Sevol and Osserin made a happy couple thought B’lf, draining his cup. The two of them smelled fresh, they smelled of spring. He reached out and held Sylyn’s hand. She took his hand and squeezed it. Her hair had turned white in the years, her breasts sagged some, but her touch was still the same. B’lf’s own brown hair now gleamed grey in the torchlight. Perhaps silver, as silver as the coin that hung from his neck.
He lifted up his black goblet bedecked with rubies and a serf refilled it. He stood, letting go of his wife’s hand and pushed back his weighty bone chair.
“Sevol,” he said, his voice carrying less than it once had, “Take my daughter to your bed. Enjoy the prosperity of my house. You, you are now Lord of Svalbard. My men and ships and name itself are now yours.”
And with that he pulled off the talisman from around his neck, breaking the light steel chain, and threw it to his son-in-law. It landed at Sevol’s feet.
The young man reluctantly kneeled to pick up the coin, the hilt of his war-axe clanked upon the wooden floor.
“B’lf, son of Clarin, son of Modi, son of Thor, son of Odin I shall follow in your line, a gate against the Ragnarok, a defender of the Edge of the World, and will bring the wealth of every coast to your daughter’s feet.”
“Very good. Go, make sons to man the boats and ride the seas.”
With that the buzz of the feast returned and his daughter left to loose her maidenhood. And with that Gripsbee, a scout barely 12, came into the chamber, a blast of ice entering in with him and making the torch light flicker.
“There is a man at the gates who demands enterence and requests an audience with you my Lord.” The boy said and added, “he… he wears a dark cloak.”
“A dark cloak.” B’lf repeated.
-
There at his feet was the monster known as Grendel, stabbed through nearly a dozen times. B’lf, once disarmed by the giant thing, had brought it down with a rock. He had bashed it against the thing’s head repeatedly while it tore, with furry claw-hands, at the great warrior’s face.
Grendel had dented B’lf’s breastplate inwards so badly that it was impossible for him to catch is breath. He gasped and wheezed and as the world blackened reached underneath his arm and undid the armor. It fell with a clank to the ice floor.
He looked around, and saw his sword. It was bent and the tip chipped from battle. He walked to it, knelt down, and picked it up.
“B’lf, son of Odin,” said a voice shallow and rasping.
He whirled around, sword shaking in his shattered and outstretched hand. It was not Grendel who spoke, but a man cloaked in darkness.
The warrior knelt before the figure.
“You have defeated my son.”
“Loki?”
The figure nodded and walked over to Grendel. His hand entered the beast’s orange-grey flesh and pulled out a coin.
“Here. Your reward,” he said, throwing the coin to B’lf. It landed on the ice and rolled a ways, leaving a trail of the monster’s blood on the blue-white ice as it went.
“Good luck and long life to he who wears this,” Loki said, and walked into a shadow and was gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment