There was no similarity between this abomination and the magnificent radiance that came to her in her dream.
She turned around and smiled at Katla, who stood shivering in her cloak.
Estrid knew for sure now that it had been Balder, the bright shining one, one of the Æsir, who had saved her from Hel’s borderland, and the blood of her virginity was her payment for his deed. That must be it.
“I dreamt of your arrival,” he said.
Estrid was startled and took a step back, her heart pounding. The cross worshipper stood with his face pressed against the opening in the door, scrutinizing her with his bluish-gray eyes.
“Quiet, you abomination,” she spat, backing away from the door as annoyance twined around her body. “You have no right.”
“I saw you all the same,” he said with a sad smile. “Winged and full of demons, you carried my painful death in your hand.”
Estrid reeled as weakness surged through her. It couldn’t be a bad thing that he’d seen his own death, as long as he hadn’t sent his God to fornicate with her. The stench of his evil grew so strong that she was on the verge of throwing up, but she couldn’t move.
“Come on,” Katla pleaded. “Don’t let him entrap you.”
Icy serpents slithered over her body and froze her. Those who had lived before gathered around Estrid like pale shadows in the sleet—ancestors in old-fashioned short tunics and cloaks, strangers who were born and lived in this area and hadn’t been able to follow Hel’s path to Niflheim. Beyond them, like black shadows, stood the damned. The four Anund men appeared most clearly, brimming with hate, each standing beside his chopped-off head. There were also Joar Halte, who had killed his own father and been hanged for it, and Inga, who tried to steal from Sigrid.
She used to be able to keep them at a distance, but now they were closing in on her.
“The shadows are bothering you,” the prisoner said.
Could he see into the Hidden?
Puzzled, Estrid turned toward the cross worshipper. He was staring at Katla with hatred and revulsion.
“God can save you. I swear,” he whispered softly. “Let me bless you.”
Estrid could hardly stand upright. She felt dizzy, swaying like someone drunk, but still she had to know.
“Did you send your God to curse me?”
Her voice was so faint, it was scarcely audible, but her words made him grab the edge of the little opening in the door; his eyes lit with hope.
“The Holy Ghost blessed you. Reject the demons and go toward the light.”
Creatures groped at Estrid, and something dirty stretched within her.
A moment later Katla was by her side.
“Be gone, heretic,” she spat angrily, and pulled Estrid away from the cellar. “You won’t get her.”
The cross worshipper looked horror-struck as he backed away into the darkness of his cell, mumbling and waving his hands in front of his chest. Supported by Katla, Estrid staggered away from his sorcery. With each step, her strength returned.
“You let him entrap you!”
Katla’s face was stony with concern as she stood there, beautiful, snow covering the top of her head. Estrid nodded and smiled, ashamed. She should have known better. She shouldn’t have gone so close to his sorcery.
“He saw that I was dedicated to Hel and came to offer his death. His God did not tarnish me.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
Estrid swallowed the sickening blackness of her encounter before making eye contact with Katla. She couldn’t tell Katla what the cross worshipper had said because there was nothing Katla hated more than Christians. If Katla suspected that Estrid was wandering away from the path of the true customs, she might break her oath to follow her to the afterworld. Nothing in this life or the next would be worse than that, because without Katla, Estrid would be ruined.
“Yes,” Estrid lied. “Tonight I’ll make a sacrifice to Balder as thanks for his blessing.”
Katla smiled and nodded, and Estrid exhaled.
“Then I’ll join you,” Katla said.
“Did you go see the prisoner?” Olaf asked.
Olaf and his retinue walked over to Estrid, hungover and with weary, bloodshot eyes. They had been up half the night, bellowing and emptying the mead cask, and now they’d been out hunting. Her brother still had his bow over his shoulder, and his leggings and cloak were spattered with mud. But they didn’t appear to have bagged anything.
“Why do you ask?” she replied.
His face clouded over with irritation.
“I’m your brother and your king, and I demand that you answer me.”
Estrid stared blankly at the fearful little boy hiding inside her brother and was surprised the radiant Balder would claim her twin brother as his chosen one.
“I am your sister. I go where I like.”
The foul odor of Olaf’s fear of her blended with the cold wind, but there was something else: a fleeting shame that he tried in vain to hide.
“You should keep away from that cross worshipper. He poisons people’s minds,” Olaf warned. The men around him nodded, apparently fooled by Olaf’s show of strength and wisdom.
But her brother was weak, and the cross worshipper was weak. There was only one power in this world that was stronger than time itself. Estrid looked toward the darkness in the North.
Hel, my mistress, soon I will wander by your side.
The breakers troubled the ship as they approached the shore, but Sweyn stood steady, his eyes on the buildings inland from the beach. The village wasn’t big, but rumor had it that there was treasure hidden here. He swallowed his contempt bitterly. He needed silver to retake his kingdom and his honor. Only the strong could do what needed to be done.
The Jómsvikings left their ships the instant they could. Lithe, like a pack of wolves, they leapt to land, their axes and shields raised, and ran crouched along the river toward the buildings. There was no sight more magnificent than the strong warriors striking that village with their iron fist at dawn’s first light.
Sweyn adjusted his armor without taking his eyes off the rest of the division as they left their ships. Wave after wave of Jutes, Geats, Scanians, and Norwegians ran roaring after the Jómsvikings, unable to keep up with Sweyn’s wolves, who had already reached the first houses. Screams and barking dogs were heard as they forced their way into the villagers’ homes.
Sweyn chuckled in relief to the warriors from the hird who remained with him, guarding their king.
“It looks like the Jómsviking can still beat everyone in a footrace.”
“They always did have fast feet,” said Ax-Wolf, the redheaded berserker with the bearskin over his shoulders, who had trained Sweyn to fight back in Jómsborg ages ago. “A well-trained pack of wolves, lean and hungry. The winter’s rest hasn’t made them lazy.”
“Let’s see what loot these locals are hiding,” Sweyn said.
He carefully studied the village as he walked up the slope, surrounded by the warriors of his hird, who kept a vigilant eye out for enemies. The houses were well built and the cattle plump, which guaranteed a good haul.
Jómsvikings kicked in the doors of the low stone houses, dragging wailing people from their homes. They herded them through the muddy streets to the village square while some of the warriors stopped to ransack the houses.
A woman with braids, still half-asleep, howled as they shoved her forward as she held the hands of her crying children. Old people shuffled along, their faces wan with confusion, while sniveling young women tried to hide in their shawls. Like a flock, they were driven to the square where they were crowded together, surrounded by rows of helmet-wearing, ax-wielding Jómsvikings in iron armor.
Sweyn furrowed his brow as a division of Jutes stormed into a round wooden Saxon house. It took a long time to get the people out the gate, and there were no sentries on duty.
“We are not putting the Jutes in the first wave next time,” Ax-Wolf muttered crabbily, and
the men of the hird laughed mockingly. “They’re running around like frantic chickens.”
Sweyn didn’t respond; he was much more interested in watching the plundering warriors. Most of the divisions knew what to do when they searched the houses. They almost never encountered any resistance. One broad-shouldered teenager tried to escape but was quickly knocked down and dragged off to the village square. Shocked by the attack, the villagers glared furiously at Sweyn and his men.
Reports of Sweyn’s cruelty and invulnerability had made the rounds through Wessex and the other kingdoms of Britain, breaking everyone’s will to fight.
Sweyn put his hand on his sword hilt and proudly strode into the village.
A fat Saxon came rushing out of a house, screaming, “The enemy!” with his sword raised.
The men of the hird immediately moved to protect Sweyn, their swords drawn, like a wall of strength and sharp blades. Ragnvald attacked and with one lithe motion stabbed the fat man in the neck, killing him instantly.
A little farther off, two men backed away in terror. They dropped their axes and fled between the houses.
“What that man had in courage, he lacked in the loyalty of his friends,” Sweyn said, studying the fat man on the ground.
His fleshy jowls drooped like a dog’s, and his belly bulged beneath his bloodstained shift of costly cloth. There were always some who didn’t understand that resistance was wasted and threw their lives away for nothing.
“A jarl’s ring,” Ragnvald said with dissatisfaction, slicing off the man’s finger with his dagger and holding up the ornate gold ring bearing the mark of King Æthelred. “This man might have been worth more to us as a hostage.”
“It’s too late for that,” Sweyn said with a shrug. “Get his head. He’s still good for something.”
Farman had already raised his battle-ax, and in one quick chop he severed the head from the corpse. Without any hesitation, Sweyn grabbed the jarl’s gray-white hair and, head in hand, walked toward the square where the villagers had been corralled.
The men had already started picking out those rich enough to demand ransom for, but it wasn’t so easy to do. People clung to one another screaming until Ax-Wolf stepped forward, grabbed a man who was clinging to his wife, and hit him so hard that he dropped to the ground, unconscious.
“Shut up or die!” he roared, and the women immediately tried to quiet their children’s frightened wails while the men fell silent.
Sweyn looked around indifferently. A stone church opened onto the square, the rest of which was lined with houses, all crowded in together. His men were blocking all the escape routes from the square.
“You can save your own lives,” Sweyn announced loudly. “Pay and you may live. Pay or we’ll burn down your houses. Anyone without silver will be sold into slavery or sacrificed to my lord Thor!”
He held up the jarl’s head, and the warriors began banging on their shields, the sound rumbling like thunder.
“Thor! Thor! Thor!” they chanted, and the berserkers, bearskins over their shoulders, raised their axes to the sky and roared like madmen.
The villagers cowered in fear. Having been awake for only a few moments, they were so shaken, they didn’t try to flee or fight.
Sweyn tossed the jarl’s head at the priest, who was kneeling and trembling in his gray cowl.
Shock and fear were his greatest weapons.
Finnvid, the treasure master, had already started collecting tribute for the important men of the village, and the church was emptied of its valuables. They pulled up a cart to haul the plunder, and the silver-mounted cross they loaded onto it confirmed the reports of money in the area. Although the silver and other valuables were well hidden, the villagers voluntarily handed everything over to keep their houses unburned and their heads attached.
The nobility brought in the highest ransoms. A young woman with rosy cheeks shrieked as she was led off to the boats.
“Clear that scamp out of the way,” bellowed Sweyn, walking over to the well to get away from her caterwauling.
Ragnvald filled a leather sack with water and smelled it carefully before offering it to Sweyn to rinse his hands. Nine months had elapsed since his brothers’ treachery had driven him into exile, and now here he was, looting inherited knickknacks from sobbing old maids.
Hatred smoldered in his chest about his brothers, but the worst part was his personal humiliation.
As prepared as he was, Sweyn had been sure of victory nine months earlier on the fateful day at the royal estate in Jelling when Erik came ashore with the Svea. Sweyn had summoned his coastal defense fleet from near and far for the approaching battle. He had good men fighting for their homes and their land.
Sweyn’s two half brothers had served him with battle-tested loyalty. He had intended they lead the battle while his Jómsvikings and he attacked the enemy from the flank. They had all been confident of victory when they said their good-byes, but Sweyn had had no idea they were planning to betray him.
With the sound of the battle horn, Sweyn attacked according to plan, but his brothers held their men back.
It was a trap.
Styrbjörn, Oxe Sturlasson, Malte. Many valiant warriors, struggling to save Denmark in vain, went to the afterworld that day.
One by one they fell to the superior numbers as the Danish warriors from the coastal defense fleets, the leidangs, stood on the hill by the battlefield watching their comrades die.
They didn’t lift a sword or shoot an arrow in his defense as they quietly waited for Sweyn to die.
Sweyn clenched his teeth, a fiery dagger of rage twisting in his chest and filling him with a restorative hatred.
He had held his brothers, Torgny and Erik, in high regard and given them great riches. They had spent countless nights talking by the fireside. They had been his brothers-in-arms, and time after time they had proven their loyalty to him. He had conferred with them about how to deal with Emperor Otto. And with his brothers he had ultimately concluded that it would be best for his kingdom if he accepted a Christian baptism to protect the clergy in Denmark.
He had no idea they had formed a pact with the accursed Erik of Svealand to have Sweyn killed. He never imagined they would rather hand Denmark over to the enemy than see Sweyn remain on the Jelling throne.
From childhood Sweyn had learned to always be on guard with men and women whose hearts often bore deceit and guile. He knew that kings never had long lives. Still, his brothers’ betrayal had been unexpected and a heavy burden. He had nurtured a sense of confidence in them, which turned out to be a gross miscalculation that had cost good men their lives.
Sweyn wiped his hands and looked at the ax scar that disfigured Farman’s face. He was one of the Jómsvikings who had fought his way out of that trap with Sweyn and managed to flee to Jómsborg. Sweyn had left many brave men on the battlefield when he was forced into ignominious exile.
But now his men were gathering the villagers’ plunder a short distance away. This should give Sweyn enough silver to retake Denmark.
“This loot won’t keep the men happy for long,” Ax-Wolf said, and then rinsed his face and shook his head, whipping the water from his curly red beard. “The men are restless, and many of the ships have already sailed for home with their share of the spoils.”
Sweyn grimly surveyed the village square.
“That’s the extent of their loyalty to me and Crowbone.”
Ax-Wolf studied him closely for a moment and then said, “It’s hard to know whether Crowbone is still with you. You already know what people are saying.”
Sweyn nodded to the berserker.
“The sun is up. They’ve had plenty of time to get ready,” he announced. “We’re leaving.”
Sweyn watched a young woman, still dressed in her nightshift, who was clinging to an elderly woman as she and several other captives were loaded onto the dragon ship moored at the water’s edge. Her blond hair billowed like ripe wheat over her breasts, and there was defiance in her
when she met Sweyn’s gaze.
“I’ll have her tonight,” he told Ragnvald.
The rest of the spoils didn’t amount to that much. There were no noblemen or magnates to provide copious silver, but they would certainly bring in something once their relatives started pooling what they owned.
“Are you satisfied with the takings, my king?” Ragnvald asked.
“It’ll do,” said Sweyn, patting the young man on the shoulder.
Nine months ago he had ruled Denmark, and his power was highly respected. Now he was no better than a prostitute, spreading his legs to anyone who came along to make a deal in the slave trade.
“Your victories are lauded far and wide, and everyone honors your name, my king.”
Sweyn smiled despite himself at the young warrior who had sought him out as a child. Skinny and impoverished, Ragnvald had begged to join Sweyn’s ranks. And unlike Sweyn’s own accursed brothers, Ragnvald had never let him down.
There was no chance to rest, and there would be no peace until he won back his honor. Silver and victories were worth nothing compared to a person’s posthumous reputation. Sweyn resolved to face what lay ahead. He could imagine no worse fate than being remembered as the king who took power by murdering his own father and then lost Denmark to the Svea.
A worthless bastard, a shame to the Jelling dynasty, his father’s voice whispered in his head.
Sweyn turned away from the dragon ship in anger and saw an old man walking toward them along the beach.
His cloak was old and trimmed with faded embroidery work in the traditional Jelling family colors. His tunic was so frayed, it was falling apart. The old man had no hair on his face or on his head, and his face was shriveled and lined.
A girl with long blond hair walked beside him, carrying a bundle of the fanciest rags almost as big as she was.
When his warriors moved to halt the old man and the girl, Sweyn held his hand up to stop them so that the two could proceed until they reached him.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 4