by Dan Smith
‘She went in there to trade.’
‘No. She had nothing to trade so she went in there to steal. To keep you and her alive. I saw it with my own eyes. But it went wrong for her. The owner got the better of her and killed her. When the dog tried to protect her, he killed that too.’ He coughed again and shook his head. ‘Where you and I come from, murder is a crime – even worse than stealing another man’s slaves – and it needs to be paid with blood or silver, so I killed him. For the gods.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Child, I’m ready for Valhalla.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I have no reason to save myself from you. Odin sees all; he knows the truth. I avenged your mother for you. The Viking way. The man who killed her is already dead.’
43
Locket
Ylva didn’t help the three-fingered man when he shuffled over to prop himself against the wall, but she didn’t stop him either. Instead, she gathered all the weapons and put them out of his reach, then went to the flame-haired woman and pulled down her collar to take the locket from around her neck.
It was not a valuable locket. It was not made from silver or gold, and it didn’t hang on a delicate necklace. It was carved from a piece of ash wood and hung from a leather cord. Mother once told Ylva she had carved the coin-shaped locket from wood taken from a branch of Yggdrasil, the ash tree that protected and sheltered all nine worlds. For a while, Ylva had even believed her. A blackened image of Thor’s hammer was burnt on to the front of the locket. Ylva remembered when Mother had made the mark, saying that she chose the hammer because although Odin was the All-Father, he was the god for warriors and jarls. Thor was the god who protected common people. Thor stood for justice.
The locket contained two twists of hair, both of them taken from the heads of people she had never really known; her father and her sister. They were slaves who had died from fever before Ylva could even talk, and when she took the twists in her fingertips and tried to feel a connection to those people, she felt nothing. She had no idea what they looked like or how their voices sounded.
She placed the locket on the dead woman’s chest and untied a pouch from her belt. From inside the pouch, she removed the two locks of hair she had taken in the hut; one from Mother’s head, and one from Geri’s coat. When she put them to her nose, they smelt of nothing, but she felt closer to those they had belonged to. She saw Mother’s face and heard her voice, but in time that would fade from her memory and they would just be locks of hair.
Ylva put her family in the locket and snapped it shut. She hung it around her neck and looked at Bron sitting slumped beside the woman.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.
Bron reached into his cloak. When he took his hand out again, it was covered with blood.
44
Valhalla
Ylva dragged Bron over to the wall and sat him beside the three-fingered man. She loosened Freki’s leash and gathered him in her arms before she collapsed beside Bron and stared into what was left of the fire.
The air grew steadily colder.
You were wrong about everything, Geri said.
Ylva didn’t look up to see him sitting in the shadow. She didn’t want to think about it, but what he said was true. She had been wrong about why Mother went into the trader’s hut, and she had been wrong about who had killed her. She had even been wrong about why the three-fingered man had been tracking her. And maybe – maybe – she had been wrong about Cathryn and Bron too. Had they really been planning to sell her, like the three-fingered man had said?
So much had happened, but nothing had changed. The man who murdered Mother and Geri was dead, but it didn’t make any difference to anything. Ylva didn’t feel better. Sadness and anger still flooded her veins, pumping through her body as if they were the only things keeping her alive. Tears threatened to well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks, but she bit them back and refused to let them come. There was a time for tears, Mother had told her, but this wasn’t the time.
‘You came a long way to find out the truth,’ the three-fingered man muttered. ‘And revenge is a heavy thing to carry with you. Dangerous too. It always turns around to bite you.’ He closed his eyes and laughed quietly. ‘You’re one tough little girl, but you came all this way for the wrong man.’
Ylva turned to look at him; at the arrow lodged under his ribs.
‘And I came all this way to be killed by a child.’ His throat rattled as he tried to laugh. ‘If I’d known, I would’ve just found some more slaves, gone back to my ship in Jorvik, and sailed away. Taken my chances with the winter seas. But I chased after the thieves, and the gods put an arrow in me. That’s revenge for you.’
‘I put it there, not the gods,’ Ylva said. ‘I could pull it out if you want.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s probably the only thing keeping me from bleeding to death.’
Beside Ylva, Bron slowly took his right hand from beneath the cloak. With effort, he spiralled his finger above his head, and ran the claw of his hand down his hair as if he was combing it.
‘I don’t understand,’ Ylva said.
Bron continued to make the hand-speak. He repeated the same movements but they were sluggish and painful.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ylva said. ‘I still don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’
Bron took a deep breath. ‘Witch.’
‘Witch? You’re calling me . . . oh. You mean the Witch,’ Ylva said. ‘The one Cathryn told me about. She can help?’
Bron nodded.
‘Is she close?’
Bron held up one finger.
‘A day to get there?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know the way?’
He nodded again.
Ylva got to her feet and went to the door. She pulled it open and looked up at the sky, but the clouds were thick and she could see no moon or stars. It would be too difficult to travel – too dangerous. ‘We’ll set off at first light,’ she said. ‘I’ll build up the fire to keep us warm until then.’
‘You’ll save him, even though he wants to sell you?’ The three-fingered man watched her.
‘I don’t believe that,’ Ylva said.
‘You mean you don’t want to believe it. Anyway, the boy will need more than a fire to keep him alive.’
‘He’ll live,’ Ylva told him.
‘I’m not so sure. Shame. He’s worth a lot of silver.’
Ylva grabbed her axe and held it in her fist. She pointed it at the three-fingered man. ‘You might not have done what I thought you did, but I still don’t like you. You’re a slaver, and you were hunting my friends. If you make me angry, I might change my mind about killing you.’
‘You haven’t got it in you,’ he mumbled. ‘But I’ll probably be in Valhalla by morning anyway.’
‘I can only hope.’ Ylva replied.
45
One Last Time
Ylva gathered wood from the huts in the village and rekindled the fire in the stable. Remembering what had happened in the workshop, she was careful to clear the dry straw from the area around the fire. When that was done, she laid out furs and blankets for Bron and the three-fingered man so they weren’t lying on the cold ground. She made them as comfortable as she could. She covered the flame-haired woman with a blanket, and sat staring into the fire.
Freki huddled in the folds of her cloak and closed his eyes while Ylva stroked his fur and enjoyed the gentle rise and fall of his soft belly.
For a strange moment – the first since coming to England – Ylva felt at home. The warm, sweet smell of the horses. The feel of the straw. The glow of the fire. At home, Ylva had often slept in the stable with the horses, she and Mother curled in the straw, with Geri lying against her. Ylva had been born a slave, she had never known different, but her owner had not been as bad as others. Some owners beat their slaves, made them sleep with pigs, but Ylva remembered fresh straw and warm fires. She remembered laughter and voices from the great hall. Many nights,
she and Mother would sit at the stable door, watching the stars and wondering what it would be like to be free. But now she was free, she would have given anything to be back at home in the stable with Mother, watching the stars.
As the night drew on, Ylva kept the fire burning. The horses nickered behind her. Freki climbed from her lap and sniffed around the stable, so Ylva tied his leash to a stable post, to stop him from exploring further than his rope would allow. Ylva kept herself awake by telling Bron and the three-fingered man about her journey, and her life at home. She imagined she was a skald, telling the saga of Ylva the Fearless, though she was sure neither of them was listening to her.
She cleaned Bron’s wound with warm water made from snow melted over the fire. She cut the half-skull scarf from around Torstein Ulvemand’s neck and packed it against Bron’s wound. ‘Please don’t die,’ she whispered as she worked, but there was never any sign that Bron could hear her.
That night, the wolves returned to Ylva one last time. The first she knew of it was when Freki whined and jumped to his feet, and the horses spooked, snorting and flaring their nostrils.
Ylva was about to throw wood on to the fire, but she stopped and listened to the endless dark outside.
Freki strained against his leash. The horses turned on the spot and grew more agitated.
‘Easy,’ Ylva whispered to them. ‘Easy.’ She dropped the damp wood on to the fire and went to the horses, speaking softly to keep them calm. ‘Do you hear something?’ she asked them. ‘What do you hear out there?’
But even if horses could talk, they wouldn’t have needed to tell Ylva what was out there, because a howl cut through the night.
Ylva’s scalp tingled. She was more afraid now than she had been in the workshop. There, at least she’d had Bron to give her courage. But now Bron was in the deep sleep of the dying, and Ylva was alone. She gripped her axe and went to the door, opening it enough to look out.
A shaft of orange firelight spilt out across the snow, but beyond it, the night was as dark as Hel’s heart.
‘Easy,’ she murmured to the horses. ‘It’s all right.’
But the horses weren’t convinced. They jittered from side to side. They rolled their eyes and swivelled their ears.
Freki, too, was agitated. He whined and pulled harder at his rope.
Ylva listened to the night. She listened beyond the snorts of the horses, trying to hear the soft pad of paws in the snow, but she heard nothing as the large beast emerged like a spirit from the endless night. It stole into the edge of the shaft of light, flames flickering in its amber eyes. With its coat of black fur, Ylva knew at once it was the same animal she had seen before.
A second and third wolf materialized from the darkness on either side of it. These two were lighter in colour, lean and tall with muscular shoulders. They moved with their heads low, their eyes alert. Other shapes moved backwards and forwards in the shadows.
The horses were frantic now. Freki was dancing at the end of his lead, whining and pulling so hard he might choke himself.
Ylva heaved the door open and raised the axe as she shouted.
‘Get away! Leave us alone!’
Taken by surprise, the lighter-coloured wolves turned and disappeared into the darkness, but the black wolf stayed where it was. It flinched and bared its teeth, but it didn’t take so much as a step back.
‘Get away!’ Ylva shouted again. ‘Leave us alone.’ She dared to move towards it, brandishing the axe, but the wolf stood its ground.
‘Go on!’ Ylva shouted. ‘Leave!’
Freki pulled against his leash. The horses snorted.
The wolf growled.
‘Leave us alone!’
‘Ylva.’ The voice was quieter than a whisper. At first she thought it was the wolf that had spoken her name. It took her a second to realize it was Bron, and she turned to look at him lying with his eyes half-open.
‘Freki.’ He raised his right hand and pointed at the wolf pup. ‘Let. Him. Go.’
‘They’ll kill him,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘I won’t let him go. He’s mine.’ But in her heart, Ylva knew Freki wasn’t hers. Freki was wild and free, and the rope didn’t belong around his neck any more than an iron collar belonged around hers.
She watched the black wolf standing at the edge of the light, baring its teeth, then she looked at Freki, straining at his rope.
‘Let. Him. Go,’ Bron said.
Ylva stepped back into the stable and sank to her knees beside the pup. She hugged him once and kissed the top of his head, then loosened the rope and lifted it from around his neck.
‘Good luck,’ she said to him. ‘Be free.’
When she let go of him, Freki scampered out of the stable towards the black wolf. He danced around its legs, the pair of them snapping at each other’s muzzles. Freki ran circles around the larger animal, yipping and huffing. He came back to Ylva, ran around her legs, then returned to the edge of the shaft of firelight.
When the large black wolf retreated into the darkness and disappeared from view, Freki followed.
Ylva stood for a long time, waiting for him to come back, but she never saw Freki again.
46
Ylva the Strong
Ylva fed the fire and tended the horses. She sat cross-legged beside Bron, knowing it was too dark and too dangerous to ride on, but thinking it was too dangerous not to. Bron was burning with fever, like Cathryn had been, and as Ylva listened to his breathing she became certain of one thing.
If she waited until dawn, Bron would die.
‘No.’ She got to her feet. ‘I won’t let that happen.’
Ylva saddled Bron’s horse and packed it with supplies. She gathered the weapons from the stable floor and secured them behind the saddle before shaking Bron awake. ‘I need to get you to the Witch.’
Bron looked at her as if he didn’t know who she was or where they were.
‘I’m Ylva. You remember me? Friend.’ She hooked her fingers together, as he had shown her. ‘Friend. I’m going to help you.’
The boy hardly had any strength in him. He was pale and weak, and struggled to keep his eyes open. He shivered from more than just the cold. Fever was taking him the same way it had taken Cathryn. She had to hurry.
Ylva pulled him to his feet and half walked, half dragged him to the horse. At least he was lean and light, which made it possible to shove him up on to the animal’s back and slide him to the front of the saddle. She put the reins in his hands and rested him forward on to the horse’s neck to stop him from falling.
Satisfied that Bron was secure, she pulled the stable door wide, letting the cold wind blow a flurry of snow inside. She went to the horse, about to climb on, but stopped and looked back at the three-fingered man. She went to him and kicked him in the leg. ‘We’re leaving.’
Torstein Ulvemand’s eyes rolled. ‘Is it still dark? It’s still dark, isn’t it?’
‘I have to go. You’re on your own now.’
He couldn’t focus on her face. He turned his head from side to side, trying to clear his thoughts. ‘It’s you.’ His breath came in short, wheezing gasps. ‘You’re still here. You should’ve . . . gone with the wolves. You’d get on with them.’
‘For a while I thought you were Ulfhednar,’ Ylva said to him. ‘The wolfskins and the howling and the half-skulls made me so afraid of you, but I’m not afraid of you now. You’re Torstein Ulvemand. You’re not Ulfhednar, you’re just a man. And not a good one.’
Ylva crossed the stable and climbed into the saddle behind Bron. She nudged the horse towards the stable door, ready to ride into the night.
‘Give me my sword,’ Torstein said as she passed him. ‘Put it in my hand. Let me die as a warrior and take my place in Valhalla.’
Ylva stopped the horse and looked down at him. ‘It’s too valuable. I might need it to pay the Witch.’
‘Your knife then? Your axe?’
Ylva put her hand to the axe on her belt.
‘I’m sorry, Torstein Ulvemand.’
‘Then an arrow will have to do.’ Torstein reached down and wrapped his huge fist around the shaft of the arrow in his side. He looked directly into Ylva’s eyes. ‘You came all this way. The cold. Wolves. Bears.’ There was blood on his lips. ‘Ylva the Fearless.’
‘I thought you weren’t listening.’
‘But . . . I don’t think . . . you’re fearless . . .’ he said. ‘I think . . . you’re strong. Strongest person I ever met. Good luck, Ylva the Strong. May the gods favour you.’
The three-fingered man closed his eyes, put back his head, and pulled the arrow from his side.
Ylva didn’t stay to watch him stop breathing.
47
Bron
Bron sat in the saddle in front of Ylva, so she could keep him from falling. He indicated the direction they needed to go and Ylva pushed the horse as fast as she dared. She wanted to kick it into a gallop, to make it fly, but she had to let it find the safest path.
The travelling was slow and they moved through the forest like explorers discovering it for the first time.
At first light, they finally broke from the trees. The clouds had lifted, and the sun was a welcome sight, making its daily journey across the sky. It brought no warmth, but at least it chased away the unbearable darkness. Ylva pushed on endlessly across a vast plain of deep snow until she found herself on the bank of a river that was too wide and too fast to cross. On the opposite side of the water lay the stone ruins of ancient buildings and walls, the like of which she had never seen before.
Bron was slumped forward on the horse, with his eyes closed. Ylva nudged him awake. ‘Which way now?’
He took so long to open his eyes that Ylva wondered if he had died.
‘Which way?’ She nudged him again. ‘Bron? Which way?’
Bron lifted a hand and pointed east along the riverbank, so Ylva set off again.
Cold and exhausted, she struggled to keep the boy in the saddle, but soon a familiar salty scent was in the air again, and by early afternoon she at last reached the place where the river met the sea. From her vantage point over the beach, Ylva looked out across the waves, and her heart lifted at the sight of the craggy island lying just off the coast. It was nothing like she had expected, not at all the kind of place where she imagined a witch would live, but she knew this must be where Cathryn and Bron had wanted her to come.