Winterfire

Chapter Six

Lucan

The journey took on a grave tone after the deaths of Gilbert and Wirt. We went about our tasks without speaking more than necessary. Cormack, already a quiet man, stopped speaking entirely. Without the Danes singing and telling stories, the demanding duty of rowing became just work. We were miserable without the distraction of the Danes’ good humor; we fell into silent despair over our circumstances.

Ingmar sheathed Tyrfing and put it back into the chest, though the lock was broken. I heard the Danes talk about it once. They’d known it was there, but  they’d also known the curse, and had no desire to touch it, locked or unlocked. The captives, except for me, had never heard of the cursed sword, but were sufficiently afraid of it now to avoid the chest.

On that night in Beal, when I’d dreamed the ravens spoke to me, telling me to take Tyrfing, that the sword would not hurt me, I didn’t know what the birds were talking about; I’d assumed I was dreaming. The next morning, after the fight had broken out and two men died – one, the victim, the other, the murderer – I’d felt strange, like someone was watching me to gauge my reaction. For some reason, after Gilbert was killed, I felt guilty, as though I’d somehow had a hand in the fight, as if I’d allowed someone to get hold of my sword.

Why did I always sense the sword’s presence? Did every man on board have the feeling that it was calling to him, demanding that he take it? For me, that feeling grew stronger every day.

I knew little about the Danes’ beliefs. The crew of the Fýri was brave, hardworking, and fair, but what did they believe? I’d never even considered such a question before I’d been kidnapped. In Beal, we all worshipped the same god; we’d all believed the same thing. But the Danes spoke of “Thor” and “Odin” and “Freyja,” and many other gods I’d never heard of in Beal. I had never believed in enchantments before, but I had trouble not believing Tyrfing was cursed.

 “Ingmar,” I said, finally, “can you tell me about Tyrfing? We don’t have swords in Beal – cursed or otherwise – and I for one would hear what you can tell us.” Brother Bede and Stedman nodded at Ingmar.

“I will explain Tyrfing tonight,” said Ingmar. As opposed to his usual, ready smile, his mouth formed a grim, straight line.

We anchored the Fýri on a desolate beach and built a roaring fire. Brother Bede and Brother Wilfred cooked a stew of fish and seaweed in a pot they hung over the fire. When we were all seated, steaming bowls of the stew on our laps, Ingmar began the tale of Tyrfing.

“Odin, the mighty chief of the gods and goddesses, had an unruly grandson, called Svarlami. Even Svarlami knew the dwarves are the finest smithies in the Nine Worlds, and he wanted the dwarves to forge a mighty sword for him. He caught three dwarves, and, as Odin’s grandson, Svarlami commanded them to do the work. He wanted his sword to have a glittering, golden hilt, and a blade that would never rust, never miss its mark, and cut through stone and iron as easily as it cuts through cloth. The dwarves made the sword for him, but in revenge for his mistreatment of them, they cursed it. Tyrfing will do all Svarlami wanted it to do, but it will also kill a man every time the light of the sun or moon touches it, and it will kill the man wielding it. Svarlami was its first victim.”

“That is the sword that is on this ship?” asked Brother Bede. “Why don’t you throw it into the ocean and be done with it?”

Ketill took up the tale. “There is one man who can wield Tyrfing, who it will not kill, and Tyrfing seeks that man; it calls to him day and night.” Ketill paused and gazed at the faces in the firelight. “If we were to throw Tyrfing into the sea – into the deepest, darkest hole at the bottom of the ocean – the sword would somehow rise from the depths to find its true owner.”