Ylva brushed a lock of hair out of her own belligerent face.
“Giving away the last of our grain and mead to slaves and farmers from the outlying farms will teach them to turn against you. I can understand Svealand’s king demanding a grand feast when he arrives, but it escapes me why you would want to feed extra lowborn people from the local area.”
“I have to!” Sigrid growled. “They’re loyal to whoever feeds and protects them, and I can’t let them fall for the cross worshipper’s temptations. This fight is over far more than just your larders, woman!”
“Fight or not, I can’t do magic with my knees and flap my hands and make fish appear like the white God’s son,” Ylva said obstinately.
“Then slaughter some cattle and serve meat.”
Ylva looked down and was silent for a moment before nodding.
“I will do as you say,” she replied courteously. “I know what burdens rest on your shoulders and what’s at stake.”
Sigrid slowly exhaled.
“Still, you must know that if the crop failures continue and this really is the beginning of Ragnarök—” Ylva began.
“It isn’t,” Sigrid interrupted, noting the fear behind the housekeeper’s anxiety. “This is the gods’ punishment because we let Christians poison our land. Vanadís will bring us a miracle as soon as that cross worshipper is dead. I swear to it.”
Ylva’s skeptical look made it clear she did not fully believe Sigrid.
“That’s a high-stakes game.”
Sigrid stretched her back, not showing the slightest weakness. In these worst of times, hope was the only strength they could drink in.
“Rejoice, for tomorrow the darkness will pass and life will return,” she said, confident of victory.
“May you be right, my queen,” Ylva said, nodding politely.
Only once the door had been closed and Sigrid was alone in her room did she sit down on the bed and look out at the rain. She had a headache, and the endless cold shrouded her in hopelessness.
“How long will you let me wander alone, Vanadís?” she said into the dull gray light.
She had felt Freya’s presence her whole life. The goddess’s infinite power had nourished her, but no more . . . the emptiness was like a charred wasteland, devoid of joy, where no life could sprout. Sigrid ran her hands over her face and took a shaky breath.
She had sacrificed everything for Vanadís, and her son had been chosen by the gods to become the king of kings. She had even given up Sweyn, the only man she’d ever loved, for the gods. And still they were testing her faith.
“Come back and I will give you everything you wish, beloved Freya,” she whispered.
Just then she heard the distant rumble of Thor riding his chariot. Sigrid looked out the window and waited, her heart pounding. There it was again. The Thunderer banged his hammer and the skies lit up, and soon the thunderous booms reverberated over the fields. It was a sign. Sigrid smiled at the night-black sky in relief. The protector of humanity had arrived to fight away the frost giants and clear the path for Vanadís. The battle had begun, and soon they would be liberated.
“Thank you, Einriði,” she whispered. “Thank you, Vanadís.”
Despite her cloak and wool dress, Estrid shivered in the wind as she rode with the crowd along the winding road toward the sacrificial oak. The raw, chilly dampness fed her cough and made every breath a struggle.
Olaf stared straight ahead, pretending she wasn’t riding beside him. A Scylfing never showed weakness. Illness was dishonorable, and in his eyes she was already dead.
“Greetings, Olaf, blessed king of Geatland!” someone called out.
Cries of hurrah were heard. Hands reached toward Olaf.
Her twin brother shone like a radiant god as he rode forth among the poor and starving who had gathered to see the cross worshipper receive his punishment. Olaf, Balder’s chosen one, was magnificently dressed, wearing a cloak over his ornate leather armor, which bore the gleaming silver mark of the Scylfing clan. His curly blond hair was like a victor’s crown, and silver chains shone on his arms and around his neck.
Estrid inhaled a wheezing breath and urged her horse forward.
“He will come with the spring and Valhalla’s blessing,” called Anna from the outlying farm, smiling her toothless smile.
Estrid’s gut ached with worry as she watched Balder’s power radiating from her twin brother. She hadn’t dreamt of the beast since Balder, the fair god, had saved her from Garm’s claws and blessed her. Having been touched by the god who had chosen Olaf for his own should bind Estrid to her twin brother, but all she felt was a strange loathing.
“Priestess of Hel, I honor you!”
Estrid searched among the dead who had gathered around the crowd of the living to see who had spoken the words. It was Beda. Smiling, she stood beside her father, who had killed her before she even became a woman. She refused to seek peace in the afterworld before exacting her revenge, so now she rode her father’s chest at night as a mare, bringing him bad dreams. It drained him, and he had aged so badly that soon he wouldn’t have any vitality left.
Estrid smiled wanly at the girl and raised her hand in greeting to the others. Some wore clothing from antiquity; others were slaves who had been murdered or wasted away from hunger or disease and couldn’t find their way to Niflheim.
“May Vanadís bless you, King Olaf,” called out Ella, the prettiest of the young maidens from the local area, and Olaf flashed her a beaming smile as they first reined in their horses and dismounted.
“May the gods bless you,” Old Sture hollered, as if Olaf were his good friend.
Estrid’s brother smiled and greeted everyone with a carefree ease, and at that moment he truly resembled a young god as he drew the villagers’ attention and filled them with confidence.
“Stand back up, Anna, so your knees don’t get cold,” Olaf said with a laugh.
He helped the stooped old woman who had sunken slightly down into the mud back to her feet.
“Hadar, it’s been far too long since we’ve spoken. I wanted to thank you for making me that knife,” Olaf said affably, and an enormous grin spread over the smith’s rugged face.
Estrid walked along behind Olaf, invisible to those who were drawn to his light and power just as he was blind to the dead who wandered near them. Estrid was surprised to see how highly people thought of Olaf and the ease with which he bore their hopes and expectations.
“They only see what they want to see,” Katla whispered into her ear.
Estrid nodded and took her place beside Olaf at the death site.
The decapitated heads of Anund’s men were rotting on their stakes, and the wind reeked of doom and triumph. The Utgard gods’ black shadows rose ominously over the moorlands, trying in vain to reach into their world.
“He’s coming! They’re bringing him out,” her kinswomen whispered excitedly behind her back, and a wave seemed to spread through the crowd.
The cross worshipper walked toward his own death, between Edmund and Hawk, the broad-shouldered warriors. His hands were tied behind his back, and he looked cold in his short, soiled frock. He calmly looked into the hate-filled faces of the gathered audience. There was no sign of anger or rage in him, just a peculiar peace.
“May God bless you all!” Vidar said.
Estrid took a deep breath and drank of the blessed ambivalence that coursed through her body. The cross worshipper’s hands were so covered in sores and mangled that no one could doubt his guilt, and yet he still tried to ensnare people. But everyone backed away from his strange sorcery.
Only Anna stepped forward, her gray braids swaying around her wrinkled face and her threadbare cloak hanging from one shoulder.
“May you suffer long for your evil deeds, you corpse eater,” the old woman shouted, and spat in his face. “May Hel leave you to wallow in snake venom in Náströnd’s halls until the end of time.”
“May God bless you, my sister,” Vidar said gently.
Ann
a made the sign to ward off evil.
“I am not related to you, you abomination,” she said, and stepped back into the crowd of onlookers.
They patted her on the back and nodded approvingly at the courage she had shown.
The warriors roughly shoved the cross worshipper on.
When he looked around, his eyes were glazed over, blissful. Estrid followed his gaze to see what he was looking at and realized that he, too, could see the dead.
“Turn to the light!” he yelled to them. “Accept salvation!”
Then he laughed shrilly before he began screaming galdr, incantations, in a foreign language.
He couldn’t get to her anymore. The strength Hel gave Estrid at the sacrifice shielded her from this strange sorcery and left her unreachable.
She no longer understood what she had feared in this foreigner. He was going to die, and the hope he bore in him during his ordeal of fire had faded. All he had left was to cling to his belief that he would go to the afterworld that his God promised the cross worshippers.
Estrid pulled her cloak around her body to protect herself from the cold wind that came in off the moorlands as the prisoner was led to the cross. The four rotting skulls of Anund’s men stared vacantly at them from their stakes, and for a brief instant as the wind moved their beards and hair, they seemed alive.
“God’s blessing upon you!” Vidar exclaimed.
“I’ll give you a blessing!” Edmund said, and quieted the prisoner with a blow to the face, causing the man to slump down in the mud, bleeding and snuffling.
“Your incantations have no effect here,” Sigrid stated loudly. “You are damned in this world and the next.”
The crowd quieted, and around them people knelt and bowed their heads to Sigrid, Vanadís’s chosen one, and to the true gods. Sigrid’s dress and cloak were as blue as a summer sky, and gold sparkled like sunbeams around her arms and her neck as she strode through the crowd with dignity. Her braided hair sat like a golden wreath atop her head, and her eyes were outlined in charcoal so she resembled a dís.
Her maidservants walked behind her, wearing simple white garments, their heads bowed.
It was like seeing Freya and her valkyries descending from Folkvang. Even the wind, howling over the moorlands, calmed to a tender caress, as if the dísir were holding their breath in anticipation as Sigrid, her head held high, walked over to the corpse eater, who still lay on the ground, muddy and with a bloody nose.
Sigrid gave him one look and then turned her back to him.
“Behold the cross worshipper’s powerlessness,” she said. “His false God cannot save him now.”
Her voice carried over the moorland with such strength that it drove away all fear and uneasiness.
The fear showed now in the cross worshipper’s eyes, and he squirmed like a worm before Sigrid’s dazzling splendor.
“A venomous snake has slithered into our fields to kill our children. Thank you, Vanadís, for protecting us from this evil. Thank you for allowing us to purge our fields of this abomination. We humbly pray that you receive our gift and once again bless our land with peace and fertile crops.”
The onlookers nodded and mumbled in agreement as they stepped closer to get a better view as the cross worshipper was dragged to the cross. He didn’t resist as his arms and legs were bound, but his mouth kept moving silently.
Sigrid, distinguished and shimmering, turned to Olaf, who took a step forward.
“The corpse eater will be tormented to death on the cross he holds so dear in punishment for the slave child he killed and then ate,” Olaf announced in a loud, manly voice. “Take heed of his suffering, for this is what awaits anyone who turns to the false God.”
Olaf nodded to Old Rask, who was already standing by the cross with a hammer.
As the first nail was positioned over the cross worshipper’s wrist, a clamor was heard from the onlookers, but Vidar remained quiet. Estrid saw the joy among those gathered. As the nail was hammered through his flesh and into the wood, the clamor grew louder and louder. Smiling, they shouted out their joy and their hate.
“Vanadís, Mistress of Folkvang,” Sigrid intoned loudly. “Bless us. Protect us. Fetter this abomination.”
It wasn’t until the biggest nail was driven through his ankles with a crunch that the cross worshipper screamed, a shrill, inhuman shriek.
Estrid shivered as the warriors raised the cross upright so the foreigner hung from it, whimpering in pain. Decapitation or burning would have been better. Now he would suffer for a long time before death relieved him. She took a deep breath and drove the compassion out of her chest. He ate corpses and fornicated with children! He was filled with evil and had tried to sully her, a member of the Scylfing’s leading family and Hel’s chosen one, with his filthy sorcery. He deserved to suffer for all eternity.
“May you be triply cursed,” Sigrid called out, extending her arms toward the gray-black heavens.
Estrid put her hand on her heart in veneration of Freya and repeated the words.
“Behold our devotion, Vanadís. Accept our gift.”
“Accept our gift,” everyone repeated in unison.
And right then the miracle happened.
A gash opened in the dark clouds, and a beam of sunlight, thin as spun gold, fell onto the moors. Estrid gasped for breath as the power of Vanadís tore the dark clouds open. Soon life-giving light poured down from a clear blue sky.
It was really happening. Estrid squinted into the light as its warm life force kissed her face and erased Utgard’s darkness. The air filled with birdsong, paying tribute to the life-giving goddess, who was finally showing them mercy.
“It’s over,” laughed Estrid, filled with a tumultuous joy.
Sól had accepted their offering and returned from the underworld with her chariot filled with light and warmth. With her radiant power, she drove the frost giants from the fields and filled the world with joy and life.
“Bless you, Sól! Bless you, Vanadís.”
All around them people dropped to their knees in reverent gratitude, squinting in the unfamiliar, warming sunlight. Gray and emaciated, they looked like dead people who had been sent back to Midgard from Niflheim to once again be filled with life force.
Anna stretched her hands to the sky, enraptured, and Old Rask couldn’t hold back his tears.
“It’s over! We’re out of the darkness.”
“This is truly miraculous,” laughed Estrid, and turned to Katla.
Her kinswoman didn’t seem to share her joy and instead took her hand in silence.
“Aren’t you happy?” Estrid asked, taken aback.
Finally Katla smiled at her.
“Of course I am,” she said, squeezing her hand.
There was a sharp jab of excruciating pain in Estrid’s chest, and her breathing once again became labored. Coughing, she turned away to hide her weakness as the beast tore and slashed at her chest.
“What’s the matter?” Katla asked, supporting her so she could stand upright.
Estrid. The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she heard a gentle voice whispering her name.
“It’s him,” she said, pointing to the cross where the foreigner stared lifelessly at her.
Release me.
The voice grew ominous, like a rumbling thunderstorm, filled with such strength, the air trembled. It was no longer the foreigner hanging on the cross but rather a dís of light surrounded by a radiant aura, so strong the sun paled.
Release me, and I will release you.
Then the light faded and the vision disappeared. The foreigner hung on the cross, whimpering pathetically, his eyes closed.
Pain ripped like a wild animal at Estrid’s lungs, making Estrid gasp for breath before she again convulsed in a coughing fit.
“Turn away from the wickedness,” Katla said, her eyes full of worry. “Don’t look at him.”
Invisible hands closed around Estrid’s neck, and she clawed at her throat with her fingers to
get them off.
Blessed Hel, beloved queen of Niflheim, protect your chosen one. Grant me some of your eternal strength.
Estrid leaned forward and forced herself to fight for breath.
“Everything is as it should be,” Katla whispered, rubbing her back.
The grip on her throat eased, and Estrid greedily filled her lungs with air. It was over. No one could hurt her if she didn’t permit it. She was Hel’s chosen one.
It was over. The offering had been accepted, and darkness had been driven away. Sól drove the frost giants’ cold from the fields and blessed the world with her life force. The sense of triumph that washed over Sigrid was so great that her eyes welled up. Vanadís had been merciful and allowed the light Radiant One to return from the underworld as a potent omen of Valhalla’s power before Olaf’s coronation. It was over, and Sigrid had stood firm through her trial and not lost hope.
Beloved mistress, thank you for finally responding to my prayers.
Ylva smiled at her, no trace of skepticism left. Jarl Edmund nodded to her. Although he had tried to hide it, she had seen that he doubted the light would return.
Sigrid felt power surging through her body, like liquid flame. From this moment on, no one would doubt her power.
Vanadís had returned, and the crop failures were over. Valhalla had demonstrated its power over the Christians.
Tomorrow Erik, ruler of Svealand, Geatland, and Denmark, would arrive, and her son would be crowned heir and king of the great realms of the North, father and son united against the Christians, who were trying to wipe out the ancient faith of their people.
“This is the sign that Olaf’s accession to the throne is blessed by Vanadís,” Sigrid proclaimed, and her son knelt before her and kissed her hand.
“You are a mother to us all,” he said in a ceremonious and ingratiating manner.
Sigrid was fit to burst with joy as she tenderly stroked her son’s hair.
“You are our hope and our defender,” she replied.
It was really over. People were hugging all around them, once again filled with the sacred life force. This winter there would be no funeral pyres for those who had wasted away from starvation.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 7