Uhtred of the Otr looked over the pall smoke that shrouded the village before him. Many of the earthen and wooden houses were aflame, the sound of their crackling masked by the screams of the people who had called this place home. They had fallen upon them just before dawn, four ships had beached on the next cove over and their crews made their way across the headland in the dark. When the fighting began the rest of the fleet closed into their harbour and joined the quick, bloody battle. He called it battle, in truth it had been a slaughter.
He sat atop an overturned skiff on the small stone quayside, behind him was his own vessel, a graceful longship with a shallow draught, tapered at both ends. Blood was smeared across its sails and prow, for this spring, they sailed on the Red Tide, the first in twelve years. That’s why they had come to this place. That’s why they would burn it and put its people to the sword.
Before him his men brought their plunder. This place was not rich, like most Maod villages, there was little silver nor iron to be had, but it would allow them to restock their provisions. One man dragged a girl, not yet into her blood, before him. Uhtred gazed coolly at the man, and with a level voice spoke to him.
“We take no thralls this year. This is a Red Tide, take her on land if it is your will, and then put her to the sword.”
The man bowed his head in concession to his Gunnar Jarl, and dragged the girl away. She made no fight, her eyes had been somewhat glazed over.
Uhtred of the Otr was the Gunnarr Jarl of the Otr Clan. He was still a young man, not having seen thirty springs since his birth. He was average to look at, somewhat handsome by his people’s standards, but not tall or strong. His skin was tanned and his beard and hair a lighter brown than most and were kept short, his hair barely being long enough to gather into a tail. His eyes were green, an uncommon trait for his people, but not unheard of considering the number descended from thralls of the inner lands. Were it not for the torcs of silver that adorned his throat and arms, he could be mistaken for a common warrior. He wore mail over good linens, a woollen cloak with an otter hide around his shoulders. His sword was well made but plain. There was a distance between him and those around him, save a golden haired man of similar age who stood companionably behind him.
Uhtred broke his fast on fresh meat and bread, it was good, but it somehow seemed that the only thing he could taste was the faint metallic tang of blood in the roasted joint. It was first he had eaten since they had set off from the isle of the Kópr many weeks ago, when the Tinvaal had last met. That was the place where this had all began. The place they had decided to go to the greatest undertaking of their people, the Red Tide. He could picture it now…
“TWELVE SPRINGS!” The Lord of the Walruses – Ormond Skull-Splitter cried out to his fellows as he strutted back and forth before the hearth of the hall. A cry in answer went up from the ranks of captains behind in from the Clan of Hroshvalr. It was joined in turn by those of the Nāhvalr, as well as many from behind the benches of the Bjarndýr, and jolt of realisation, many from behind Uhtred’s own bench as well.
“Twelve springs since we have been and honoured our Father-God in the true way, with red sails and sword in hand! For twelve springs we have acted in greed in and in cowardice! For twelve springs we have acted as Godless men, and abandoned the old ways! No long, the Hroshvalr say, this spring we shall see the Skrælingjar sail on the Red Tide!”
He was a tall man, and broad too, this Ormond. His arms were thick with muscle and his great beard was only starting to grey at the edges. His eyes were fierce and his neck draped in great pendants of Walrus ivory, the totem of his clan. A sword and famed axe that once belonged to the father of Ragnar Blood-Reign hung on either side of his belt, Uhtred knew from experience he could wield them both with fury.
Ormond’s bellowing voice could be easily heard over the chanting and stamping of feet, but he was already done, satisfied with the rising emotions in the longhouse. As he returned to his seat on the benches, Magnus One-Eye of the Nāhvalr rose to his feet to speak. He might have been the tallest man in the room, unstooped yet despite his advancing years, he wore the pelt of white bear over his rusted ring mail. The chanting slowly died down as he glared around the room with his single, icy, grey eye. Magnus spoke low, but firm.
“The Tinvaal knows great length of our opinion on the Red Tide and on honouring our Lord-Father Sil. We stand with Hroshvalr in this hall, and in war.”
Few chanted to this, although it did not mean that they were against the Red Tide. Uhtred knew of the mistrust of the strangest of the Clans, he himself agreed with that sentiment, despite their Godly nature. From Uhtred’s left, his companion, a golden haired youth of great beauty named Ragnar Broken-Blade leaned down and whispered into his ear.
“Oh of course they stand together, expect for when Ormond is pillaging treasure from his great niece, I expect that would get awkward.”
Uhtred couldn’t help but smile at the gossip, until he caught the sight of his older cousin, Axton Iron-Grip glaring at him disapprovingly out of the corner of his eye. He was right of course, this was the Tinvaal, no place for bawdy jokes, not until the offerings for a year of bountiful voyages and stormless seas had been made – only then the feasting and drinking would begin. And he was a new face on the front benches, he should not show any sign of disrespect. He set his face and turned back to the meeting.
The Kópr elder who was adjudicating had called up the Melrakki to answer the calls for the Red Tide. They spoke, as they always had, against war and in favour of trade with the green lands. Ragnar the Gold was eloquent, but his pleas for peace were increasingly wearing stale with the Tinvaal. He was called so for the gilding that dripped down ever surface of his fat body, they said that once he had been handsome, but as his wealth had grown so had his waist.
“My great and good War-Chiefs, I too hear the need to honour our Father Sil. I too feel the need for blood boil in my veins. But the Red Tide is not the way to do so, not for this spring at least. Have we forgotten the scouring of the last red fleet? When our ships were burned at Dunaeton? When mighty Sil threw the greatest storm of a generation at our fleet as entered the open oceans from the Aeldarsee? My Seiðr tell me that Sil must be displeased with the very notion of the Red Tide, if not why would He have acted so?”
The Gunnar Jarl gestured to a priest, one surprisingly richly dressed and well kept, to his right.
“I pledge ten maidens, riding ten bulls, dressed in silks and gold to be sacrificed before Sil’s temple at Thirsk! I will pour libations of southern wine over his altar! I will even have honour duels held in his name! This will appease Lord Sil, not the Red Tide He has already spurned!”
A great cheer went up from the benches of the Melrakki and the Ari, but the response was more muted in the rest of the room. Ancient Jarl Harlan of the Ari whispered to one of his nephews and it was proclaimed they sided with the Melrakki. The Old Fish, Seger Seven Lives of the Fiskr, tentatively motioned in support of the Melrakki, he had lost all his sons and a nephew to the storm that had struck the last fleet. The Kópr had remained silent throughout all this, their Young Jarl listening intensely to the whisperings of his advisers. Tides seemed to have turned. Then Gomer the Strong of the Bjarndýr came to his feet.
“Enough! My Jarls! Enough!” He roared, his nickname the Grey Bear was deserved, he appeared as one now.
“None can question whether I remember the scouring! Of the four Jarls that led the fleet, I was the only one who returned! When our fleet was betrayed and burned, and we were slaughtered upon the shores I swam in mail to my ship. As we returned to the Isles, I myself took oars and did not sleep for three days whilst Lord Sil’s storm wracked us and killed my shield brothers. I watched as Jarl Calder of the Hroshvalr’s ship was pulled under with all hands. None can say I forget!”
The room was silent as he stalked around the central hearth.
“For twelve springs I have no voted for Red Tide. We were broken, we were weak, we were scared. But I am no longer afraid! I watch us grow soft, I watch us grow fat, I watch us abandon the old ways and turn to Greenlanders! If we abandon Sil then He will smite us most surely than ever before. We should risk his wrath and take the Red Tide, for though he may smite us, if we do nothing and continue on this path, then he will smite us and we will be too feeble to recover!”
The quiet lasted for a moment, then it exploded into cries from all sides. The Melrakki and the Ari eager to refute and reply, the Hroshvalr and the Nāhvalr crying for war. All the years he had attended as a captain he had not seen such discord. The Kópr elder was calling for quiet, but his Gunnarr Jarl silenced him with a wave of the hand and rose to his feet. Narwin the Young of the Kópr had chosen to speak. After Uhtred himself, Narwin was the youngest of the Gunnarr Jarls, he was lithe with short black hair and clean shaven face, and with a clever mind and eyes. One day he might called Narwin the Wise or Narwin the Sly.
“I have listened to both sides, and all the esteemed chiefs make good cases. But the Kópr will side for the Red Tide on this occasion, the time has come to see if we still remember the old ways and along with the new.”
All eyes turned to Uhtred.
It came down to his vote. The Hroshvalr and the Nāhvalr had swayed the Bjarndýr and the Kópr to their side, but they needed a majority. If Uhtred chose to vote with the Melrakki, the Ari and the Fiskr, then they would be tied and would argue until one changed their vote or an honour duel between the clans was declared.
“Jarl Uhtred, how does the Otr vote on the matter of the Red Tide?” The Kópr elder asked him levelly, but he was more aware of the eyes of Narwin, looking cool and amused as he lounged on the bench opposite, like this was some kind of test. Uhtred did not rise to speak but tried to keep his words slow as he addressed the Tinvaal.
“My Jarls and captains of the Isles, as most of you will know this is my first Tinvaal as Gunnarr Jarl for the Otr and I was never one of those captains foremost in politick. I would be gratefully if you gave me leave to discuss with my councillors.”
There was a murmur of ascent and the nodding of heads. Uhtred breathed a sigh of relief, he would have a chance to consult Axton and Ragnar. They both leaned in from either side and spoke to him. Ragnar went first, his words tumbling from his soft lips.
“My Jarl, I say side with the Red Tide. The captains support it, as do most of the crews. The bad harvests and the price drops, they blame this all on the Gods, not on the Melrakki traders. Appease them and make a show of being holy, besides, there might be great wealth in this if done right.”
“Those are words of a young man, eager for glory.” The gravelled tones of his mother’s cousin were hushed but still rumbled. His face was creased with age and scars, his greying hair receding, but he was one of the most experienced captains of the Otr. “My Jarl, I counsel caution. I remember the scouring well, and how we were before it. Side with the Traders, give us more time to blood and harden our younger crews, then we take the Tide. The Kópr will be convinced to change sides, if the Melrakki offer him a large enough bribe, Narwin is in this for his own gain. And if the Melrakki value their trader prestige as much as I believe they do, they will. If we side with the Traders the Tide will not happen this spring.”
They were both right. Uhtred had not been with the fleet when the scouring happened, he had been but a boy then, but he remembered how different the crews were now. So many fewer seasoned veterans, many more green boys – the same was true for many of Clans, though less so for the martial Hroshvalr. But at the same time, he knew that he was young, he needed to be bold and prove his right to sit at this bench… unless he wanted to fight for his right to lead.
“Listen.” Ragnar leaned in again urgency in his voice. “Do you know what some have taken to calling you? Uhtred the Untested, Uhtred the Unblooded.” Unblooded? That was lie, but there were some who might believe it. “And besides that, there are other rumours too you know… regarding your… preferences.” At that was a touch of fear in his shield-brother’s voice, they both knew why.
That was enough for him. Uhtred stood to speak. The Tinvaal hung on his words.
“The Otr will vote for the Red Tide. The sail for war this spring.”
“My Jarl? Uhtred?” Ragnar’s voice awoke Uhtred from his remembrance.
“What was that?” He shook his head to clear it of the confusing haze of those days spent in conclave and the nights afterwards spent feasting.
“One of our sentries said they saw men on the horizon.”
“On foot or mounted?”
“They did not say.”
“Hmm. Come, my shield-brother, we must find Jarl Magnus and Jarl Ormond. Warriors to me!”
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