Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Through cunning and her Scylfing wiles, Sigrid had finally subdued Erik’s madness and persuaded him to repudiate her as his wife so that she could return to Geatland to rule as queen regent there in Olaf’s name. She had accomplished all this without any clemency from Erik. Now her son, the light of her life, was going to be crowned as official heir to the king of Svealand, and he was whining about having to go outside into the cold!

  “What kind of weakling are you now that you’re back from your stay with Uncle Ulf?” she said. “Did Ulf raise you to be a source of shame to the Scylfings?”

  “Don’t be angry, Mother,” Olaf said, flashing her that sunny smile he used to disarm the people around him. “Soon my father will arrive to elevate me to heir apparent, and I will rule at his side as king of the northern lands. Everything you’ve wished for will come true.”

  He smiled so charmingly that Sigrid ached with tenderness for him. Then she set aside her warm feelings for her son. She prayed that the gods would protect this boy, their chosen one. Otherwise they would all be sunk.

  At the foot of the hill, which was topped by the formal hall, the four longhouses huddled in a square, surrounding a muddy central courtyard, surrounded in turn by larders and slave quarters. Only the smithy sat off on its own, a good distance from the other residences.

  Two skinny servant girls carrying buckets across the courtyard paused to curtsy to them before hurrying on. The slave chopping firewood was so emaciated, he looked like he’d already gone to the afterworld.

  The wind ruffled Sigrid’s hair, but she gave no sign that the cold bothered her when the doors to the buildings opened and the farm folk came out to bow in greeting. They were so famished that their bones were visible through their pale skin, and their dirty tunics and dresses hung loosely from their gaunt bodies. What few children there were stood silently, motionless beside their mothers.

  “Blessed King Olaf, help us in our need,” a toothless old woman called out, shivering in a threadbare cape.

  Olaf regarded these poor wretches with discomfort and seemed at a loss for what to do. He turned in relief toward Ylva, who came hurrying toward them, the keys to the larders jingling from her belt.

  “My king, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head deferentially to him. “More have come.”

  The aging housekeeper nodded at four farmers who had come in from outlying farms along with three children, who stood huddled against the wind. The eldest of the men immediately yanked off his leather cap and took a few steps forward.

  “King Olaf, I am Hilding from Utskär, a Scylfing by birth and a free man. Anund’s men looted us. They stole our animals and seed corn before they burned my farm.”

  Sigrid wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body, her fingers stiff from the cold. Damn it. Was there no end to the misfortunes that afflicted her?

  Edmund stepped over to her side.

  “Do you know for sure these were Anund’s men?” he asked.

  The farmer nodded somberly.

  “Yes, my jarl. They screamed the names Anund and Agnatyr.”

  Sigrid glanced over at the four decapitated heads rotting atop stakes that had been thrust into the moorland soil after the last incident with the Anund clan. The birds had eaten most of the Anund men’s heads, but the remnants would stay there as a warning.

  That damned Old Dynasty had been at war with the Scylfings since the peace with Geatland had been settled when she was little. Even though her father had killed Anund, their chieftain, his men had continued waging their wicked deeds against the Scylfings.

  They had just recently ambushed Sigrid’s brother, Ulf, a Scylfing chieftain, but Anund’s men had failed and the ten troublemakers had been captured. The four heads on the stakes were those of the full-grown men in the party. The rest of the group had been women and children. Sigrid had decided to set them free as a gesture of peace to their new chieftain, Agnatyr. It hadn’t done her much good, though. The peace was obviously broken now.

  Sigrid watched her son anxiously. These Anund troublemakers were attacking Scylfing farms; the cross worshippers poisoned their land with darkness and crop failures; and the estate was full of starving people. Olaf was their only hope, and now they would see whether he was man enough to shoulder his fate.

  “What are you doing here?” Olaf asked.

  The farmer turned and looked at his wife, who nodded sadly.

  “We would like you to take us in as slaves.”

  These weren’t the first people to come to the estate requesting this, but Olaf stared at them in amazement as if he couldn’t understand why a free man would give up his freedom to toil as a slave, the basest existence. Born to riches, he had never gone hungry, and there was always food in the dishes the servants brought him. Only now did he realize just how bad things were.

  “Mother,” Olaf whispered, moving to stand near her, “what would you do?”

  The wind toyed with his curly blond hair, and he looked so young in his befuddlement that Sigrid almost took pity. But just as a warrior must be hardened through war games and fighting, a ruler must learn to rule.

  “You’re the king, and as such you always stand alone in making your decisions.”

  “Then give me some advice,” Olaf said, pleading with his eyes, skilled as he was in getting his way with his handsome smile and charm.

  But Sigrid turned away. She could hardly breathe as he stood beside her in silence. Don’t fail me now. Show that you’re the chosen one, born to spread Valhalla’s light.

  “I see,” he said, amused. “Mother is testing me.”

  “My advice is for you to send these hayseeds packing,” Ylva said somberly. “They’re not the first to seek positions here as slaves, and our larders are almost empty. In a month we’ll only have the animals to slaughter and the seed corn left to eat. Now is not the time to feed extra mouths.”

  “Then send men to buy more,” Olaf said, looking puzzled.

  “That won’t work,” the old housekeeper said, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. “Everyone is starving, and what little there is for sale is outrageously expensive, even for a king.”

  The wind had picked up, and they huddled against the gale. The cold crept under their skin, and an eternity came and went before Olaf turned back to the farmer. The farm folk watched their king wide-eyed, and even the smallest of the children was silent.

  “I cannot take you on as a slave,” he said. Hilding’s face paled, and his wife burst into tears. “You are a kinsman and a free man. You will stay here as my guests.”

  Olaf smiled at the trembling farmer, who knelt down in the mud.

  “Bless you, King Olaf. You are a great man.”

  The farm folk eyed the new arrivals with jealousy. This decision stirred up bad blood among those who had forfeited everything to stay on the estate.

  “Listen,” Olaf called out, raising his arm. “Kinsmen, Geats, today I will send word to gather our Scylfing warriors. We must take revenge on Anund’s people for their vile deeds. No farm in all of Geatland shall ever fear that enemy again.”

  “Bless you, King Olaf,” an elderly man cried out. The poor, filthy, emaciated people fixed their gaze on Olaf, as if thirsting for his light.

  Olaf nodded briefly and turned around, indicating he was now aware of Edmund’s presence.

  “Jarl, you heard me.”

  Edmund bowed his head.

  “As you wish, my king,” Edmund said. “Permit me to ask: Who will lead this army?”

  Sigrid watched her son nervously. Was he a young show-off looking for a fight, eager only for honor, or had he come to play the role he was born to?

  “My mother’s brother, Ulf, is a Scylfing chieftain, and he is certainly suited to lead this fight.”

  Sigrid sighed a breath of relief. So her brother had succeeded in raising the boy with some sense after all.

  Smiling, Olaf leaned over to her ear.

  “Well, did I pass my test?” he whispered.

  Sigrid c
ouldn’t help smiling, but she kept her voice gruff.

  “The larders are still empty, and the cross worshippers are blaming the crop failures on our belief in Valhalla. Many feeble minds have listened to their pretty words about heaven and salvation and have sworn off the true gods.”

  “I know all that. Don’t worry, Mother.” Olaf put his hand on her arm. “It will all work out.”

  The look of power in his eyes calmed any remaining doubt.

  “You are my pride,” she said, and turned around as the watchman’s horn echoed on the wind.

  “What nuisance is this now?” Edmund asked, puzzled. He pointed to the moorlands, where three men were riding toward them, pulling a prisoner bound with a rope.

  The hair on Sigrid’s arms stood up as the wind howled its warning, and at that moment she knew.

  “This is a blessing sent by Vanadís.”

  Ax time, blade time, shields are cloven, wind time, wolf time, whispered the fire giants as they flared up in the hearth flames and then died down and disappeared.

  Estrid vacantly watched them dancing over the coals from her seat by the fire, pleased they had let her stay in this world so far. The whispering kinswomen and servers surrounding her were as oblivious as goats to the misery of all the starving people. They giggled about ribbon embroidery as frail mothers helplessly watched their children slowly wither.

  Hunger had shriveled people into fading shadows. Even Big Rolf, once the fattest man for miles around, had lost so much weight, his clothes hung off his body. Not even the richest of the chieftains and their retinues remained unaffected, despite their showy clothing and gleaming silver jewelry. Black death-shadows, harbingers of the afterworld, were visible over the tops of their heads and stank of death.

  Estrid impassively watched her kinswomen’s fear at being chosen as the next sacrifice. She scoffed contemptuously; fear of the afterworld was a sign of weakness.

  “Olaf sulked like a pouting child at having to drag his royal ass out into the cold,” Katla said with a snort. Katla’s hair was uncombed, and her blue eyes twinkled provocatively as she sat beside Estrid.

  “I mean, really,” Estrid said, “a man who’s going to be Valhalla’s chosen one, the protégé of Balder and the protector of all Scandinavia, can’t be afraid to get his nose cold.” They laughed until a coughing fit ripped through Estrid’s chest so badly that it took her breath away.

  “Let me warm you up a little milk, Your Highness,” offered Soot, who had immediately hurried to her side.

  Estrid shook her head at the servant’s nurturing attention. She’d already had too many of the herbs Soot mixed into the milk, and she couldn’t think when her head grew this heavy.

  “I’m fine,” she said irritably.

  Soot had been with Estrid ever since she was little, but unlike the freedom Katla exuded, Soot’s vigilance could be stifling.

  Soot nodded and went off to listen to Hadar the smith who was recounting the “Song of Heimdall.”

  “There came to the farm a wandering-legged girl, mud on the soles of her feet, her arms sunburned, her nose hooked. She was named Slave,” said the muscular smith, running his hand over his bushy gray beard.

  Estrid sighed heavily. She had heard the story many times about how the god had visited three homes, each time lying down between a husband and wife. The resulting children went on to found the three classes of mankind: slaves, farmers, and jarls. The story explained that it was the will of the gods that some should rule while others served.

  The light from the flames, reflected in the bronze plates and family shields hanging on the walls, illuminated the long table and ornate thrones.

  The kinswomen who escorted Estrid’s mother—Eir with her curly dark hair; treacherous Borghild; and friendly Gynnya, who sang so beautifully—giggled together and strutted around like beautiful fillies for the warriors. The men sat relaxing and mending their straps and armor, pretending not to hear a word. Grandfather Toste’s brother, Björn, spoke seriously with Ulrik, the nobleman who owned the farm that bordered his fields.

  “It won’t be easy for Olaf to sit at his father’s side and rule Svealand,” Björn said. “King Erik is unpredictable. Remember, he tried to kill the twins when they were born.”

  Ulrik, nodding with concern, said, “The boy is a strong Scylfing. I’m sure he’ll manage.”

  Estrid smiled bitterly. No one understood what darkness lay over them, not even her mother, who had invested all her hope in Olaf’s becoming a powerful king, one chosen by the gods to save Scandinavia. Her mother was going to be disappointed. Storytellers had filled the sagas with many accounts of heroes’ great deeds, but her brother’s restless mind did not allow much room for noble intentions.

  They had been only five years old when they met a stooped old man on the road. Olaf, chosen by the white god, Balder, started mocking the old man for his ragged clothes and demanded payment to allow the man to proceed. When the old man refused, Olaf kicked the man so hard, he fell down and was knocked out. And as if that weren’t bad enough, Olaf laughed his head off at the man’s misfortune.

  Estrid had tattled and her brother had received a good whipping, but they never did manage to beat the ill will out of him. He kept it carefully hidden behind his courtly language and his suave smile.

  But Estrid knew it was there.

  She and Katla had been awakened the previous night by a dreadful scream. Half-asleep, she hadn’t understood at first what she was hearing, but soon she realized it was a woman screaming in pain as Olaf and his brothers-in-arms beat and raped her.

  “Don’t let her get away!”

  “Hit her harder, Olaf. She likes it.”

  Estrid had lain awake after that. The only upside was that she avoided the nightmare about the beast chasing her up the mountain. She had that dream almost every night.

  She leaned over to the blond, curly-haired Katla seated beside her.

  “Did you find out who suffered my brother’s ill will last night?”

  “It was one of the servant girls,” Katla said, staring glumly into the fire. “I saw her this morning, battered and swollen.”

  Estrid slumped a bit inside her cloak and shivered.

  “I have to tell my mother,” she said, her words audible only to Katla.

  Katla shook her head so that her curls danced over her shoulders.

  “She wasn’t an aristocrat, so it’s inconsequential. Once your father comes to take Olaf back to Svealand as his officially recognized son, heir, and coregent of Svealand and Geatland, we’ll be rid of him. This is what your mother has been waiting and working for all these years. The Scylfings need Olaf as the king of Svealand, for the sake of peace. Keep quiet for a few more days, and it will all be over.”

  Estrid made a face at the thought of Olaf as the most powerful of rulers, but then she nodded. Katla was right and sensible.

  Katla watched over Estrid once she truly understood what it meant to be chosen by Hel: when Estrid woke in the night and saw the dead standing at her bedside, when they pulled at her, wanting to bring her to the afterworld, Katla was there for her. Estrid screamed in terror night after night. Her mother hadn’t been able to help, but Katla understood. She’d stood by Estrid and had shown her how to embrace—not fear—Hel’s gift of seeing into the Hidden. She knew now that the things she saw and heard couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let them. Beloved Katla—without her, Estrid’s life would have been an unending nightmare. She would have wandered alone, dreaded and despised by all.

  “I’ll bite my tongue,” she said, but Katla wasn’t listening anymore. She had stood up and was sniffing the air like a beast of prey.

  A cold snake of uneasiness slithered down Estrid’s spine.

  “What is it?” she asked, but received no response from her kinswoman, who stood frozen, her eyes on the door.

  The fire giants grew in strength, and they were dancing faster and faster over the coals.

  “Be careful. He’s coming. He’s on hi
s way.”

  The flames blazed up with a roar, and the giants’ death screams were mixed with horror.

  The next moment the door opened, and Hawk, the old warrior, stepped in. A chilly wind filled the smoky hall with the scent of rain and mud.

  “Ingvald is coming, and he brings a captive, a cross worshipper,” the servant said with a big grin.

  Estrid gasped and exchanged a pained look with Katla. Nothing needed to be said, because they already knew what had happened. So, it had begun, the end.

  The cross worshipper showed neither fear nor sadness as he stood with his hands bound and his face covered in bruises. The north wind caught at his soiled tunic, which was so short it hardly came down to his knees. And he was short, a full head shorter than Ingvald and his sons, who guarded their prey.

  Sigrid coolly regarded these lowborn men from one of the outlying farms. Few people had anything good to say about any of them, and they were reputed to be thieves and liars.

  “Why do you bring this abomination here?” she asked, looking upon the prisoner’s wickedness with disdain.

  Ingvald stepped forward, pulled off his cap, and held it to his chest as he awkwardly bowed his head.

  “This cross worshipper stole a young slave and screwed her to pieces, Your Majesty.”

  Olaf snorted contemptuously and then asked, “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  “We didn’t dare, Your Majesty,” Ingvald said. “We don’t want to disrespect Vanadís and break the law of the Geats.”

  “Then I will gladly assist you,” said Olaf, putting his hand on the dagger in his belt.

  “Wait!” Sigrid raised her hand and stopped her son. She eyed the captive thoughtfully.

  There was no assurance that Ingvald was telling the truth, but she might have a use for this captive.

  The cross worshippers had made cunning use of the crop failures and the dissatisfaction and fear that grew among the farmers and their kin. A number of Geats had fallen for the cross worshippers’ false faith, filled with its promises of paradise in the afterworld if they let the white god, Balder, possess their bodies. Even some of the chieftains had sworn their faith and senselessly surrendered to this evil.