Erik nodded to Axel.
“Fetch him so we can ensure his safety.”
Sigrid opened her mouth to protest, but there was nothing she could say or do about it. This battle was already lost, and won.
“Let us speak in private. Then you can reward me for my kindness, my wife,” he said with a lewd grin and a wink to his men.
He led her into his tent as if she were some common mistress expected to serve any old person. Sigrid could hardly breathe from the shame and rage as she stepped into the dark tent.
There were a wooden chest, an ornate bed, and an animal-fur throw on the floor. Sigrid stiffened when Erik put his hand on her shoulder.
“That was a magnificent show you put on for my men.”
He kept his voice low so no one would hear them. Erik still didn’t believe her. No matter what she said or did, she couldn’t penetrate his distorted distrust.
Sigrid twisted out of his grasp.
“They took Estrid to get revenge, and with every heartbeat there’s a risk of her dying. How can the king of Svealand tolerate such an insult?”
“Do you have the ships and the men I asked for?” he demanded, straight-faced.
“Not yet,” she said, and calmly looked him in the eye. “The Geatish warriors are willing to fight with you, and we can pay you in horses and silver. But we don’t have the ships.”
He came so close that she smelled the stench of salted fish on his breath.
“Beautiful and sly as Kvasir,” he said, and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You shamelessly use your children to get your way. Do you think I don’t know your daughter’s disappearance is a farce?”
Sigrid shook her head, taken aback.
“I swear by Vanadís it isn’t.”
Overpower his insanity and steer his will, mother of us all.
“It would be convenient for the Scylfings if I fell for your trick and headed off to raid your sworn enemies.” He spoke the words like a wild animal growling.
“Our daughter has been kidnapped. That is an insult to your power, my king,” she appealed.
At that moment his eyes darkened in a flash of madness. Fast as a snake, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so she almost fell to the ground.
“You lying bitch, if only you knew how much I hate you.”
Pain ripped through her scalp, but she forced herself to stay calm. If he sensed fear in her, it would just fuel his insanity.
“I have served you loyally, and Olaf has ruled wisely over the Geats in your name. Don’t allow war to embroil us again.”
The blow came without forewarning—a searing pain on her cheek—so hard she fell over backward onto the ground. In surprise she watched Erik move to stand over her, straddling her.
“My son is going to watch when I hang you by the neck in your burning estate.”
He was completely insane; she saw that now. His face was contorted in hatred, and his eyes were completely vacant.
“Yes,” she whispered, reining in the fear that was tearing her apart. “You have the power, and all I can do is serve you.”
She had to hold still, let him have his way, for the sake of the children and peace.
He smiled, pleased, delighted at her groveling.
“What will you do for me?”
“Whatever you wish,” Sigrid said with a gulp. “I’ll do anything for you if you ensure the peace and bring Estrid back to me.”
Erik put his hands on his hips and revealed his brown teeth in a wide sneer.
“Crawl.”
Sigrid stared blankly into the darkness raging within Erik. This didn’t matter.
“Crawl, like the rotten bitch you are.”
Like a dog, she crawled on her hands and knees through the mud while Erik chuckled with glee.
“You lying sow.”
A hard kick on her back made her fall forward. Moaning in pain, she cowered. Erik grabbed her hair again and dragged her over to the bed, where he pushed her down on her belly.
Vanadís will punish you for this, and I will rejoice over your dead body. Sigrid lay completely still as he ripped open her dress and pain pierced her vagina like a glowing spear. This has nothing to do with me. The stench of sour mead and sweat mixed with his raging lechery as he rode Sigrid until, panting and moaning, he came inside her.
She lay there on the bed, vacantly staring straight ahead.
“Get up!”
Every part of her body hurt as she stood up, filthy and befouled. Erik straightened his breeches, happily poured some mead from a pitcher, and then smiled at her.
“Tamed and humiliated, the way a woman should be.”
She ran her hand down her dress.
“Thank you, my king.”
It took all her strength to keep her voice submissive and understated. She wanted to hack his smug grin to pieces and urinate all over the fresh wound, but this was not yet the time for revenge. She still had a use for the king.
Erik sauntered forward and raised her head so she was forced to look him in the eye.
“In my inexhaustible mercy, I will spare you and your accursed family and search for your daughter. But remember this: at the least doubt of the Scylfings’ loyalty, your son loses his head, so you’d better serve me well.”
Olaf was Erik’s hostage. Sigrid swallowed.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, my king. The Scylfings will serve you with the utmost loyalty. I swear it.”
He patted her on the cheek in amusement.
“I should have punished you sooner.”
With those words he turned his back to her and walked toward the tent opening.
“Come, my queen, most esteemed mother of King Olaf. You will stand behind me when I take possession of your son and his land of the Geats.”
Sigrid took a shaky breath, then raised her chin and walked out of the tent with dignity.
It was starting to get dark by the time they reached a camp deep in the woods. Estrid sat down on a rock, exhausted, and took a wheezing breath, half-suffocated from their trek through the woods. The rope her captors had tied around her wrists had chafed her skin bloody, and her stomach ached with hunger.
“If only they’d just let us die,” she whispered to Katla.
Her kinswoman nodded tiredly.
“That’ll probably happen soon enough now that the enemy has us,” Katla said quietly.
Estrid leaned forward, gasping for breath so that her chest whistled and squeaked.
They hadn’t been on the road to Niflheim after all. The men who had taken them were mortal. Penniless. Harmless. One of them, toothless. Another one, big as a bear. She realized he was the one who’d hit her.
The toothless one had brought a sack of Anund’s men’s skulls that they’d retrieved from her mother’s estate, and now he stood in front of the fire in the darkness.
“We found her at the execution site, just like you said we would,” the bearlike man from the Anund clan said.
A woman answered, saying something they couldn’t hear.
Estrid tried to swallow, but her mouth was far too dry.
“So the Anund clan’s sorcery trapped you,” Katla said gloomily. “It was all a trap.”
Estrid could see how alarmed Katla was. Although Estrid, too, was ravaged by fear, she couldn’t give in to the fear now, not when Katla needed her.
“This is a test,” Estrid said. “Hel wants to see if we’re worthy.” She smiled at Katla’s hesitancy as her hope was once again rekindled. “I met the death goddess before I woke up on the boat, and she was more marvelous than we’d hoped. We’ll be with her soon. I swear it.”
She smiled at Katla, hoping Katla would find her smile comforting.
“As long as the way there won’t be too painful,” Katla said, anxiously eyeing the men over by the fire.
Estrid shivered as she realized what her kinswoman meant.
“Whatever happens, we’ll be together.”
She had to be stro
ng through this. A Scylfing did not yield to the enemy.
Skjalf had managed all right when Agni, the first of the Scylfing kings, captured her and took her from her father, Frosti, to make her his wife. Skjalf was dedicated to Vanadís, and the goddess filled her with a strength so great that she hung Agni by his torque and returned home.
“The marriage dís hoisted the king into the air by the golden torque he wore around his neck. Hung by his own jewelry,” Estrid mumbled, and started rocking back and forth muttering something about Hagbard and gallows.
She was Hel’s chosen one, and she would prove herself worthy of the death goddess’s tests.
“My faith is my iron-clad shield,” Estrid mumbled as the toothless man hauled her onto her feet and led her into the camp where the enemy waited by the blazing campfire.
Five men and one woman stood in the glade with their arms crossed, staring at her. Obviously lowborn members of the Anund clan, they all carried axes but not swords, and their clothes were simple and unwashed. Her pride stomped out any fear she might have had.
“Scylfing bitch!”
A shield maiden—a valkyrie—tall, with bulging arms, rushed toward Estrid and kicked her full force in the gut so she fell backward and onto the ground. Moaning from the pain, she lay curled up, hardly able to breathe.
“Control yourself, Turid,” an angry voice snapped.
The evil one, dressed in a brown frock and with her gray hair braided, squatted down beside her. Her face was covered in tattoos, unfamiliar symbols that moved around as if they were alive. Her eyes were yellow and ice-cold, like a snake’s. This must be Ragna, the Anund clan’s dreaded seeress.
“There, there. You’re trembling. You can’t get any air,” the evil one said, stroking Estrid’s hair.
A wicked sordidness rose around Ragna’s essence like a cloud, and Estrid knew the creature next to her was not of this world.
“Let me go,” Estrid demanded.
Ragna’s laugh was like a low growl.
“Drink.”
The seeress placed a wooden bowl to her lips. It seemed to be just water, and Estrid was so parched, she drank it all. She greedily licked the bottom once the bowl was empty. Then the seeress tenderly wrapped her cape around Estrid’s body.
“There, there. Don’t be scared.”
The seeress’s gentle voice frightened Estrid more than anything else.
Ragna was a giantess, so powerful that the dísir themselves were forced to bend to her will. Every time the moon was full, the seeress sacrificed a young maiden and gave the girl’s blood to the clan’s leading warriors to make them immortal so they could continue killing Scylfings.
She walked around Estrid now, carefully studying her as she made approving smacking noises with her mouth.
“She may be young and skinny, but she is certainly attractive, isn’t she, Agnatyr?”
Estrid turned her head and looked at the ugliest of the men.
His arms and legs were covered in tattoos, strange symbols twining around his body, and on his neck he wore his family’s three spirals.
His leather armor was old and worn, and his breeches were of the simplest cloth. His hair was dark and braided, but his beard was trimmed short, and his eyes were keen like a hawk’s.
“Are you sure she’s the daughter of that Scylfing bitch?” Agnatyr asked a filthy boy standing next to Ragna. He received an eager nod in response.
“Yes, Chieftain. She laughed when our heroes were sentenced to their deaths.”
Estrid’s brow furrowed. The child must be one of those Sigrid had shown mercy to and allowed to go free, a kindness that had really come back to bite them.
“You’re lying,” Estrid said. “I wasn’t there when the men were sentenced.”
But no one listened. They just stood by while the chieftain’s eyes crawled over her like ants.
“She’ll do,” Agnatyr finally said.
For what? Estrid wondered, her heart running riot inside her body.
The shield maiden Turid crossed her arms and stared at her, her eyes filled with hatred.
“The law gives me the right to do to the captive what her mother did to my brothers,” she said.
Estrid took a rasping breath and looked at Katla, who was cowering in fear.
“Turid is entitled to her revenge,” a redheaded warrior said.
Agnatyr scratched the back of his head before nodding.
“It would be a simple thing to slit the throat of the princess,” he said thoughtfully, moving so close to her that she could smell the stench of sweat and malice on him.
Estrid forced herself to look him in the eye. She was a Scylfing, the noblest and strongest of the warring clans, and he was a poor lawless weakling, hardly better than a slave. The chieftain smiled, revealing his sharpened teeth, like some beast.
“But we’ll put her to good use.”
They can’t hurt me unless I allow it. Estrid forced air down into her chest with a wheeze. Like Skjalf, I will hang you from your torque and rejoice as you die slowly, and you will regret ever having laid eyes on me. She raised her bound hands in a silent demand that the rope be untied.
Agnatyr slowly shook his head.
“From this moment on, you will need to earn what you want. And that’s not going to be easy.”
Sigrid’s heart ached as Olaf, escorted by the other Scylfing chieftains, walked through the Svea camp surrounded by Erik’s men.
Next to the tall warriors in their battle attire, their faces scarred from warfare and hardships, her boy looked too young for a battlefield death and merciless combat between grown men.
The memory of his weight when she held him in her arms, the scent of those little hands, echoed in her chest. Ever since he had been born screaming and she first held him, her life had been dedicated to this moment. Sigrid could hardly breathe for love. He was her greatest pride and joy, and everything she’d done was for his sake. Now she was being forced to let go so he could fulfill his destiny, in Valhalla’s name. The sunlight bathed Olaf in its golden glow as he strode toward his father like a young god, fearless, head held high.
Sigrid smiled at her son, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes were trained on Erik and all the power he offered.
“Father, I shall serve you faithfully in everything,” Olaf said, placing his hand over his heart.
Erik gave Olaf’s shoulder a tepid squeeze.
“You will remember this day with joy and trepidation, my son,” he said in a voice filled with intimacy.
“The only thing I fear is not being worthy of my king and father,” Olaf said, looking proudly into his father’s eyes.
Those words more than pleased Erik, and he whispered something into the boy’s ear before they climbed together onto the sturdy dais outside his tent. When he raised his arm, the chieftains and warriors fell silent in anticipation.
“Svea, behold my son, Olaf the Lap-King,” Erik announced. “Before he was even born, Odin blessed him as king of Svealand at the sacred temple of Ubsala. Since he was a child, he has ruled Geatland in my name. From this day on he will share the throne of Svealand with me, your victorious king.”
Olaf’s cheeks blushed red as Erik grabbed his arm and raised it to the sky.
“Honor and fear King Olaf as you honor and fear me, because from this moment on we are one.”
Sigrid shivered. The gods were here. She could feel their blessing fill the air with strength and joy. She could just make them out in the brilliant sunlight, as powerful as giants: Thor with his hammer, stooped Odin, and life-giving Frey. They were all watching Olaf’s accession, but it was Balder, the light god, who stood smiling by Olaf’s side.
The light around the boy grew in brightness until it was as brilliantly strong as the sun and dazzled everyone who beheld his beauty. Olaf, blessed by Valhalla, took his rightful place as king and ruler, and no one doubted that he was a young god standing before them with his blinding power.
The men dropped to their
knees and, putting their hands over their hearts, swore their loyalty to Olaf. Smiling, he blessed them with the light, like a victory crown on his head.
“Blessed be King Olaf, chosen by Valhalla!” cried Axel, and the men’s cheers grew into a deafening roar.
The gods nodded in approval and then gradually departed the moor one by one until only the mortals remained.
It was done. Sigrid closed her eyes as a strange serenity filled her chest. Olaf’s destiny was fulfilled, and the traditional ways had been safeguarded in the name of Valhalla. My beloved son, my beautiful boy, chosen by the gods, king of kings.
Erik’s seed dribbled down her leg, and her body ached from being hit. Her hair was uncombed, and she wasn’t wearing a cloak, jewelry, or shoes. Everything he had done to strip her of the joy of this moment had been for naught. Not even Estrid’s fate or Odin himself could strip Sigrid of her pride in her son.
Erik again raised his hand, and silence settled over the crowd.
“Svea, rejoice!” he proclaimed. “Geatland, Scania, and Jutland are unified under the Svea throne, under the reign of father and son, the two kings of the Svea.”
The men started beating again on their shields, the sound rumbling like thunder over the moorland.
Sigrid took a deep breath.
Generation after generation would tell of this day when Geatland and Svealand were unified into a new kingdom in Scandinavia, the light of the North, protected by Valhalla’s Æsir gods and goddesses. The Christians’ darkness would be forced back, away from their ancestors’ sacred land. They would finally be safe.
Erik gestured for Ulf and the chieftains to step over to him.
“The oath that was sworn to my son must be reciprocated by his kinsmen. Let me hear you pledge your allegiance to your ruler and king.”
Sigrid gasped for breath. Only now did she grasp what Erik had concealed behind his threats and desecrations. He had never wanted ships or warriors. He wanted to force her family and the Geatish chieftains into submission.
The kinsmen stepped forward, weighed down by disbelief and fury. One by one they knelt down before Axel, who said what needed to be said.
“I swear my allegiance to Erik the Victorious, ruler and king of Svealand. I swear on my life and my integrity to honor my king in thought and deed, obey his wishes, and serve him faithfully. May Odin be my witness.”
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 15