Northlands Saga 0: Spears in the Ice

The journey from Vidarstead has been a long one. Spring travel in Hordaland is often wet, cold, and treacherous, but Ulfarr Vidarsson is no stranger to it. His home is far from what most northmen would consider settled lands, and so as a young man Ulfarr spent many a day exploring sun-lit vales and dark lakes, pine woods and icy-crusted bluffs. The Anvødan ruins scattered throughout the land always fascinated the boy, much to his mother's chargrin, and the joy of his childhood companion, Astrid.

The tall young man's trail to Silvermeade skirted the Forest of Woe, crossed through the heaths and heathers of Svartholm, and finally wound through the Moors, the fens and sloughs that gradually gave way to the settled and cultivated lands that comprised Jarl Olaf Henrikson's holdings.

The boy -- nay, man now! The man's parting with his parents was not an easy one. It seemed neither believed Ulf would find naught but trouble in the more populated lands they left so long ago. Vidar's grip on his son's hand and forearm were strong and purposeful when he saw his son off; Freja could not even look the youth in the eye as she double-checked his pack, made sure his weapons were sharp, and fussed over his furs and his cloak.

Now, looming before him -- a sight unlike anything Ulf had ever seen. Mountains he'd climbed, fjords he'd swum, but never had the straw-haired young man seen the likes of Silvermeade.

The sounds and smells of the community are not so unfamiliar to Ulfarr as the sheer scale of it all. The amount of smoke in the air, the dozens and scores of men and woman felling, tilling, fishing, sawing, mending, churning, cooking, smithing... it is almost overwhelming to the young northman. Everything seems to vie for his attention at once, so he lowers his ice-blue gaze to consider only that which is right in front of him: a handful of thralls and a few freemen helping them build and mend animal pens.

As he moves past, his sights on the hold beyond, Ulf nods at the workers. "Ho, good people of Silvermeade. I am Ulfarr Vidarsson, of Vidarstead. I come far to answer the summons of Jarl Olaf Henrikson."

Ulfarr is not practiced in making conversation with northlanders he does not know, and is worse still when speaking with thralls, as they are few and far between at Vidarstead. But he knows enough to try as he moves among them.

Nodding when the Jarl's hall is pointed out, he adds, "How go the fortunes of Silvermeade? We heard tell of troll-sightings in the south this past winter... were they seen here as well?"

"That's glad news," Ulfarr says to the older thrall. It's unclear whether he's talking about the trolls being cleared out, or the fact that the lowest in the land speak highly of the Jarl. The strapping young man knows that there was bad blood between his father and Henrikson, but he was never able to prise the reasons from the stoic man with the haunted eyes who'd raised him.

Setting his sights on the Jarl's hall, the traveler continues on his way after nodding his thanks at the thralls.

Ulf straightens his back and sets his broad shoulders as he is challenged outside the hall, trying to match the huscarl's bearing and size. It is hard to focus with the buzz of activity outside the great hall, all the turned faces and watching eyes, but the youth's deep voice is steady as he answers.

"Ulfarr, son of Vidar. I have traveled long and far to offer my axe to Jarl Henrikson. I ask you let me pass so that I may show him its keen edge."

Ulfarr merely nods, not worldly enough to be able to construe the meaning of the guard's words, expressions, and posture. He does not hesitate in setting down his heavy pack inside the big trunk, and adds his Skeggøx, his lighter axe, three frakka and his seax. Then unburdened, the tall man turns back to his host as he sits upon the bench to wait.

"How long will the Jarl be occupied with preparations, do you know?"

Ulf nods at Frodi, then tries to keep his eyes from lingering too long on the maid as she's pulled aside by the huscarl. He's seen precious few fair girls like her these past few years -- none, really, since Astrid left. He meets her gaze as she walks past him, and he nods at her slightly.

"I am Ulf Vidarsson and I've come many leagues. A mead horn would be welcome, but deliver first your burden." He makes to stand, adding, "Do you need aid with it?

To say that the size and craftsmanship of Silvermeade Hall cowed Ulfarr Vidarsson would be too strong a sentiment, but in truth the young, would-be warrior was on the verge of awe. But that awe made him thirst to see more, not to be satisfied waiting for hours in some antechamber, aye, warming a slab of wood with his buttocks.

So, fully rising, he moves towards the girl and holds the door for her. If nothing else, the action will afford him a view inside the place...

He should not enter. Ulfarr knows this. He hears his father's voice in his ears, his mother's in his heart. Vidar says he should abide what's been asked of him, he should respect the laws and protocols of the village. Freja wants her son nowhere near any of this at all. Coupled with these voices is Ulf's own, telling himself that there are just too many people present for him to barge in. Too many eyes to see his face, too many ears to his voice when he announces his name.

But he follows the maid inside. Astrid is here, and just the thought of the woman buzzes in his head loud enough to drown out all the warnings and admonishments. His gaze sweeps the hall as he moves, but always comes back to her, to the girl he loved... and was unable to safeguard.