14
Dvalinn led the bald man, Agata and Drudge toward his boat. "Leave the supplies on the ground," he said when they were close enough to see Erlandr. "My men and I will load them."
Erlandr stepped forward.
The bald man laid down his bundle of supplies and bowed. "Good to meet you," he said.
"You as well."
Dvalinn noted the uneasy expression on Erlandr's face. Something was wrong, but there would be time to speak about it later, and if there wasn't, by tomorrow afternoon it would no longer be his concern. He'd done all he could for Erlandr. Eventually, the young Icelander would have to start taking care of himself.
"We'll bring two more loads tonight," the bald man said, "and the last load tomorrow, after breakfast. To which—" The accompanying sweep of his arm took in Dvalinn, Erlandr and about half the world. "—you are all invited. No one should sail with anything less than a full stomach." The evening had turned his yellow teeth grey.
Dvalinn thanked him, waited until all three of the strangers had disappeared, and was about to start arranging the new supplies among the old, when Erlandr caught him by the elbow. The unease on his face was gone. "You're sailing, Riverraider?" he asked.
"Yes."
At which point Erlandr launched into an excited explanation of his situation with Goll. Dvalinn listened with stony patience before saying, with the finality of an executioner's axe cleaving a convict's neck, "I am not sailing east. I am sailing west."
The blood drained from Erlandr's face. "West? But, there's nothing west of here. Greenland is the western edge..."
"My son sailed west. To find him, I must do the same. If indeed there is nothing west of Greenland, we will meet in a silent darkness. But we will meet."
Erlandr dropped to the ground. "I can't stay here," he mumbled.
Dvalinn wanted to ignore him, or strike him in the face, or grab him by the shoulders and shake him till he understood that a free life was a hard life. In Iceland, Erlandr had been ready to kill Halfdan. Here, he was sulking when he should be beating Goll to death, stuffing rocks down his throat and dragging his lifeless body to the bottom of the fjord before anyone else knew of their presence!
"That's why he's ingratiating himself with that stout woman," Erlandr said, mostly to himself. "He's making allies so that if he disappears people will notice. He's probably told her stories about me so that if he should meet his doom, the suspicion will fall on me."
Dvalinn sighed. It was a defect which those who didn't possess it called honour that was and always would be his weakness. It was the reason he hadn't followed Framarr to Greenland. The Icelanders needed his help. It was the reason he'd stayed in Iceland for years afterwards. Someone was always helpless. Now he'd managed to pull yet another helpless Icelander along with him and, despite his anger, he felt responsible for the fool. He exhaled his excess of emotion. He reminded himself that Erlandr wasn't a fool, not in the normal sense. He was a decent but naive lad who'd tried to do what's right and suffered for it. How could he expect a decent person to consider weighing down a corpse with rocks? As rational as that line of thinking was, it was a rationality that belonged to raiders and brigands, bad people: people like him.
On the other hand, his time of selflessness was over. If he hadn't earned back the sins of his youth, he would never do so. So be it. He would help Erlandr if he could, but he wouldn't do it at the expense of his own self-proclaimed mission. "Do you trust me?" he asked.
Erlandr looked up at him with the innocence of a calf. "Yes, Riverraider. You've done so much for my people."
"You said you wished to die in battle. I said you were too young," Dvalinn said.
"I'm afraid to die. That's why I must leave. I refuse to live as a slave, yet I'm too scared to live as a rebel or an outlaw. I don't want to steal. I don't want to kill. It's not in me. For years, I've fantasized about being a hero, performing heroic feats, but now that I've had a taste of it, I despise it more than anything."
"All boys want to be heroes," Dvalinn said. "Most never have the chance. Those who do, do not know what it means until a sword has been run through their backs."
Erlandr pleaded. "You had the chance. You're a hero, Riverraider."
Dvalinn crouched in front of him. "I am not, and I never have been. I was a husband, once, and a father, and I was no good as either. I watched my wife waste away from a disease I brought to her and could not fight. My son, if he is alive, is my one remaining chance of salvation."
When Erlandr tried to interject, Dvalinn silenced him. "But I can offer you this. Sail with me. If I do not find my son, we will return to the mainland, where I will die and you will start your life, richer for the adventure that we have shared." Two men, Dvalinn reasoned, were better than one. With both Drudge and Erlandr, he would have a greater chance of finding Framarr. "Greenland is the edge of the known world. I invite you to the unknown."
Although it was impossible for Dvalinn to know what went on inside Erlandr's head in those next few moments, the outward manifestation was clear. With this decision, the boy had become a man. The calf had matured into a young bull. "I will sail with you," Erlandr said.
"I have one request," Dvalinn said.
"Anything."
"You call me 'The Riverraider' no more. I am Dvalinn."
"Thank you, Dvalinn."
As Erlandr embraced him, Dvalinn hoped to God or gods that Rikard the Scargiver had known where he was sailing.