Southbound, Part Two.

The chapter opened in York (Jorvik), a decaying city simmering with Saxon-Danish tensions. Osbert Uhtredsson, his lethal companion Elaina "The Vicious", and Cian, Rurik, and Father Eadric- arrive as envoys for Osbert’s grandfather, Uhtred of Bebbanburg. They navigate York’s grimy chaos, encountering beggars and guards who direct them to Lord Orm, Aethelstan's chosen ruler, holding court in a mead-stinking hall filled with Norse warriors.

Orm, a brash and shrewd leader, mocks Osbert’s youth and probes Elaina’s infamous reputation, noting her Sassanid blades gifted by a bishop. Orm questions their loyalty to King Aethelstan (now styled "Emperor") and deflects Osbert’s hints about Olaf Guthfrithson, a Norse threat sharpening axes in Dublin. Elaina, unflinching, challenges Orm’s allegiance, calling loyalty a virtue “not for sale,” while Cian lightens the mood with irreverent jabs.

Orm, irked but pragmatic, grants them a night’s stay at a local alehouse, dismissing them with warnings of Aethelstan’s “snake-filled” court. The chapter closed with the group exiting into York’s oppressive air, the specter of Olaf’s rebellion and Saxon political scheming looming over their journey south. The city’s rot mirrors the fragile alliances and hidden daggers of a kingdom teetering between Norse ambition and Saxon rule.

 

 

 

A short walk down a sparsely paved road led to the old roman alehouse. It reminded me of a den of shadows from my grandfather's stories, its air thick with smoke from the hearth fire and the reek of washed away wine. Cian and Rurik vanished into a dice game almost instantly, leaving Elaina and me at a corner table. Father Eadric huddled nearby, sipping watered wine like it was poison.

 

"This place is filled with muck," Elaina muttered, wiping grime from the table, her sharp grey eyes darting around, absorbing the new environment.

 

"Worse than Bebbanburg’s latrines," I agreed.

 

Then, almost instantly, a shadow fell over us, a Dane by his look—tall as a longship’s mast, hair like wildfire—he slid onto the bench beside Elaina.

 

"The Vicious One," he purred. "I expected… taller."

 

Elaina’s dagger pricked his thigh beneath the table. "And I expected smarter."

 

Sigurd grinned, unflinching. "Sigurd Hringsson. Son of Dyflin, friend to Jorvik."

 

The word "friend" was heavily emphasized. It was in Danish, but he spoke it with a lilting accent that sounded similar to the way Finan speaks Danish. His eyes traced her olive skin, darker than the surrounding Saxons.

 

"You’re not from these frozen piss-lands. Where’d Uhtredaerwe dig you up? Some southern brothel?"

 

I grinned to myself, hearing Sigurd refer to my grandfather as "Uhtred The Wicked" in the saxon tongue and made a note to tell him when I got home. He'd be properly pleased to hear it.

 

Her blade pressed deeper, and seeing the tension in her forearm, my hand dropped to the hilt of my longsword, Drengr.

 

Elaina kept her eyes fixed on Sigurd. "A brothel taught me how to gut men who ask too many questions."

 

He laughed, a loud booming noise, tossing silver to the alewife. "Wine! The good stuff- none of this Saxon swill."

 

Elaina glanced at me for a moment, and I offered her a small shrug of indifference. She was so easily recognizable in these pale lands I had become used to it over the past year. A few moments of silence passed as Sigurd measured up Elaina and me, and then the wine came. Father Eadric, who had been quietly staring daggers into Sigurd, glanced down at his glass, and up to the obviously much richer wine that had just appeared at the table. I glanced from the wine to Sigurd, and he was looking at Father Eadric.

 

"Go ahead wizard, I know it's better than whatever you have in that cup." Sigurd nudged the wine closer to Father Eadric, who did not understand a word of the Danish the red-headed man spoke. I translated, and Father Eadric bowed his head with a sheepish smile, emptied his glass into the rushes and poured himself anew.

 

Sigurd turned back to Elaina and filled her glass in a slow, exaggerated fashion with the rich red wine. "I’ve heard tales." He paused, poured himself some wine, and eagerly drunk down the entire horn in one gulp. "The girl who butchered Constantine’s son."

 

I bridled at that, but neither saw, and Sigurd continued. "They say you smiled while his guts spilled."

 

"They say wrong." Elaina’s gaze iced over, her reply quick and voice steady with confidence. "I didn’t smile."

 

Sigurd’s grin widened. He leaned over her, attention on me now, and flicked the cross at my throat and it clanked softly against the hammer under it. "And you—Uhtred’s pup I presume? Which god do you pray to? The christ god or the thunderer?"

 

"The one who answers first," I replied with a small grin and a quirked eyebrow.

 

Father Eadric stiffened and hissed. "Blasphemy!"

 

Sigurd ignored that. "Your grandfather’s a legend. But legends rot. Northumbria is not his anymore. It would do you well to tell him that."

 

Elaina stood before I could respond, tucking her dagger back into her belt. "We’re done here."

 

Sigurd caught her wrist in a powerful grip, and for a moment I thought I saw fear in Elaina's eyes. My hand gripped Drengr's hilt by reflex once more.

 

"A word, Vicious one?" He tugged her closer to him, and to my shock, she did not immediately resist.

 

"Orm’s days are numbered. Olaf’s coming. And when he does…" His thumb brushed her pulse in mock affection. "…you’ll want friends in the North."

 

She wrenched free at that, but it looked more like Sigurd allowed her to slip away, and she regained her composure. "I’ve got enough friends. And two blades for the rest."

 

I stood up to follow Elaina out, when Cian and Rurik appeared at the table beside Sigurd. Rurik flushed with anger, slammed his dagger into the table in front of Sigurd.

 

"If you want a fight, don't pick it with a woman, pick it with me Hrafnasueltir," he spat the last word. It was a word of norse origin which meant raven starver, and it was a harsh term, equivelent to calling him a coward, but even worse. I was preparing to fight now, in fear the fifteen year old pup had bitten more than he could chew.

 

Rurik continued to speak to Sigurd in Danish, or Norse I guess, the languages were so similar. Father Eadric looked at me quickly, his face filled with fear. I blinked, still surprised by the young man's brave stupidity, and I moved an open palm downward in Eadric's direction, a calming gesture.

 

The burly Norseman's eyes moved from Cian to Rurik curiously, but without a shred of fear. He panged the blade of the dagger with the flick of his finger tips. "A nice weapon, maybe I'll keep it."

 

He displayed that wide grin of his, stood tall, and towering over both Cian and Rurik, just patted Rurik on the head. "Good boy. Now please move out of my way before I open your neck with my bare hands."

 

Rurik, awestruck at the size of the man, moved slightly and silently to his left, allowing him to pass. Sigurd had left the dagger stuck into the table. Cian caught Elaina's eye as Sigurd left earshot.

 

"Maybe you should stop walking around everywhere with those big beautiful blades strapped to your back," he said with a sly grin. She did not respond.

 

We moved to the barkeep and inquired about a room. He glanced at the four of us for a long second and then informed us that Lord Orm had reached out and had one prepared. He escorted us down the hall to a small room that I would have walked past and deemed a closet had the barkeep not stopped and pushed the door open. Rurik entered first and stutter-stepped at the loud "SQWAK" sound that greeted him. He glanced at the source of the noise and then back at me.

 

"It's where they keep the chickens," he said, with a bit of disappointment, and perhaps embarrassment tinging his voice. I walked into the room and glanced around. It was indeed a storage room, about eight paces wide and six paces deep. Sure enough, a chicken pen was in the left corner containing seven or ten of the noisy creatures and there was dirty, browning rush scattered about the floor.

 

"The lice will make a new home tonight," Cian said, and I sighed, turning to the barkeep. I reached into my pocket for some silver coins, making sure he could hear them clink against eachother.

 

"Is there anything better than this for a few silver?"

 

The barkeep opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and frowned. "Lord Orm told me you might ask, and told me to tell you he hopes you enjoyed the better ale,"

 

Cian cursed.

 

The night was uneventful, and we all slept, despite the clatter from the chickens, and itchy louse-ridden rush on the floor. I opened my eyes to see the grey in the sky of the in-between hours, and we gathered ourselves and our belongings.

 

The air outside was a thief, stealing warmth with every gust in the wolf hour. Father Eadric trailed me, trembling in the cold. "That man-Sigurd-he’s a heathen. A Norse."

 

"I didn't hear you complain when you drank down his wine," I said. "What of it?"

 

He gripped my arm tightly. "You wear Christ’s cross and a pagan symbol. How can you serve two masters?"

 

I stopped, looked down at his hands on my arm, and turned on the priest. "My grandfather served Alfred the Christian and the old gods. He taught me faith is a shield—you pick the one that stops the arrows."

 

"Faith is truth," Eadric hissed. "Not… not a tool."

 

"Truth?" I laughed coldly. "Your Christ hung defeated, nailed and bleeding. The old gods? They fight. Choose your truth, priest. But don’t preach to me."

 

York’s gates creaking shut behind us, we set out onto the roman road heading southwest. I glanced back at the walls, and my eyes widened slightly when they fell on the big form of Sigurd watching from the rampart, his red hair blazing like a pyre. Rurik saw him as well, and stopped before mounting his pack horse. He turned, tossed his dagger in the air and caught it upon descent by the blade. Before I could manage to object, he launched the dagger like a projectile. It embedded itself in the rampart's wood at the Norseman's feet-a parting gift. The big Dane just held his steadfast grin.

 

"Next time, aim for his throat," Elaina said.

 

Rurik grinned. "Next time. Every year I will grow taller, and every year, he will grow older."

 

Father Eadric stared back at the city. "They’ll come for us. Sigurd. Olaf. All of them."

 

I was not sure if he was talking to us or himself, but the words caught in the wind for a moment.

 

"Let them," Elaina eventually said, spurring her horse and nudging him forward. "I’ll carve their names on my blades."

 

As York faded into the horizon, I thumbed my hammer and cross. Gods and kings, I thought. Let them fight.

 

The Roman road stretched south like a scar across the land, its stones worn smooth by centuries of boots, hooves, and wheels. The party rode in silence for hours, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone the only sound breaking the stillness. The landscape shifted as we left York behind—rolling hills gave way to dense forests, their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth.

 

Elaina rode ahead, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning the treeline. Cian followed close behind, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Rurik, still sulking, lagged at the rear, muttering under his breath about the weight of the supplies. Father Eadric rode beside me, his face pale and drawn, his fingers clutching his rosary like a lifeline.

 

Rurik queued his horse to speed up and settle next to mine, and my mare snapped at his stallion's face, causing him to sidestep a pace or two. I patted her neck to calm her spirit.

 

"I am sorry Osbert, for that display," Rurik said softly, his breaking voice piercing the silence. "With Sigurd, I know I let my temper get the best of me."

 

I smiled, pushed out my lower lip and shook my head with a squint of my eyes. "Don't worry about it Skallagrimsson. You're blessed with Odin's gift, from a long line of wolf warriors." I raised a hand and teetered it as if it was a scale and let out a short burst of laughter. "You just have to learn to harness it. That man would have eaten you."

 

"... and I would have cut you out of his stomach before he could burp. Osbert, don't scare the boy," Elaina chimed in from ahead.

 

"I am not trying to scare him," I said through a steady smile and turned back to Rurik. "Did I mention anything about it to you? No. I admired your courage, despite its reckless nature."

 

Rurik bowed his head to me. "I don't want my father looking down on me and see me not defend a woman in the face of a brute like that."

 

"You saw a woman there?" Cian's voice lilted with his humour.

 

Elaina, who was eating an apple, threw it at Cian half-eaten and struck him on the cheek. It fell to disappear in the mud mixture below.

 

Cian lifted a hand to caress his face in feigned injury, turning to the three of us behind with his mock concern. "See, boys? That is why there're dog-sized rats following us."

 

I smiled.

 

Father Eadric, who had been quietly observing from his horse, nudged forward, his face pinched with disapproval. "Such waste," he muttered, loud enough for them to hear. "An apple, no less. Do you know how many mouths that could have fed?"

 

Elaina turned in her saddle, her smile fading as she met his gaze. "It’s just an apple, priest. There’s a whole barrel worth in those sacks Rurik has."

 

"Just an apple?" Eadric’s voice rose, thin and reedy. "Do you think God’s bounty is so plentiful that we can squander it on childish games? Every bite of food is a gift from the Lord, and you—" He pointed a trembling finger at the ruined fruit in the mud. "—you treat it as if it were nothing."

 

Cian pulled on his reins, stopping his mare. He raised open palms at the priest. "It’s not like she threw a loaf of bread, Father. It’s one apple. The rats’ll eat it, and they’ll be grateful."

 

Father Eadric’s face flushed. "And what of the poor? The hungry? That poor one-eyed a man of whom you tossed a copper to in the stead of an apple. Would they not be more deserving of God’s gifts than the vermin on our trail?" He turned to Elaina, his eyes narrowing. "You, who call yourself a warrior, should know the value of sustenance. Or do you think the blood your blades drink will feed you when the harvest fails?"

 

Elaina’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. I could see that she was thinking about the priests words. Cian, sensing the tension, clicked his tongue and his horse moved between them.

 

"Easy, Father. It’s not worth a sermon."

 

"It is always worth a sermon," Eadric snapped. "For it is in the small sins that the greater evils take root. Waste today, greed tomorrow, and soon the soul is lost."

 

In a surprisingly quick movement, he jumped down from his horse, digging through the mud, and picked up the remains of the now brown apple with trembling hands. "This," he said, holding it up like a relic, "is not just fruit. It is a reminder of our duty to God and to each other. To waste it is to spit in the face of His mercy."

 

Elaina rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of guilt in her expression. "Fine, Father. Next time, I’ll aim better. Maybe I’ll get it in his mouth."

 

Father Eadric’s lips thinned. "Mockery does not absolve you of sin, child. Repent and pray that God forgives your carelessness."

 

He turned on his heel and mounted up, clutching the ruined apple as if it were a sacred object.

 

Cian watched him. Shaking his head, he side-eyed Elaina and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

 

"He’s got a point, you know. That was a good apple."

 

Elaina snorted. "Since when do you care about apples?"

 

"Since I’m the one who has to listen to him preach about them," Cian replied, grinning. "Next time, throw a rock."

 

Countless montonous hours passed, and suddenly Leicester was approaching quickly, a fortress of stone and timber. Its walls towering over the surrounding countryside. The city appeared in such contrast to York- where York had been a chaotic sprawl of Saxon and Norse influences, Leicester was a bastion of Mercian pride. The streets were cleaner, the buildings more orderly, but the tension in the air was palpable. The city’s Norse heritage lingered like a ghost, its presence felt in the faces of the people and the whispers that followed us as we rode through the gates.

 

 

 

 

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Sigurd Hringsson: Son of Dyflin (dublin) and friend to Jorvik (york) -grin-