don’t let her get to you!

The way Folki is glaring at me I know he’s aching to break my nose. There’s a twitch in his lip; he clenches and unclenches his fists: he’s about to give in to his anger. I’m ready for it. I’ll slip his punch and knock his teeth out.

To my dismay, he starts heading back toward the sheep.

"Fy faen! Where do you think do think you’re going? Get back here and fight, you nidding! Din jaevla aergr-soper!"

Hervor! shouts one of the other thralls, you know duelling words are forbidden!

Thrusting boy!

Hervor!

Fine! Go on then! Get back to your pig pen! Go suckle your fathers, you man-biting shepherds!

Finally, Folki whirls around.

You spoiled brat—it’s time you knew! Your real father was a slave like us! Your mother had you with a swineheard!

The other shepherds gape and turn white; but I’m seeing red.

Fine or no fine, no thrall is going to get away with that. I head straight for him without a word and punch him in the mouth so hard it knocks him off his feet. He glares up at me with a bloody lip, but before he can get up, I seize him by the hair. He snarls and grabs my wrist with both hands; I hit him again and his nose cracks under my knuckles.

That’s enough Hervor! Let him be! The other thralls snatch me from behind, and Folki yells as they pull me off him; I’m clutching a brown patch of hair between my fingers.

How dare you! My father’s only ever looked out for you! He treats you far better than you deserve! How dare you speak of him that way!

Folki spits out a bloody tooth and winces as he sets his nose. But he’s chuckling as he gets back on his feet. That’s just it, Hervor, he laughs, blood trickling over his lips, Frodmar’s not your father.

Don’t, Folki, one of the shepherds warns him. But Folki doesn’t listen. He’s already crossed the line, and now he’s giving in wholeheartedly.

Frodmar’s your step-father, he says, grinning with his bloody teeth. When your mother was a little younger than you, she couldn’t hold her mead, and once when the jarl threw a feast for some of his bravest men, she got very drunk and wandered off. She stumbled into a swineherd’s hut while he was sleeping.

Thor and Loki! Shut your mouth!

And what do you think they did in there? says Folki, savouring every word. Did you hear me, girl? You thought you came from a great line of huskarls and jarl’s daughters? The Princess of Lofoten? What a joke! You’re a swineherd’s bastard-girl!

Gods in Asgard, Folki!

I’ll kill you. I say, shivering. I swear on the jaws of Fenrir. You’re a dead man.

But Folki is still basking in his revenge. Frodmar married your mother as a favour to the jarl so no one would know where you came from. But we all know, Hervor. We all know. You’re the only one who doesn’t, because the jarl forbids all Hålogaland from speaking of it.

On pain of death, says one of the others, which you seem to have forgotten, Folki. What do you think’s going to happen to you now?

At last Folki realizes what he’s done, and he backs away, turning pale. He wrings his hands. You’re right, he says with a cracking voice, I really lost it there. Odin help me. What am I going to do?

Make a run for it, the other shepherd says quietly, At least then you’ll have a chance to get away. If you stay here, you’ll be without a head by sundown.

He nods and glances quickly around the pasture to make sure no one’s watching, then he sends me one last hateful look and darts off into the trees.

My heart is racing as I watch him go. My fingers are tingling.

It’s true, isn’t it? I’m unable to hide the panic in my voice as the two thralls release me and back away.

No, Hervor, of course not. Folki didn’t know what he was saying.

Yes he did, and so did you! Hot tears blur my eyes. Gods in Asgard. Oh gods—I can’t breathe.

One of the thralls puts his hand on my shoulder. Take a deep breath, nice and easy.

No! Get away!

He backs off and holds up his hands. Perhaps it’s best if you speak to your mother …

TWO

HERVOR

I fly up the wooded path to the house. There's blue smoke coming from the chimney and two of our thrall-women are sitting out on the grass plucking chickens. I'm on them before they can get to their feet.

Where is she! Where's my mother!

They cringe away like I'm about to hit them, and I jump down from Trumdi and thrust the reins into the hands of the nearest girl.

Mother!

My mother comes out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron, Loki's children, what are you—

Is it true?

Is what—

That Frodmar is not my father, and that you got drunk and went into a swineherd’s hut!

Obviously it isn’t true. Who told you that?

One of Grandfather’s thralls. I was jumping the fence and knocked down some of the rails—and when he asked me to leave I tried to fight him, but then he lost his temper and said a swineherd is my father, not Frodmar—and the other thralls were trying to stop him, saying that Grandfather was going to put him to death because he had forbidden all Hålogaland from speaking about it—and then they were all afraid and he ran for his life into the woods!

I burst into tears and sob like some stupid little girl. I’m pathetic. All I want is for her to hug me close and tell me it’s all a lie, that those thralls somehow knew I’d go up to the sheep pasture today and conspired together about what they would do and say, and that my grandfather will muster his huskarls and take me with him to hunt them down and get our vengeance.

But my mother doesn’t hug me.

She stands there with her mouth open like she’s about to speak, her blue eyes averted up and to the right. Bolla, Almveig, she says, addressing the two thrall-women, go fetch more wood for the fire, and take your time.

Yes, my lady.

She waits for them to leave, listening with her hands on her hips until she’s sure they’re gone.

You were never meant to know, she says quietly.

No! No Mother! I cover my ears. I don’t want to heart it. My world is splitting apart.

But my mother continues, her voice stern and calloused. I was younger than you are, and stupider, and very fond of drinking mead. It’s true. I got drunk and slept with a swineherd.

I pull my hair, struggling for breath. I can’t believe what she’s saying. My own mother!

After it happened, she says, and I knew I was with child, your grandfather did not want us to live in shame, so he forbid anyone to speak of it ever again. The swineherd disappeared, and Frodmar married me before you were born.

It isn’t true. Tell me it isn’t true!

It is true. My mother folds her arms across her chest. For sixteen years I’ve kept this from you. I always thought it might feel good to speak of it together. It doesn’t. But now you know.

I sink to my knees, sobbing wretchedly. I’m a bastard.

You’re no such thing. The day you were born, Frodmar picked you up into his arms and carried you down to the fjord to sprinkle you with water. ‘I own this girl as my daughter. Her name will be Hervor.’ That’s what he said in front of everyone, and he was smiling proudly.

"So what if he adopted me? My blood is swineherd’s blood!"

Well, Hervor, she says, a bit more softly, you can choose to see yourself as some swineherd’s bastard daughter if you want. But no one else looks at you that way. And as for that thrall who said that, we can go up to the hall right now and tell your grandfather about it, and he’ll make sure he’s hunted down and brought to justice.

She reaches out to stroke my hair, but all I can think of is her stumbling out of her dress in that stinking hovel and letting some gawking swineherd grope her with his filthy hands—the two of them sighing and moaning in the dark. That's how I was born. It's disgusting. I'm disgusting.

I pull away from her. Don’t touch me.

Oh don’t be like that.

"I don’t know how Frodmar lives with you. He must think about it whenever you’re together—you gasping underneath another man. A swineherd! A swineherd, Mother! How could you do this to me! Why couldn’t you just leave me out in the woods to die!"

Her eyes flash with emotion and she draws back her hand like she’s about to slap me. But she doesn’t, and the pain in her face hardens into iron.

When you were born, she says, her voice as cold as the winter wind, that’s what everyone told me I should do. Sometimes, Hervor—the things that come out of your mouth—I wonder if I shouldn’t have.

For a moment I stare at her in silence. Then I head inside and put my axe and knife into my belt and take down my bow and quiver of arrows down from where they’re hung up on the wall above my bunk.

What are you doing?

I don’t answer.

Come on, Hervor, where are you going with that?

I’m going to live out in the woods where I belong—since I’m only a bastard and you never wanted me anyway.

I didn’t say that.

You did.

She shifts her blue eyes back and forth, then smiles thinly. Well, are you sure? Lunch will be ready soon.

I’m not hungry.

Sniffling, I head past her out the door and fasten my quiver to my hip. She stands in the door frame, watching me. Be home before dark, she says.

I’m not coming home.

Ever?

No.

She opens her mouth like she’s about to argue. But she decides to let it go and I trudge off into the woods.

THREE

HERVOR

It’s getting dark and the forest is turning cold and blue. There’s much more snow in the woods than out in the pasture. The sunlight made it damp and heavy, but now it’s starting to crunch under my feet. My sweat’s starting to freeze. I should have known it would get this cold.

I breathe into my stinging hands and rub them together, wishing I had my mitts and fox-fur hat. Pretty stupid, just tramping off without them. Now I’m miles from home out in the middle of the woods with no food or water, and no hat, mitts, or cloak—and the sun’s going down and it’s freezing cold.

I’m stupid. I’m just a stupid bastard-girl who doesn’t know anything.

I slump down into a snowbank and sob into my hands, wishing I had just gone down to the stream and washed and spun that wool this morning. Then the damp cold starts soaking through my dress.

Sniffling, I jump up and brush myself off as best I can and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I might have a swineherd for a father but that doesn't mean I'm going to freeze tonight. I take a deep breath. I need to pull it together.

I feel a bit better after having a cry, and in the bluish light I start gathering up wood for a fire. The trees are mostly birch that haven’t got their leaves yet. Birch bark’s good for starting a fire, even when it’s wet—birch bark and old man’s beard. Then I find myself a fir tree and start hacking off the green boughs with my axe.

Loki, my hands are cold! I pull the wool sleeves of my dress down over my fingers.

These fir boughs are good if you need to make a shelter, but in my case, I’m going to spread them on the ground like a mat so I don’t have to sit in the snow and get wet and cold. I start weaving them between a couple trees that are close together to make a wall, so when I get the fire going it’ll catch the heat and keep my back warm. Now for the fire.

I sniff back my runny nose and snap up a bunch of the small twigs I’ve gathered into tinder and split some of the larger sticks into kindling. My teeth are chattering and pins are pricking my fingertips, but I rummage through my wood for the fattest branch and start scraping off the bark with the edge of the axe, working it down until I’ve got a nice flat surface.

The cold blows into my dress as I unlace the front and pull out the leather cord with my aching fingers. I try tying the cord to both ends of a stick, but my hands are trembling so bad I can’t tighten the knot. I hiss a curse and yank it with my teeth.

Now it’s like a tiny bow, and I wrap another stick up in the cord and place a green tuft of old man’s beard underneath