Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Then she leaned forward and whispered into Sigrid’s ear. “I so sincerely long to carry out your bidding that I can think of nothing else.”

  Asta looked up and giggled with delight as Erik rode into the courtyard with Olaf on one side and Axel on the other.

  Sigrid’s heart constricted when she saw how solemn her son looked.

  “I’m here to say good-bye, and to thank you for your services,” Erik called out with a suggestive grin.

  Sigrid carefully concealed her rage as she tilted her head to the man who had violated her.

  “It is I who should thank you, my king. May the gods lead you to our daughter so you can bring her home.”

  She smiled at Olaf, but the boy continued to stare vacantly. Erik had already poisoned him with his lies and turned him against her. The pain cut into her heart like a knife.

  It would pass. Soon he would understand all she had done for him and honor her.

  “Yngvald and his men will watch over Olaf’s farm while he’s away,” Erik said, and gestured toward a burly, bearded stranger who rode up beside the king. “Assist him with everything he wishes, for he serves Svealand’s kings.”

  Those words were a kick to her gut. He was taking even her farms and land from her. May Vanadís rip out your rotten entrails and let you suffer until the end of time. Sigrid took a deep breath and forced herself to laugh.

  “As you wish, my husband, lord, and king,” she said calmly. “Let me give you a parting gift.”

  She gestured to Asta, who stepped forward with a smile, exquisitely beautiful and alluring with her ample bosom.

  “I noticed that you took pleasure in my servant, and I hope that she can warm your bed.”

  Erik’s broad smile showed that Asta pleased him.

  “I will gladly accept this gift,” he said, and pulled Asta up onto his horse behind him.

  It was done. Sigrid smiled tenderheartedly at Olaf, who nodded brusquely.

  “Good-bye, Mother.”

  The sound of a horn echoed over the neighborhood.

  “Good luck, my son. Find your sister!” Sigrid appealed, but Olaf had already turned his horse and swiftly rode away from her.

  The sound of the hoofbeats grew into a thunder as the Scylfings followed their king into the fray, and Sigrid backed away from the clouds of dust.

  Vanadís, protect my son. Bring my daughter home to me.

  She put her hand on the faded mark of Freya on her wrist. The goddess had given her an undying flame, which now ignited a fierce hatred. Let your valkyries’ wrath tear Erik to pieces so that I, your servant, finally achieve my revenge.

  “It’s been a long time, my uncle,” Sweyn said as they rowed the ship into the inlet. “It’s far from certain that you will find what you seek.”

  “I swore on my life I would return to Alfsol,” Knut Danaást said with a sad smile.

  It would be crazy to go ashore, because the beacons had already been lit, warning the enemy of their arrival. The sun was warm enough that the roads were dry, and Odo was preparing to attack the Danevirke. Still, Sweyn couldn’t deny Knut Danaást this wish.

  He looked up at the farmhouse. Scarcely visible beneath the grass growing on its sod roof, it stood upland from them. The local men were already gathered in the courtyard, anxious and ready to fight the strangers who had arrived with unmarked sails.

  He hoped this would be worth it.

  The prow scraped against the sand, and the ship gently came to rest on the coast of Jutland. They were home. Sweyn hopped out into the shallow water, and the old man was light as a bird in his arms as he carried him the few steps to dry land. Then he set him down, and Knut Danaást finally stood on Danish soil once again.

  “Welcome home.”

  The old man took a couple of steps and then dropped to his knees in the windswept sand. Tears ran down his lined face as he bent to kiss the ground.

  Sweyn swallowed and put his hand on Battle-Fire’s hilt. He had fulfilled the first of his promises and brought King Gorm’s son home to his kingdom.

  The warriors took up position around them, and their tense faces showed that none of them were left unmoved by the magnitude of the moment.

  The betrayed king of the Jellings had returned.

  “What do you seek here?”

  Sweyn turned to see who had spoken.

  The local chieftain, a redheaded man who seemed open to hearing them out, approached them with caution, surrounded by overconfident young farmhands who held their axes firmly. The rest of the farm folk, mostly women and children, stood farther up by the house, staring at the strangers and ready to flee.

  “I come in peace and bring with me Knut Danaást, the lost son of the Jellings.”

  The chieftain looked warily between Sweyn and the old man, who got back up to his feet with difficulty and wiped his tears away with the back of his hand.

  “That’s a lie. Everyone knows Knut died years ago. Who are you who comes to us bearing falsehoods?”

  Sweyn stood silent as Ragnvald walked forward to the chieftain. Now they would find out where the loyalty of their domestic servants lay.

  “Swear your allegiance to Sweyn, King of Denmark.”

  The chieftain’s eyes opened wide.

  “To King Sweyn? That is an oath I will gladly swear, because we’ve been hoping and praying for your return.”

  Well, they wouldn’t have any trouble with this one, anyway.

  The man’s wife stepped forward. There was no doubt that she was from the same stock as her husband; her hair was just as red, and they were like siblings with their round cheeks.

  “It’s about time you came home. These are unfortunate times, and you need to rout the Svea out of here.”

  Sweyn smiled. Wearing a simple work dress with a dirty apron, this woman conducted herself like a queen, like true Jutlandic nobility.

  “Quiet, Erna,” the chieftain muttered.

  “Why should I be quiet? What I said is true,” she retorted. “The heathen Svea are plundering people’s farms, and the people are starving.”

  “Once I’ve reclaimed what is mine, that will end,” Sweyn said calmly, and he received a relieved smile in return.

  Erna glanced at Knut Danaást.

  “Is that really Gorm’s son?”

  “It’s me,” Knut said, eyeing her with his dark gray eyes. “Tell me—does Alfsol still live?”

  His voice trembled with emotion.

  The wife’s eyes shot open in surprise.

  “It’s really you? How is that possible?”

  The old man maintained eye contact. His skinny body was tense as a bowstring as he awaited a response, and his clawlike fingers, spotted with age, trembled so badly that he clenched his fists. It pained Sweyn that his kinsman’s empty hopes would soon be dashed into bitter disappointment.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “She is,” said a frail voice.

  The farm folk had gathered closer around Sweyn and the others. Now they moved to make space for a gray-haired woman, as frail as a bird, who walked toward them with a cane.

  “Alfsol,” Knut whispered.

  The beach was completely silent as the two walked forward to meet and regard each other in astonishment, reunited after a lifetime. How could it be possible?

  “I kept my promise,” Knut said, his voice choked with emotion, as his eyes gently took in the woman he loved. “I came back to you.”

  The traces of Alfsol’s beauty were clearly visible in her face as she tenderly laid her hand on the old man’s cheek.

  “I knew you weren’t dead,” she said, and they looked at each other with a tenderness that warmed the cockles of Sweyn’s heart.

  Reunited after a lifetime of longing and sorrow, they stood in the sand, withered with age. A life lost to loneliness had finally reached its end. The farmer put his arm around his wife, who leaned into him as she mopped her eyes with the hem of her apron.

  Sweyn’s throat tightened with emotion. He fully understoo
d the suffering the old man had been forced to endure, because Sweyn bore the same longing. If only he could see Sigrid once more before he died in battle.

  “Forgive me,” Knut Danaást said, and ran his hand over his head to tidy his gray locks, which danced in the wind.

  Tears began flowing down Alfsol’s wrinkled cheeks, and she took his hand with a sorrowful smile.

  “You should know that I bore your son, but he died of a fever,” Alfsol said, and Knut’s face crumbled at the unknown life lost.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t be,” she said gently.

  It was peaceful among the sand dunes, and all that could be heard were the cries of the gulls, the clicking of the sand blowing in the wind, and the sea gently striking the shore. Out in the inlet the ships waited, and Sweyn could make out Palna standing at the prow of his ship. His foster father was watching the whole scene from afar.

  Toste and the Geats’ ships waited out at sea, but they were still part of the fleet.

  “Knut was all I had left of you, and I got to watch him grow up and become a man. He married and had a son before the fever took him,” Alfsol said.

  “You named him after me?” the old man said, trembling with emotion.

  She nodded, smiling at Knut, and said, “This is your grandson, Thorstein.”

  The grief in Knut’s face gave way to amazement as he turned to the redheaded chieftain.

  “My grandson!”

  Thorstein nodded, smiling.

  “My own grandson,” Knut Danaást repeated as if he couldn’t quite fathom the whole thing.

  A moment later, wide-eyed, excited children and relatives surrounded them and greeted the old man.

  Sweyn couldn’t help but smile as Ax-Wolf wiped away a tear. This touched even the gruffest of his warriors.

  “Why are you grinning?” Ax-Wolf muttered angrily, rubbing his curly red beard, ashamed. “The enemy knows we’ve arrived, and we’re going to have to fight our way the whole distance to Jómsborg.”

  Sweyn nodded. It was madness that they had revealed their presence on the Jutland coast so soon, but still it was right. He stepped over to Knut Danaást, who stood beside his beloved, holding her hand, deeply moved.

  “You’re leaving me,” the old man said.

  Sweyn nodded briefly.

  “I’m moving on with a light heart because I can see your happiness. I thank you most profoundly, my uncle, for Battle-Fire and for the strength you’ve given me, and I swear to keep the oath I swore or die fighting.”

  Knut Danaást looked him somberly in the eye.

  “The family has never had a worthier king than you, my son. Gorm himself would have honored your greatness.”

  Sweyn nodded with a pride so profound that he found himself at a loss for words.

  “My king,” Chieftain Thorstein said, and bowed his head. “Many have hoped for your return, and more will when they learn what happened today. Tell me how we can help you.”

  Sweyn contemplated Thorstein. He seemed like a reliable fellow, a Jelling bastard with king’s blood, just like himself. He could become a great asset.

  “Gather those who are still loyal to me and lead them against the Svea and my brothers’ supporters. Odo is arming for an attack. Failing to defend the Danevirke and Jutland and refusing to fight with me against the Svea are treason.”

  Sweyn drew his sword, which shimmered blue as if it were alive.

  “This is Battle-Fire. Knut Danaást gave me the family’s ancestral sword to save Denmark in this, our most trying hour. Follow me, save Freya’s realm, or watch it be destroyed.”

  Thorstein put his hand over his heart without taking his eyes off the sword.

  “I pledge my loyalty to you, but I have very few armed warriors. The Svea warriors fortified the ring fortresses at Aggersborg and Fyrkat, and not even a thousand men could take them now.”

  Sweyn nodded. The fortresses his father had built to defend Denmark might be dilapidated, but they were still standing, and retaking them would be no easy task. Even so, he couldn’t dedicate his forces to liberating northern Jutland right now.

  Sweyn looked to Farman, and the scarred warrior nodded to say that he would stay.

  “I’m leaving you my best hirdman and two ships of well-equipped men,” Sweyn told Thorstein. “And there’s one thing you should know, my kinsman: if you win northern Jutland for me, I will make you my jarl.”

  The hunger for power in Thorstein’s expression showed that the Jelling blood was strong in Knut Danaást’s grandson.

  “I won’t let the family down,” Thorstein replied.

  Sweyn nodded to Knut Danaást in deference and announced, “I sail to Jómsborg!”

  The old man took his hand and kissed it.

  “God is with you, my son.”

  The corner of Sweyn’s mouth curled into a slight smile.

  “I am gladly accepting the assistance of any and all the gods.”

  The journey to the underworld was interminably long and arduous. Estrid’s feet bled and ached as she walked in the line of Anund’s men along the path, where there were still tracks from wolves and wild boar in the damp ground. The tall trees of the forest towered around her, the brush impenetrable and spellbindingly serpentine.

  Playful forest dísir danced, giggling between the sunbeams that sliced like fiery spears through the tall trees. Gnomes darted around on the thick carpets of moss, hunting for food, and she could hear their irritated whispers as they pulled back out of sight. High up in the treetops, the gods’ messengers were on the lookout, quickly flying off into the sky with news of the travelers. Estrid loved the woods, but she didn’t allow its wild beauty to deceive her. She heard the mylings, children who’d been abandoned in the woods to die, crying for their mothers. Hungry for meat, the beasts eyed the easy prey from their hiding places.

  Estrid took a deep breath and enjoyed the feeling of the air filling her chest.

  Deeper and deeper into the Iron-Wood they penetrated. Estrid was tired, but she could breathe more easily now, and her cough was almost gone.

  “That concoction I gave you is working,” Ragna said. “You should be grateful that I took the trouble to help you.”

  Estrid turned her head to look at the seeress, who was steadily following with the help of her carved staff. Her thin gray braids swung around her tattooed face, and her eyes gleamed with malice.

  “Your sorcery tormented me and drove me into captivity.”

  “That had to be done,” Ragna laughed. She was obviously pleased but offered no explanation.

  Only Hel knew what the seeress was planning to do with them once they had reached the heart of darkness, but Estrid wasn’t afraid anymore. She would bravely endure the test Hel imposed on her, because she knew what relief awaited. If only Katla weren’t so sad. Estrid looked at her kinswoman walking beside her, pale and uncommunicative.

  “Did they hurt you? You’ve hardly said a word.”

  Katla smiled wanly and shook her head.

  “Maybe I’ve been talking too much,” Estrid said, climbing over a rotting log.

  The piece of bone that had cost her so dearly hung around her neck.

  Agnatyr had asked about her mother, her family line, and the king, but he seemed to already know what had been going on at the estate. He had even been sure that Edmund was warming her mother’s bed, and knew which chieftains had accompanied Toste on his raids.

  When Estrid asked who from the estate had told him all that, he just laughed, and instead of answering, asked whether Björn, her grandfather’s brother, got along well with Ulf, her mother’s brother.

  He had asked his questions all night, and then they had packed up camp and had set out before daybreak.

  “They must have been watching us, like hunters eyeing their prey. Or else there’s a traitor at Mother’s estate,” Estrid whispered so softly that Ragna wouldn’t hear. “They seem to know everything that’s been going
on.”

  Katla looked worried and said, “Who could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” Estrid said, and looked at Agnatyr, who was walking in the lead of their meandering column, searching their way through the woods on hidden paths.

  His gait was eager, as if he couldn’t get there fast enough. The shield maiden walked by his side, and they spoke so intimately and tenderly with each other that anyone could tell they were lovers. It was incomprehensible how anyone could feel affection for that ugly beast.

  The boy in front of her on the path stumbled under the weight of the bundle he carried. The burly warrior who kidnapped her took the pack from the child and then amiably tousled his hair.

  When the Scylfings found them, they would all die and be left to rot on the ground. Even the women and children wouldn’t be spared.

  Estrid smiled, picturing Ragna’s decapitated head lying on the ground. Surrounded by burning buildings, Anund’s men would be screaming in anguished horror as they died by the Scylfings’ swords. The stench of smoke and burning flesh grew so strong in her fantasy, her eyes began to water.

  One of her mother’s warriors had once told her about how he had managed to impale three Anund kids on his spear after crushing their mother’s skull. When Estrid asked why he’d killed the children, he’d just said it was necessary.

  “Boys become warriors and girls breed,” he’d replied. “When you weed, you pull them up by the roots, don’t you?”

  Things would be better for them all once Anund’s men were flung into the afterworld. They were so dirty, no better than animals, and their twisted minds were filled only with hate.

  “I know one thing for sure, and that’s that everyone here is going to be butchered by Scylfing swords,” she told Katla, who laughed.

  “I hope it happens soon, because my feet hurt.”

  Estrid wiped the sweat from her brow and smiled, amused.

  “The onslaught will happen sooner than they’d like.”

  Dusk had fallen by the time they stopped in a mountain cleft and Estrid could finally sit down on the ground and rest.

  She stared vacantly out over the treetops while the Anund people got out the food and prepared their beds.