Calamity's Heir: High Fire, #2

By Timothy J. R. Rains

In an age of violence, when berserkers prowl the seas of Scandinavia, a new terror cleaves a path through the north ...

 

After escaping my grandfather and a gruesome death-sentence, I need be on the first ship out of Hålogaland. 

 

If I can find a crew who hasn't heard I've got blood on my hands.

 

The problem is up here in the Lofoten Isles everyone knows everyone. And I've got a reputation for trouble. The last thing any man wants at sea.

 

But fear can a powerful motivator. And nothing seems to invoke fear like mentioning my father. My real father.

 

I get a warning though, from a skipper that takes me on. I'm not to mention my father where we're going. 

 

It'll invoke fear alright. The kind that will get us killed.

 

The thing is, I've grown proud of who my father was.

 

I'm becoming more his daughter with every swing of my sword. I'm becoming like him. I can feel it.

 

A destroyer. A savage.

 

Like I said, I've got a reputation for trouble.

 

And lately, everything I touch goes up in smoke.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy J. R. Rains
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223952947

Book preview

Calamity's Heir

The High Fire Saga Episode II

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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Calamity's Heir

Copyright © 2023 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.

Edited by J. J. Wolfe

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

Next Time in The High Fire Saga ...

ONE

HERVOR

Lofoten, Hålogaland

I need to find a ship that’ll take me out of Hålogaland. At this point, it doesn’t matter where it’s going, so long as it’s somewhere else. News of my disgrace will have spread like a plague throughout the whole region, and my three days of safe passage have gone by too quickly. It’s been an anxious week of sleepless nights: I’m always looking over my shoulder.

I’ve been making my way west into Lofoten, the formation of mountainous isles that once were my birthright. There are many villages along the coast, and in the early morning, if there isn’t any fog, I can see fishing boats far out on the water. But they’ll come in again once they’ve caught their haul for the day. It’s a merchant vessel that I need if I’m to get away from here. Vågar is the nearest place where I might find a ship like that—or Borg, which is another day further west.

There are a number of places where I have to swim from one island to the next. The islands aren’t very far apart, no more than a mile at the longest stretch, but it’s a dangerous crossing. The current is strong and freezing, and it tries to suck me under and drag me away from the shore. I’m a strong swimmer though, and I know how to deal with fast currents.

I strip down on the edge of the shore and roll my leather shoes up in my dress. I use my leg wraps to tie it tight around Asger’s sword-belt—I hate to take a fine blade like that into salt water, but I don’t have any choice.

I’m already shivering as I pull the shoulder strap over my head and fasten the buckle around my hips. I glance reluctantly at the patches of snow lingering along the shore. Then, I dash headlong into the shallows and dive naked into the cold, cold water.

The shock sends the blood rushing to my head. The current is eating me alive, nibbling my flesh with thousands of icy teeth. My muscles are seizing up from the cold. My head is pounding. But I don’t think about it: I swim steadily for the other side, turning my face up from the channel with each stroke to gasp a quick breath. The swishing current is towing me far from where I started, but I don’t panic. I strive calmly forward until I reach the shore, and finally pull myself onto the slippery rocks with rattling teeth and quivering hands.

I need to get a fire going right away. I need to get warm and dry my clothes. Every time I have to swim, I always lose a couple hours because I have to hang up my dress and socks and wait for the fire’s heat to dry them.

Eight days after leaving Ofotfjord, I arrive in the mountain-encircled port of Vågar. There’s a longship with a furled orange sail moored along the wharf. Men are busy loading it with provisions. They’re making a voyage of some length because they’re carrying live goats aboard for milk and squawking chickens in wooden cages, and people are gathering on the shore to say farewell and send off the crew.

A young man embraces his mother and sisters. Then he slings his shield on his back and says goodbye to his father. The burly man clasps his shoulder and looks him firmly in the eye as he thrusts his axe into his hand.

This ship is going on a raid.

My stomach squirms as I push through the crowd onto the wharf. The ship’s a snekkja, a twenty-bencher made for a crew of forty, but I don’t see any women among the crew. It won’t be easy to convince them to take me on. There are rules about sailing with women: unless I had a father or husband coming on board with me, a fifth of the crew would have to be female if the voyage was going to be more than three days long.

One of the men is passing heavy barrels to another man on board, and I can hear liquid sloshing around inside—fresh water probably, to drink at sea. He sets down his barrel when he sees me coming and gives me a fish-eyed stare.

Who’s the skipper here? I ask.

He spits off the wharf into the waves. That’d be Dwerg, he says, nodding at another man climbing up out of the ship, a nervous, dark-haired fellow with shifting eyes.

You’re the skipper? I ask him.

He peers at me suspiciously. Yes. What do you want?

I want to know where you’re going.

Northeast.

Not south?

Northeast, he says again, To Ladoga. We’ll raid the Finns and then head south into Gardariki to trade our slaves and plunder with the Rus. He looks down at the sword on my hip. And you’re not coming.

Because I’m a woman?

Yes. And because I doubt your husband agreed to let you take his sword and run off to join a crew of forty men. I don’t want to start a feud.

I remember that my mother took off my kransen—the braided leather circlet worn by virgin girls who still live with their fathers. It’s a mark of shame for an unmarried girl not to wear a kransen; it shows that her father has thrown her out of his house.

I tell him I don’t have a husband, and that my father won’t care what happens to me.

Well, that explains why you want to leave, he says, But you’re still not getting in my ship.

It’s in your best interest to let me come along. You should know better than to risk a woman’s fury.

The man loading the barrels snorts and shakes his head. Dwerg chuckles. That’s what every girl says when she doesn’t get her way.

I’m not just any girl.

Telling him is a gamble, and for a second I consider turning around and hiking the extra day to Borg … but I know I’ll only find myself in a similar situation. Only then there’s a greater chance the news will have reached them. Loki, they might already know. The whole crew might spring out the ship and drown me off the wharf.

I’m The Princess of Lofoten.

The skipper sets his jaw and exchanges a glance with a few of the other men. Some of them are staring up at me from the ship.

Hervor Frodmarsdottir? From Ofotfjord?

Yes. Though I’m not Frodmarsdottir any more.

Your father got tired of putting up with you, did he? I heard Frodmar’s lass was a lot to handle. This gets a few snickers from the crew, but I don’t find it very funny.

You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew who my true father was.

The way he turns pale, it’s clear he already knows. Everyone does. They’ve known this whole time, and I’m the only one who hasn’t. I wonder if my brothers knew. Gods that makes my blood boil.

You’ve found out then? he asks reluctantly.

I know who’s blood flows through my veins, and I know about the curse that haunts my kin. And the spirits that visit those of my bloodline. Some of them listen to me …

He hunches up his shoulders. Now just what do you mean by saying a thing like that?

Oh nothing. Turn me away if you must. I’ll go back to spinning yarn at home. I’ll be singing as I spin, singing a story of how you treated me … and of how forty sailors fared at sea.

Now he’s uncomfortable, and some of the crew are whispering to each other uneasily.

"Woman, don’t you threaten me with seidr, he growls, our fates are decided by the Norns. Even if you spin a spell about us all in yarn, you can’t invoke our doom unless the Norns have spoken it from the otherworld!"

He’s putting on a brave show, but the thought of a woman cursing their voyage has obviously unsettled him. If I choose my words, he’ll do whatever I say.

"The Norns only determine the moment of your death. Who is to say you won’t catch some awful sickness? Maybe you’ll live through it. Maybe you won’t. Or maybe you’ll lose your wind and be adrift for days until the crew are tempted to throw you overboard. I’m not saying that you’ll drown, but your voyage will most likely end in disaster. Who knows, really, what might happen; seidr isn’t too predictable."

Look, he says, we don’t want any trouble.

I can hear the fear in his voice, and I know I’ve got him.

Then you better go back up to the seer again, I say. Her reading might not be so favourable, now that our paths have crossed.

The whole crew is watching him with worried faces. He whispers a nervous oath. Fine, you can come, he says, Loki’s children! You live up to your reputation, that’s for sure.

He spits in his palm and offers me his hand. "You’re now a part of the crew aboard the longship Gellir."

I spit in my own hand and slap it against his. You’re making the right choice.

"Am I? We’ll see if you still feel that way after we’ve been away from our wives for two weeks. No one will care much who your grandfather is then. Which brings me to another matter. You won’t be getting any special treatment on account of being a princess. We’re all equals on the Gellir, so you’d better pull your weight."

Alright.

Alright? That’s ‘Yes, skipper!’ to you, lass! Now get aboard. We’re putting off soon.

I step down into the ship and those already aboard lean well away from me as I make my way to an empty rowing bench. They’re all uneasy. None of them look me in the eye, and no one speaks or turns to introduce himself as I sit down. I might have won my way aboard, but I haven’t won any friends.

I take a deep breath and try to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Even though I’m sitting forward near the bow, I’m facing backwards towards the mast and stern. Further back is the shore where all the people of Vågar are gathered to see us off. I think about what Skipper Dwerg said about the crew being away from their wives for so long.

What am I doing?

I wring my hands in my lap, reminding myself that I didn’t have a choice, that to stay in Hålogaland would mean my death. But it doesn’t stop my guts from churning.

Upon the wharf, the fish-eyed man passes the last barrel of water aboard and climbs down into the ship himself. As he takes his seat, Dwerg leans in toward him with one hand on the rigging.

Olli, Who are we still waiting for?

Just Arne and Harold, he says. He points to a man jogging down to the wharf with a shield slung across his back and a long-axe in his hand. There’s Arne now.

Dwerg crosses his arms as Arne runs up to him. Is your axe sharp enough?

Arne’s a burly man with a shaved head and a thick brown beard. His grinning eyes are grey, like the mist over the fjord.

Did you want to test it? Arne asks cheerfully. He’s got a heavy accent.

Dwerg shakes his head. Where’s Harold?

Saying goodbye to his wife. He flicks his tongue between his fingers. I think he’s still going to be a while.

Loki. Well too bad for Harold. Princess Hervor took his place.

Who? Did you say a princess?

Your new rowing partner.

Arne stares at me and says something I can’t quite hear. He’s grinning though, and both of them chuckle. He claps Dwerg on the back and climbs aboard, smiling and clasping hands with all the other men as he makes his way up to where I’m sitting. He swings his shield off his back and hangs it off one of the wooden hooks along the gunwale, then unshoulders his bundle of fighting gear and kicks it under the bench. Then he twists around and he looks me over. Slowly.

Five seconds and he’s already getting on my nerves.

Stop trying to see through my dress.

I can't help it, he says, and I still can't place his accent, you're too pretty. Way better looking than Harold. He leans back and folds his hands behind his head. I think it's going to be a pleasant voyage.

Keep ogling me like that and you might not make it to Ladoga.

Whoa! Tough girl! Is this your first big raid?

And what if it is?

Nervous?

No.

Yes.

I’m not nervous.

But you are. You look like you’re about to cry.

You’d better back off! I said I’m not nervous!

He grins. Okay, tough girl.

I finally recognize his accent. Once every few years a Swedish merchant vessel would come up to trade as far as Ofotfjord, and my grandfather would host the ship’s crew in his hall. Usually, the skipper brought some message from their king, and my grandfather would always be on edge for a while after they’d left. My grandfather has many allies, but King Gizur is not one of them.

"What’s a Swede like you doing