“What’s going on here?” someone thundered suddenly. All eyes turned to the kitchen door, where Horalf had appeared. He had muddy boots, held a shovel in his hand and looked almost as angry as Egil.
“Useless pack! As if we had nothing better to do! Clean up this mess and to bed with you!” he shouted at them. With an imperious gesture he signaled to Egil to come with him.
It was obvious that Egil was still seething with rage. His cheeks were bright red and his hands were shaking. He threw Arvid a last withering look, turned around with a snort and left the room.
Arvid felt her body tremble with excitement. Her hands were balled into fists so convulsively her knuckles ached. She had to force herself to take some deep breaths before she managed to relax a bit and turn to Gyda.
She still cowered in the corner, trembling, obviously unable to move from the spot. Her eyes were filled with fear; her cheek was red and slowly began to swell. Arvid took a cautious step toward her, then Gyda suddenly began to sob loudly and slumped down against the wall. Tears streamed down her face. For a moment Arvid felt totally helpless. Then she knelt down beside Gyda, put her arms around her and gently squeezed her.
“Easy now,” she murmured and softly stroked her hair. “They’re gone, don’t be afraid.”
But Gyda’s sobs only got louder. Her whole body was shaking. Arvid just sat there on the floor amid the shards of the dropped bowl and held the young woman. Seeing her suffer almost tore Arvid’s heart apart.
It seemed to take forever until Gyda finally calmed down again and for Arvid’s anger to fade back into the darkness from which it had emerged.
Arvid brought Gyda to bed and then went back into the kitchen, picked up the broken pieces, and washed the floor. She cleared the dishes from the table and did everything that was normally Gyda’s task. She was still upset and couldn’t get the events of the last hours out of her head. Arvid was sure that Gyda had been beaten before, more violently even. Egil had been holding back since she came here. For some inexplicable reason, he did not dare to attack Arvid. The thought of Gyda and Hagen having to spend years of their life on this farm without her made her ill.
Arvid was almost finished when Egil came back into the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t you go to bed at once, you useless woman?” he shouted. “Get out!”
“If you prefer to clean the kitchen yourself next time, my lord,” Arvid said in an ice-cold voice and slowly turned to face him, “then I’ll leave with pleasure.” She threw him the dirty cloth, with which she had rubbed the last bowls dry, and without another word turned around to leave.
Egil had instinctively caught the cloth. For a moment he was taken aback, but then he snarled and pulled Arvid around by the arm so roughly she had to suppress a cry of pain.
“Don’t take it too far, you little beast,” he hissed. He came so close that Arvid could smell his breath reeking of beer, and there was pure hatred in his watery blue eyes. “You think you can intimidate me, make your own rules, but you’re wrong.”
Without warning, he grabbed her hair and forcefully pressed his lips on Arvid’s mouth. Arvid made a frightened, half-strangled gasp and tried to push him away, but Egil was large and bulky and held her in an iron grip. With all her power she pressed her lips together, while Egil’s wet tongue stroked over her skin.
He finally let her hair go to grope her breasts, but Arvid didn’t hesitate. As soon as Egil had loosened his grip, she pulled away and kicked his knee as hard as she could. Egil yelled out in pain and doubled over. Arvid seized the moment, whirled around and left the kitchen. She ran up the stairs, rushed into her room and slammed the door shut.
“You’ll be sorry, you cursed snake!” she heard Egil yelling. “I will get you!”
While Arvid pushed the massive wooden chest in front of the door, she could hear Egil stomping and shouting downstairs, but she was no longer listening. She sat down on the chest and waited, but nothing happened.
Finally Egil fell silent. Suddenly Arvid noticed that her heart was pounding wildly and her hands were shaking. Only now she realized what had just happened, and nausea began to spread in her stomach. With a low groan she got up, dragged herself over to her bed and let herself fall onto it. It seemed to her as if she had used up every last bit of strength in her body.
In the middle of the night Arvid was awakened by something. At first she was confused. Why did she wake up? For a while she stared up at the ceiling of the chamber, but then she heard it. A noise came through the wooden wall. As Arvid realized what she was hearing, her heart felt as if it were grabbed by an iron fist.
She could hear the regular creaking and groaning of wood, mixed with gasps and moans of a man. Arvid immediately knew that it was Egil. Much worse was Gyda’s whimpering and crying, though. It was low, so very low, and yet Arvid was unable not to hear it.
She knew what Egil was doing with Gyda. After all that had happened, there was no doubt at all. The thought filled her with horror, disgust and hatred.
What was this place the gods had sent her to, what kind of horrible people? How long had Gyda and Hagen already endured this hell? Suddenly Gyda’s strange behavior made sense, her panic, every time she was a little too loud or made a mistake. She knew every little thing could result in Egil visiting her at night. The more Arvid thought about all those terrible things, the more something seemed to break inside her, and gave way to the darkness that seemed to grow inside her.
It seemed like an eternity before the noise finally stopped. Soon after, Arvid heard heavy footsteps, then the chamber door was opened and closed again. For a while she could still hear Gyda’s faint whimper, then it turned quiet in the house. Sometime Arvid went back to a restless sleep as well.
The next day, Gyda was apathetic and silent as always. Her cheek was swollen, and the area around her eye had turned bluish. When Egil came into the kitchen for breakfast, he measured Arvid with a hateful glare, but she returned it with an ice cold glare of her own. Had she previously had problems keeping her aggressions under control, that day she succeeded effortlessly at putting on a mask of indifference.
The day passed as usual. It was characterized by aching feet and cold, numb fingers, the smell of mud and graycorms and the sight of Gyda’s and Hagen’s pale, emaciated faces. When they were eating lunch, shivering in the icy rain, Arvid finally asked Gyda a question she had wanted to ask for days: “How long have you been living here on the farm?”
“Six years,” she said. “Both of us. Before you came, there was another maid, but she… left.”
“And you and Hagen came here together?” said Arvid.
“Yes. Our parents’ farm was destroyed by demons; there was nothing left. Asgard sent us to Horalf.”
“So you’re siblings,” said Arvid.
“We have different mothers,” Hagen said.
Arvid realized that it was the first time she heard the boy speak. But as always he didn’t look at her, but stared blankly into space.
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” said Arvid.
Gyda shook her head. “Where should we go? The gods have assigned us this place.”
“The gods don’t give a damn,” Arvid said, but there was no response.
In the evening, when Arvid had gathered the dirty clothes, she didn’t go outside for washing, but put the basket in a corner and went upstairs.
She took the bag with her few possessions and opened it for the first time since she had arrived on the farm about three weeks ago. The case Aeldjarn had given her was still untouched. She wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on any of the exercises at any time. What she was looking for was tucked at the bottom though: a small, paper-wrapped package Falla had given to her as a farewell present. It contained a bunch of rustnettle, those red leaves from which the old woman had cooked her tea the first days after her arr
ival.
Arvid plucked three of the serrated leaves, but then she stopped. She looked at her hand and felt darkness rising like mist within her, devouring all feelings.
Gyda was cooking stew when Arvid came back into the kitchen. She only looked up briefly as Arvid filled a pot with water and put it on the fire. Arvid opened the package with the rustnettle leaves and threw the whole bunch into the water. Expressionlessly, she watched the leaves slowly coloring the water dark.
“Do Horalf and Egil drink beer for dinner?” she asked Gyda after a while.
“Yes,” Gyda muttered absently. “But you better not drink any of it; it’s only for the landlords.”
“I just want to go get it.”
“In the chamber at the end of the hall,” said Gyda, “the barrel with the cup on top.”
Arvid took a pitcher and the pot with the rustnettle leaves and went into the pantry. She pulled a wooden spoon from her apron and fished the lump of soft boiled leaves from the pot. An almost black-looking, steaming liquid remained, only three fingers high, but highly concentrated. She carefully poured the dark broth into the pitcher and finally filled it to the brim with strong beer from the barrel.
While eating, neither Arvid nor Gyda nor Hagen spoke a word, and so the only sounds were the scratching of their spoons and the voices of the two men in the next room.
As always, Hagen was the last to finish his meal. After he had pushed his plate away, they were suddenly surrounded by complete silence. For a while they just sat there, then Gyda looked to the door. “I wonder if they left?” she murmured. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Even Hagen looked puzzled.
“No,” Arvid said flatly. “Tonight, they won’t go anywhere.” She stood up and opened the door to the kitchen. Although Arvid had not been sure until recently what exactly she would find, the sight was no big surprise.
The two men were sleeping.
Horalf was slumped over his plate, Egil tipped sideways on the bench. Arvid went to the table and noted that they had drunk almost all the beer. The effect would be that of approximately thirty rustnettle leaves.
Gyda and Hagen had followed her and were silently staring at the absurd image.
Gyda slowly raised her hand to her mouth. “Are they dead?” she whispered in horror.
“No,” Arvid said, “they’re only sleeping. In about an hour they’ll probably get severe cramps. I heard about three rustnettle leaves hurt pretty bad. If you feel like it, you can wait and see how they cope with the effects of thirty.”
Gyda’s eyes widened in disbelief. Hagen still didn’t move a bit. Arvid, on the other hand, felt satisfaction looking at the two men. She poked Egil with the tip of her foot, so that his head lamely rolled back and forth. “When he’s awakened by the cramps, he will bitterly regret having treated us like that,” she said. Arvid did not know exactly when the paralyzing effect would wear off, but the two men still wouldn’t be dangerous to them. The pain would simply be too much. For a brief moment Arvid wondered whether they might die, but a second later the thought was swallowed by darkness and a numbing indifference.
Arvid glanced at Gyda and Hagen, who were still as white as chalk, then she left the kitchen and went upstairs. She packed her things and then entered the rooms of the landlords one after the other. They were spacious and equipped with featherbeds, carved chests and desks. In Horalf’s room there was also an armchair and a narrow shelf with a handful of books.
Arvid went through all the chests and cupboards. In the drawers of Horalf’s desk she found a small leather bag and money. There were coins of various colors, but Arvid had no idea what they were worth. She took about a third of them; the rest she poured into the bag that already contained some black coins. When she opened a door at the top of the desk, a small envelope fluttered out of it and landed right in front of her.
It was a letter with an unbroken seal of red sealing wax. Thoughtfully, she looked at the engraved runes. Although she could not read them properly, they seemed familiar. She tucked the letter between her teeth, searched the rest of the room and finally went back to the kitchen.
Hagen had disappeared, but Gyda sat on a chair and silently looked at Horalf and Egil. They no longer lay still, but were groaning and rolling back and forth, but didn’t seem to be able to control their arms and legs properly.
“Take some wine,” Gyda said, raising the clay mug she was holding, “I filled a pitcher.” It was the first time since Arvid’s arrival she didn’t speak flatly, but with bitter determination.
“I’d rather not waste any time,” Arvid said. “Can you read?”
“Yes.”
Arvid handed her the letter.
“It’s for you,” Gyda said after a quick look at the seal. “Where did you get that?”
“From Horalf’s desk,” said Arvid. The nature of the envelope had awakened a memory in her, and she had not been mistaken. This had to be the answer from Asgard, which would probably never have reached her had she not decided to take matters into her own hands. She opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. This time it was rather short. Gyda looked over her shoulder and scanned the text.
“You’re asked to go to the town hall of Black Castle,” she said then. “On the third day of the Month of Gratitude. You are to report in the western hall at the thirty-fifth hour. The letter is signed by Noldir.”
“Thanks,” said Arvid. “When is the third day of the Month of Gratitude?”
“In three days,” Gyda answered and took a long drink from her cup. “Today is the last day of the Month of the Gray Cold.”
“Good. How many horses do you have?”
“Four.”
“Then I’ll take one,” Arvid said. She pulled out the bag with the money. “Here, you’ll probably need this.” She wanted to hand it to Gyda, but she just looked undecided and made no move to take it.
“You don’t really want to stay here?” Arvid said incredulously.
Finally Gyda slowly reached out and took the bag. Arvid saw that her wrists also had bluish bruises.
“No, we… can’t stay,” Gyda said haltingly. “After all… After what you’ve done, they would…” She broke off, but Arvid knew what she wanted to say.
“You deserve better, Gyda,” Arvid said urgently. “Where is Hagen?”
“He’s outside, saddling the horses. We’ll ride south. We hope to find shelter in one of the villages.”
“I’m not coming with you. I have to go back to Black Castle.”
“I know,” said Gyda. A faint, sad smile began to spread on her face. “I don’t know what you have to discuss with the gods, but… I hope they keep a better fate ready for you.”
“The gods,” Arvid said contemptuously, “are not keeping anything ready for me. They are the reason I’m here, and it was these same gods who brought you to this farm.” She put the letter in her pocket. “My destiny is in my own hands,” she added firmly. “But from the gods I’ll take what I can get.”
Egil suddenly let out a loud moan and writhed so violently, he nearly slipped off the wooden bench. Arvid and Gyda simultaneously turned their heads. The two men still seemed dazed, but the spasms now appeared to get stronger. Gyda hastily took a sip of wine, put the cup back and opened some baskets in the corner.
“I’ll pack you something to eat,” she said. “You better hurry.” She nimbly cut a loaf of bread into slices and wrapped them into a cloth, together with two thick sausages. When she turned to Arvid and handed her the bundle with food, tears were glittering in her eyes.
Arvid felt confused by Gyda’s tears. But she had her own problems and neither the time nor the willpower to also grapple with the question of why the young maidservant reacted like that. She had Hagen and the two would be all right. Wherever they landed, it could only be better than this.
In the door Arvid stopped again and turned around. For a brief moment she realized how absurd and unreal the scene in front of her was. She looked in the kitchen and saw the leftovers of the dinner on the table, the baskets for tomorrow’s harvest already piled up in a corner. There lay the landlords, writhing in pain and loudly moaning. Gyda was standing next to them, looking at them blankly. Her pale face was streaked with tears, and she was still holding the knife she had cut the bread with.
The Month of Gratitude
Arvid was riding through a dark, cloud-shrouded night. The icy wind blew hard snowflakes around, which in a few spots gathered to white patches. Several times Arvid heard a faint howl in the distance, but as worrying as it was, it never seemed to come any closer.
After a few hours Arvid fell into a fitful doze, which was filled with confusing dreams. Fortunately her horse seemed to know the way, because when she suddenly started and opened her eyes, she saw glittering lights in the distance. She was almost there.
Crossing the circle of protection seemed more unpleasant than when she had left the city, but that could just as well be due to her exhaustion and her tiredness. The guards at the gate just looked up boredly when she rode past, and finally the dark, quiet city lay in front of her.
Arvid turned into one of the larger streets and saw a series of half-collapsed houses to her left. The memory of the earthquake two weeks ago returned immediately. Apparently it had left its mark on the city.
The farther Arvid rode, the more of the effects of the quake she saw. Most houses had survived more or less unscathed, but there was hardly a street or alley where not at least one wall or a building had collapsed.
Fragments of your Soul (The Mirror Worlds Book 1) Page 9