Lord of the Mountains

by Sabrina Jarema

After a few moments, panicked voices soared up to them from the path below. Magnus rose and stood on the edge of the peak, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other. The enemy milled around the bodies, gesturing and looking at them. Already they were in the net and they didn’t even know it.

  He called down to them. “Yes, they’re dead. Care to join them?” As Toke’s men scrambled to arm themselves, he nodded to his archers. “Now.”

  The bowmen stepped to the edge and sprayed their arrows down on the confused group. Screams followed as the men called for a shield wall.

  “Again.” He pointed with his sword. The archers rained down more arrows, but the shield wall stopped most of them. Time to move.

  Magnus raised his sword. “After me.”

  Eirik ran at his side as they led the men down to the attackers’ position. As a group, they used their momentum to slam into the shield wall, knocking many of the men down the path and slaying them. Others, to their credit, stood and fought. Magnus sidestepped a spear thrust, knocked the gleaming point aside, and gutted the man. Another attacker came at him. Grabbing him by the helmet, Magnus swung him hard, breaking his neck with a sickening crack. He let the body drop, looking for another opponent before the corpse hit the ground.

  Hearing a sound behind him, he dropped to one knee and twisted, bringing his shield up. An outcast brought his axe down at the same time. The blade skittered off the wood, grazing his upper right forearm. Magnus brought his sword under his shield in a cross stroke, slicing through the man’s thighs. He spun, rising, and dragged his blade back across his throat.

  His gaze dipped to his injury as he stepped back from the body. Blood already ran down his arm. Not good. He raised it, not wanting his sword hand to become slippery.

  “Let me see that.” Eirik tore the sleeve, exposing the injury, then looked around them. “You, and you, guard us while I tend to this.”

  “Yes, Jarl.” The men circled them, their weapons ready.

  “It’s only a scratch,” Magnus said. “I can still fight.”

  “Of course you can. After I wrap it. You’ll get blood on the hilt otherwise.”

  Eirik was right. He couldn’t afford to have his sword slip at a bad time. “Use the material from my sleeve to bind it.”

  “No.” Eirik pulled the sleeve out of the way and knotted it above his elbow. “With all that blood and gore on it?” He removed a piece of linen out of his belt pouch and cleaned the cut and the rest of his arm.

  Magnus chuckled. “Always prepared?”

  “We did a lot of fighting when I raided with Rorik. You learn things. Especially from the desert peoples.” He dropped the cloth and got another from his pouch. “A clean cloth.” He bound it around his arm. “They think it makes a difference in the healing. We tried it and the wounds don’t fester as often. Not certain why.”

  He tied it off. “How is that?”

  Magnus swung his sword. “Good as it ever was. My thanks.” He nodded to the men who were guarding them and they moved off. He and Eirik followed them back into the melee.

  Eirik cleaved his way through the confusion, never stopping, barely looking at the men he slew. A man came at him with a spear and an axe. Magnus started forward to help his brother-in-law, but Eirik knocked the weapons aside with a sweep of his sword and shield. He leaped inside the weapons’ reach, driving the man back with his shoulder, then gave him a shove. The man fell onto a boulder, breaking his back. Eirik flipped his sword so that it pointed downward, and slew him.

  Eirik and Magnus stayed together, watching each other’s backs. Magnus deflected an axe blow, then countered with his sword. He slammed his shield into the other man’s, knocking him off balance, then sliced deep into his axe arm as he flailed. He silenced the shrieks with one cut.

  A movement to the left caught his eye. A man aimed his axe at Eirik, pulling it back for the throw. “Eirik!”

  He dropped to the ground, dragging his shield over himself. Magnus shrugged off his own shield and threw it. The metal edge hit the man’s throat, crushing it. Eirik rose and guarded him until Magnus retrieved his shield.

  “Good of you to have practiced that move.” Eirik grinned. “But it leaves you open.”

  “Sometimes, to use something you must be prepared to lose it.”

  They moved on, wading into the crush. Never mind the men trying to slay him; if anything happened to Eirik, Asa would kill him herself.

  Magnus’s men who had gone to the right came toward them, driving in front of them the outcasts who had tried to escape. Magnus yelled and his men divided. They picked off the nearest ones, but let most of the panicked outcasts run past them. Otherwise, the warriors of Thorsfjell might have been caught between them. They closed ranks, and the enemy, seeing the increased numbers, broke and headed straight for the swift-running falls.

  Magnus slew a man who wasn’t fast enough, then picked up speed as the enemy came within sight of the falls. Several of them tried to wade across. The waters swept them down the cliffs, their howls dying as they did.

  The remaining men tried to surrender, but there was no court of law for them. There would be one verdict, one sentence. Magnus, as jarl, was the judge. He gave the order as they begged for their lives. If he allowed them to leave, they would only prey on other villages. There was no other recourse. His men moved in, their swords at the ready. He nodded. The mountains rang with their cries as they all died, cowering on the ground like the vermin they were.

  “There are only two outcomes to any battle. Either one lives or one dies.” Eirik shoved one of the bodies with his boot. “There are many kinds of death, and these men will never know the afterlife of an honorable warrior. They are truly dead and gone.”

  “I don’t want these bodies cluttering up my mountain.” Magnus turned his back on the pile. “In the morning, get them down to Toke’s valley. Let their blood be a message to him.” He raised his voice. “This is my mountain.”

  The men all banged their shields and cried out in agreement. He let the sound wash over him, swelling his heart. This was his birthright and nothing would wrest it from him. The rocks so firm beneath his feet anchored him here, the wind was his breath, the water rushing off the peak was like the blood in his veins. Was this what Silvi felt? The power? The strength of the land around him? He raised his sword, yelling out. All around him, the men joined in. Their voices echoed through the night, carried down into the valley on the cold air. Let Toke hear that. Let him understand. Let his heart freeze in fear.

  As they stripped the bodies of weapons and jewelry, Magnus cleaned his sword on the tunic of one of the dead men. All men had a choice in how they lived their lives. These had chosen poorly.

  He straightened and sheathed his sword. “I need a report on our dead and wounded.”

  One of his archers walked up. “One dead, eight wounded. I think the dead man was one of Rorik’s.”

  “Oh, he’ll want revenge from Toke for that,” Eirik said. “Maybe not as much as for a warship, but he’ll still want to collect.”

  “He’ll have to stand behind me.” Magnus picked up his shield. “As it is, we’d better get back to Thorsfjell. They may need us.”

  “Let’s move, then.” Eirik sheathed his sword.

  Magnus called the men to him. Enough of them would stay to clean up and help the wounded return to the village. The rest would come with him now. He glanced back as they started toward the other side of the peak. It was a good day’s work and the sun wasn’t even up yet, though the east was starting to lighten.

  But the battle might not be over.

  * * *

  Had her marriage to Magnus joined her to this place, the same as it joined her to him?

  Silvi didn’t need to wait for Nuallen to return to tell them the battle had begun. The mountain had already told the tale to her in the shifting of forces around her, the tightening of her stomach, the sensitivity of her skin.

  Her mother sat at a table in the crowded common room, a pile of small
wood pieces before her. Lifa was dressed in her full regalia, her fur cloak over her shoulders, her rune staff at her side. She carved Sowilo into a round of oak, then made a small cut on the palm of her hand. She dropped the blood into the symbol and murmured soft words.

  Silvi left her and went into the weaving room, where women sat at the looms, waiting.

  “Our men fight this battle in their way,” she said to them. “And we fight it in ours to help. Just as the Valkyries and the Norns weave the fate of men, so will we turn the course of war on our looms. The Valkyries bind a warrior with terror or loosen that fear. Tie your knots in the weft to make the enemy immobile and unfasten them to free our men to slay. The warp strands are the wyrd upon the earth. Weave strength and peace upon it.”

  As the women worked, Silvi walked to those sitting by the walls. “Spin your distaffs, twining the strands of fate. Call upon the gods to aid us. Bind that into your threads, bringing victory to our men and safety to all who dwell here. For we are the weavers of destiny. While each person’s death is his own, we control what happens until then.”

  She circled the room, encouraging, guiding, praying. This was her role, the one she’d always thought she’d play, but in a place far from here. And yet, did not the gods hear her wherever she was? Even wives and maidens such as these held power.

  The hands of some of the women shook and their eyes were moist from fear for themselves and their men. Still they wove, still they spun. She encouraged them, seeking out those who were terrified, calming them.

  “We are Norse. Even Charlemagne himself would not come here. He feared us. Our men sail the world, conquering all, knowing we’re strong enough to protect what is ours when they’re gone. Are we not the same as they are? The gods protect us and hear us, as well. The Norns are women, yet the gods of Asgard cannot thwart what they have woven. The blood of warriors flows in your veins. Feel it, use it.”

  She glanced toward the common room as the front door opened. Nuallen stepped in and nodded to her. Swallowing, she went to him.

  Silvi spoke low. “It started?”

  “It might be ended by now. There wasn’t a very large force. Magnus will make short work of them. I passed Asa on the way in. Her men are patrolling the perimeter of the village. She said there have been no problems here.”

  “No. Leif and Kaia are down by the ships with half of Rorik’s men, as well as some of our own. I haven’t heard anything from them.”

  He nodded. “I’m going back out to help patrol the outskirts. But I’ll stay near the longhouse so I can hear if anything is wrong. Do you feel anything beyond here?”

  “A change in the land, in the mountain. Nothing close to here.” She smiled. “It’s rather like old times with me telling you if anyone is close to us so you can go out and kill them.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t have to kill anyone. If I do, it means they got too close for my liking.”

  “And for mine. The women are afraid, but they’re strong.”

  Nuallen’s green eyes sparkled. “They get that from you, Silvi. Don’t you see how your gifts can be used here, among the people?”

  “I’m beginning to. You sound like my mother. And my brother.”

  “If I sound like them, then I am honored.”

  “And persistent. Go now. I’d feel better if your eyes and ears listened to the night instead of to me.”

  “Yes, mistress.” He gave a gentle, teasing laugh and left, but not before glancing at Lifa, his expression softening. She was still bent over her runes, her eyes closed as she spoke soft, arcane words to the gods.

  Silvi returned to the weaving room. Would she ever know all of her mother’s wisdom, the things she’d learned at the great temple? How much of her learning had come from the priestesses there, and how much had come from living life itself?

  She walked to the great looms where the women worked, and leaned her forehead against one of the frames. Let him be victorious. Let him come home to me. Tangling her fingers in the threads, she closed her eyes. What would happen if he fell? Thorsfjell would go on, but could she? He’d become a part of her. She’d wanted to hold herself from him, to feel nothing for him, so that eventually she could walk away.

  But each day, she’d discovered more of his fineness, his honor, his gentle caring for his people. And for her. She hadn’t gone to him, as he wished, yet he’d still respected her. And each night, he touched her more deeply, if not her body, then her heart. With every stroke of the comb, and every brush of his hands, she’d opened more to him and their lives together. The desire for Uppsala had faded, even as the island in her visions had vanished.

  There’d been someone on the island with her, though. If only she’d seen who it was. She could remember the feeling of joy when she’d felt him there.

  Could it have been Magnus on the shore behind her? Was the island giving her to him? Could he be her true destiny? If he died this night, she would never know. If he died . . .

  She turned her face into the weaving as tears filled her eyes. Once, she might have thought that if he died, she’d be free. Instead, she’d never hear his voice again, never see the humor in his eyes, never feel his touch in the night. He’d never teach her the things he’d spoken of.

  Her stomach lurched and she blotted her tears on the cloth in the loom, lest the women see them and lose heart. She walked over to the corner where Asa kept her carving tools and sat down on the bench.

  No, she would never be free again, no matter what happened this night. Whether he lived or died, it would make no difference in how she felt for him.

  She loved him.

  As the women worked, the sounds of the looms filled her head. Destiny wove all around her, the knots tightening and loosening, the strands binding Magnus and her together, intertwining them. There was no escaping it. No vows, no ceremonies, no dreams could hold her as this did. For it wasn’t about something or someone beyond her. It was her.

  She looked at her pale, slender hands. He’d said she was beautiful, but she knew better. She was as a piece of cloth left too long in the sauna—insipid and washed out. How could he love her? The longships she brought him were what he wanted. They would empower him, strengthen him, give him the world. That was what he understood. She could never stand beside him wielding a sword, as Asa did with Eirik. All she could do was this.

  The women continued weaving and spinning. Who knew if it did any good? While he was out there with his weapons and his men, risking his life for them all, she was here, safe and weak, mumbling prayers to gods on another world. Which made more difference to the outcome?

  The sounds in the room made her head hurt. She rushed out through the front door. She wouldn’t be foolish and stray too far from the longhouse, but she needed an escape from the noise and the emotions of the others. To breathe the clear air and be alone for a few moments.

  Dawn was coming, though the stars still filled the sky. She lifted her face to their gentle light. She tried to reach over the land, to feel what it would tell her, but her heart was too tumultuous. She couldn’t clear her mind as she needed to. With a sigh, she gave up. News would come soon enough.

  Usually women were out by now, drawing water from the wells, gossiping, taking clothes to be washed. But the street was empty and silent. As she looked up at the sky, she could almost imagine she was by herself, her mind was as calm as the morning air, and she didn’t love a man who might never love her back.

  “Silvi, is everything all right?”

  She jumped at the sound of Asa’s voice and took a deep breath to quiet her pounding heart. “It’s fine. I just needed some air. Have you heard anything?”

  Asa rested her hand on her sheathed sword. “Nothing yet. It shouldn’t be too much longer though. If the battle was going to last long, Magnus would have sent someone back to get reinforcements. He hasn’t. That’s a good sign.”

  She breathed easier. “Have you seen Nuallen? He came out here a while back.”

  “Yes. He checked in wi
th me before disappearing. He’s probably watching us, even now.”

  “Probably.” They shared a smile, but her stomach remained knotted. “Perhaps we could go up there. I could bring along medicines for wounds.”

  “Magnus knows what he’s about.” Asa put her hand on Silvi’s arm. “I’m certain everything is well, but it may not be safe there yet. They’ll bring the wounded here on their shields.”

  “Of course.” She looked down the path leading to the valley. “Have you heard from Leif?”

  “No. But then, they’re playing a waiting game. We weren’t certain of an attack on the ships, so they may not have met with any of Toke’s men.” She looked at Silvi. “I’m not disparaging your vision, but—”

  Silvi held up her hand. “Sometimes I misinterpret them. Or they don’t happen when I think they will. The gods aren’t always clear. There may not be an attack on the ships tonight. But I couldn’t take the chance and not say anything.”

  “I agree.” Nuallen stood behind them. Asa scowled at him and slid her sword back into its sheath.

  “Don’t do that again.” She hit his shoulder with her fist.

  “Then pay closer attention to your surroundings.”

  “Why should I when you’re out here?” She glared at him. “Sneaking.”

  He looked affronted. “I do not sneak. I use stealth. There’s a difference.”

  “If you say so. You might find a blade in your gut no matter what you call it.”

  “It’s nothing that hasn’t been tried before. I’m going down to the fjord. I want to see what’s happening there. If there were any more of Toke’s men on the mountain planning to attack Thorsfjell, they would have done so by now using the cover of darkness, coordinating assaults on our various positions for maximum effect.”

  “You’re right. I’ll keep my patrols out there and come with you.”

  “I want to come as well.” Silvi lifted her chin as they both stared at her. “I have a brother and a husband out there fighting, while I’m here, eating myself inside out with worry. At least let me do something. I can bring my healing supplies.”