Two Measures of Grief: High Fire

By Timothy J. R. Rains

Her worst regret is taking up her father's sword ...

Hervor was warned about Tyrfing. But the agony it has brought her is beyond anything she coud have imagined. With one son in the grave and the other in exile, she blames only herself—and so does everybody else.

Hated like the plague and shunned by those she loves, Hervor has never been more alone. Until, in her darkest hour, she discovers friendship in the unlikeliest of places ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy J. R. Rains
• Release date: Aug 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215453889

Book preview

Two Measures of Grief

A High Fire Story

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.

Two Measures of Grief

Copyright © 2022 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

Layout and cover design by author

Edited by J. J. Wolfe

Contents

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

Sneak Peak of Saltwater Magic

ONE

Borg, Lofoten—430 A.D.

It’s been raining more than forty days in Lofoten. The mountainous isles are shrouded in gloom like a house in mourning, the grey peaks vanishing into the dark, oppressing sky.

His boots squelch in the muck as he finally tramps into the village. He’s come the whole way on foot—a wet slog of a journey. But seasoned voyager that he is, not even he would brave such weather by ship. Not with the wind howling and stirring up the sea.

He shields his brow with his dripping hand and squints against the rain. Beyond the solemn gathering of dark houses and buildings, the hall at the top of the hill looks like a capsized ship on a crashing wave. The sight of it fills him with a great reluctance—a reluctance he’s felt many times since his baptism. He’s never gotten used to doing this. Perhaps it’s just as well.

One of the windows in the hall flickers with a lonely light—the only light in the whole village. Seems a forsaken place, Borg. No one lumbering through the muddy streets. No smoke from the log houses. No voices or laughter. One of the doors is open, swinging on the hinges and banging against the side of the house. He peers into the empty gloom.

Seems abandoned.

There’s a couple fishing boats moored along the wharf, rising and falling on the swelling waves. But no ships. Nothing you’d take out to sea.

If not for the light in the window he’d think there was no one here at all. But that gives him no comfort. It seems more like a castaway’s signal of distress than a beacon inviting rain-soaked travellers to take shelter from the storm.

He gives a nervous sigh, then ascends the wooden steps up to the hall and raps his knuckles on the door.

Silence.

He waits and knocks again, but still no sound from inside.

He frowns and gives the door a few hard bangs with his burly fist. Finally, he hears someone coming.

A huskarl opens the door and his stomach growls as savoury aromas come wafting out.

Who comes— the huskarl’s voice trails off as peers up at him reluctantly. Loki …

He has this kind of effect on most people and he grins through his rusty beard and lets his shoulders sag to appear less threatening. How are the gods? he asks, rain dripping from his nose.

Wet, the huskarl replies. What business have you at the hall of Borg, giant?

I’m just a weary traveller looking for refuge from the storm. I’ve many stories to tell if I might have a bowl of stew.

The huskarl raises a doubtful brow. You’re a poet are you?

I am, amongst other things. He looks eagerly past him to the glowing fireplace at the far end of the hall. May … I come in?

His heart sinks as the huskarl winces and strokes his greyish beard like he isn’t sure it’s a good