Into the Deep: Chapter 13
A Joyful Reunion Turns into a Reckoning as Forgotten Enemies, Impossible Love, and a Mysterious Relic Collide
The scent of charred meat and old ale clung to the inn’s low ceiling beams like smoke that never cleared. Ragnar shifted on the rough bench, stretching out his legs beneath the table as he worked loose the last shred of meat from a roasted shank. He savored the flavor, earthy, smoky, and far better than the trail fare he’d been gnawing on for days. With a flick, he tossed the bone into a bowl already piled high with the remains of the meal.
Across from him, Magnus mirrored the motion, then stood with a groan and let out a belch that turned heads at nearby tables.
“That good food. Now we go?”
The stench of half-digested mutton and flat beer hit Ragnar squarely in the face. He grimaced and turned away, lifting his mug instead in silent request for more mead. They’d eaten well enough. But moving on? That was another matter entirely. His feet had carried him this far with grim resolve, but the closer he drew to Kopparigata, the more they dragged.
Magnus whumped down to the bench and blew out a blub-blub with his lips. “Ragnar, Alarik not mean to kill Gerlaich.”
“I know.” He ran a thumb along the rim of his mug. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but not with bitterness. “Still, the thought of facing him…”
He didn’t finish. The words hung between them, unsaid but understood.
A serving girl appeared, filling his cup with watered-down mead. She kept her eyes averted and didn’t linger, her unease obvious. Maybe she sensed his turmoil. Or maybe it was just his face. He shook his head and adjusted the curtain of hair over the left side, hiding the worst of it.
“Magnus feel like that,” the big man muttered. “Uneasy.”
Ragnar studied him and frowned. “Even with me?”
Magnus looked confused for a second, then shook his head. “Nay. Never with you.” He jabbed a thick finger in Ragnar’s direction. “You are my God friend.”
He ransacked his mind for terms he’d shared with the giant, trying to figure out what might have confused him, but came up short. “What is a God friend?”
Magnus’s finger fished around in his mouth. A lump moved from cheek to cheek before he gave up with a smack of his lips. “A God friend never turns away. Sees good when much is bad.” Apparently satisfied with his explanation, he lowered his hand and fumbled with a pouch instead. “Ragnar is Alarik’s God friend.”
The words quieted Ragnar more than the mead ever could. His hand tightened around the mug, then relaxed. A God friend. A strange term. But not wrong. He did carry a desire to see the stain taken from his cousin’s name. His own Creator had done the same for him. He could do no less.
He set the cup down. “You’re wiser than you know.”
Yet that was only part of the troubled tidings he must bear. How to tell Alarik his own father ailed and that his blood-sworn enemy warmed the Jarl’s throne? His cousin would go berserkr the moment he heard it, especially when he found out Signy’s safety hung in the balance.
Jesu, give me the right words to warn of danger yet speak peace to Alarik’s soul.
He sighed. A tall order, that. Alarik’s soul had ever been more storm than still water.
He slid his mug toward the bowl of bones, leaving behind a foamy trail of mead sloshed onto the scarred tabletop, then stood, shoving back the bench.
“You are ready, ja?” he asked.
Magnus answered by knocking his own bench askew with a cheerful thud and scooping up both packs—his and Ragnar’s—as if they weighed as much as goose feathers. Ragnar’s smile came unbidden. For all the giant’s simplicity, his loyalty ran leagues deep.
The streets of Jorvik swallowed them the moment they stepped outside. Counting house fronts and trade stands as the innkeeper had directed, Ragnar slowed near a dwelling nestled shoulder‑tight between its neighbors. Nothing about the house stood out, save for the figure on the bench in front of it.
A flaxen-haired young woman sat shelling beans, her fingers moving with practiced familiarity. Magnus froze mid‑stride, jaw dropping. Ragnar swore the big man forgot how to breathe for a full heartbeat. The woman merely stared into space, eyes framed by dark lashes that looked a lot like Alarik’s.
Ragnar stepped forward, softening his tone. “Maiden, be your father’s name Kier of Kopparigata?”
Her hands stilled. A bean pod slipped from her grasp and fell to the dirt at her feet. Slowly, she turned her face toward him, empty gaze sweeping as though trying to place him by sound alone. “Your voice I know not. Who are you that seeks my father?”
“I am Ragnar of Rogaland and—” He glanced at Magnus, who hadn’t moved a whit, except for a slow ribbon of drool sliding down his chin.
He poked a finger into the big man’s fleshy arm and whispered, “Introduce yourself.”
Magnus only stared.
Ragnar sighed, once again facing the young woman. “This is my friend, Magnus, also of Rogaland, who seems to be… well, if you’ll excuse my boldness, smitten by your beauty.”
A pretty pink hue washed across her cheeks. “I… I…am at a loss to—”
“Gwenn?” The door behind her creaked open, and a man emerged, tall as a pine and twice as unbending. His gaze dropped to Magnus’s open admiration, and the creases around his eyes hardened like cooling iron. A hand moved to the hilt at his belt.
“You are Kier.” Ragnar didn’t ask it. He said it with quiet certainty, for the man was the image of Alarik a few years down the road. Dark hair silvered at each temple, weathered skin etched with cares, but the same commanding presence and proud shoulders flung back.
The man’s glare shifted from Magnus to him. “I am. What of it?”
“I am Ragnar of Rogaland, Alari—”
The stiffness in the man’s posture eased just a hair. Keir cut him off with a nod. “You are welcome here. My brother speaks well of you.” He glanced at Magnus, still standing like an oaf with stars in his eyes. “And him?”
“Magnus is a friend. He poses no threat. Do you, Magnus?” Ragnar clapped him on the back. Hard. But the big man didn’t so much as flinch. “He is distracted by all things bright and beautiful, such as your daughter. You have my word he will bring her no harm.”
Kier’s expression didn’t thaw, but at least his hand left the hilt.
Gwenn ducked her head and fumbled for her baskets, cheeks burning. “I’ll finish this later, Father.”
She stood, collecting beans with a haste that suggested she’d rather face a sea raid than endure another moment of Magnus’s dumbstruck adoration.
Kier let her pass with a grunt and turned back to Ragnar. “Alarik is out back. Go to him. I’ll see that your friend here stows your gear.”
“Ja, I understand.” Ragnar nodded. Who could fault a father’s protective instinct? If Kier wanted to keep an eye on Magnus, all the better. Let him answer the many questions that were sure to follow once Magnus’s stupor subsided.
Inside the snug house, warmth and the faint tang of dyed wool wrapped around him. An older woman—Kier’s wife, by his guess—bent over a loom, her fingers dancing through threads with precision. She flicked him a brief nod, her attention never straying from the warp and weft. The rhythmic clack of her work filled the tight space like a heartbeat.
The younger woman—the same one Magnus had mooned over—sorted through baskets along the wall. She didn’t look up, but faint color yet clung to her cheeks. Her nervous tidying reminded him of Magnus fussing with his pouches when flustered.
Ragnar crossed the room, his steps dull against the hard-packed earth. Lord, give me wisdom. The plea barely finished forming before he pushed into the back courtyard—
And every word he’d meant to say scattered like startled birds.
He froze. Truly froze. Muscles locked, breath trapped high in his chest as if the earth had risen and caught him by the throat.
There, leaning against a barrel like it were a throne, lounged Alarik with that charmed arrogance the gods rarely bestowed twice. Ragnar barely noticed him, though. His gaze was snared elsewhere.
A woman paced before Alarik, hands slicing the air, voice rising and falling in agitation, her feet stamping patterns into the dirt. A scene familiar enough—Alarik tended to inspire strong opinions in women—but this one…
This one was different.
