Edmund had assumed the role of her husband in all but name, and now he was trying to seize more power, believing that Estrid’s kidnapping weakened Sigrid. Well, that was not going to pan out for him. Hatred coursed through Sigrid as she looked at her handsome jarl, this proud, broad-shouldered man standing in her chamber. I’ll show you who’s in charge here, third son.
She caressed his cheek and then let her hand find its way to his manhood.
Mother of life and death, the beginning and end of all things, bless me.
Edmund gasped, stiffening in her hand, and she led him over to the bed, where she laid him down, her body filled with shuddering yearning.
Queen of fertility, life, and war, let me drink of your strength. Grant me your darkest power.
Sigrid opened herself greedily to the jarl’s manhood. Strong muscles within warm skin, urgent kisses, and a river of fire that swept through her body and burned away everything that had been and would be.
Screaming with passion, Sigrid greeted the valkyries who came riding from afar, howling their bloodthirst: Skuld with the shield, and Skögul second, Gunn, Hild, Gondul, and Geir-Skögul. Sigrid rode with the valkyries’ dark power, filled with furious claws and teeth slashing into the bloody darkness.
A moment later Sigrid was suspended in the void before a helix that slowly rotated through eternity.
She was Vanadís, the goddess of life and death, war and peace. She was the beginning and end of everything. She was life and ruin.
The valkyries’ howls echoed in triumph as Sigrid stretched out her arms and let them fill her.
Screaming in pleasure and pain, she was reborn from the valkyries’ dark power and then hurled down to life again.
It was done.
“That was otherworldly,” Edmund panted as he moved to lie beside her on the bed, breathing heavily.
The bite marks on his chest and neck glowed red, and a trickle of sweat ran down his temple.
Vanadís’s life-giving hate burned in Sigrid’s blood and consumed all weakness, singeing it to ash.
She had worn the mask of the good mother for far too long, tenderly protecting her children and her people, but no more.
“Where are you going?” Edmund asked affectionately when she got out of bed—reborn—and went to look out at the moonlight.
Tall, you travel to the sky, destroyer of enemy lands, ruthless killer. No one can withstand your ferocious wrath, as deep as an ocean of blood. I revere you, queen of life and death. I revere the strength you impart. She was a valkyrie, consecrated to death and revenge, and no one could hurt her anymore.
“I will take what I want,” Sigrid said, extending her purified arms as the force burned through her body.
Blessed be the strength of Vanadís. Blessed be her ruthlessness.
She knew that as soon as the moon was full, she needed to visit the sacrificial grove.
It shouldn’t be taking this long. Asta leaned against the outside of the cart she’d been traveling in for days along with the other mistresses and prostitutes. She sat on animal hides by the campfire, washing before the evening’s pleasures.
Withering beauties, worn down from the hardships of following the aristocratic Svea warriors into the field, they braided one another’s hair while babbling vapidly about the noblemen’s endowments.
The other women had hated her from the very beginning and pinched and shoved her in the hope that she would slink away, slouching and pouting.
The king and his hird had filled these petty women with false promises of farms and silver, but the men would soon grow tired of them and toss the women aside like so many already-chewed bones. They were nothing, completely without value, and they’d soon be parting their legs for anyone who came along.
Hedda, the busty hag with the red braids and the curvy hips who led the crew, glared at Asta snidely.
“The king screws that Scylfing bitch one time, and she thinks she’s too fancy for us,” Hedda mocked, and the others burst into shrill laughter.
“Don’t you get it? Erik is sick of you already,” called Ingrun, a young beauty with dark curly hair whom the king had asked for the last few nights.
“We’ll see,” Asta replied, and smiled calmly, confident that the king, filled with hunger for the pleasure she offered, wouldn’t be able to resist much longer.
“You’re far too old to sate the king’s appetites. Go find some peasants. Maybe one of them can be troubled to empty himself in you,” Ingrun said, waving her hand as if Asta were some servant to be shooed away.
You stupid little bitch. Asta smiled mildly while imagining herself burying her scissors deep between the dark-haired beauty’s legs and cutting and cutting until the blood poured out of her and down over Asta’s arm.
She shivered with sensual pleasure as her ravenous hunger for death ached through her body. Nothing was as sacred and pleasurable as watching the light go out in her victim’s eyes while the blood gushed from the severed neck until the body lay limp and drained on the ground.
Asta gulped, aroused.
Like a wolf, she was born for the hunt, the kill, and the pleasure of gorging on warm, trembling meat. That was what Sigrid had explained to her when Asta arrived at her farm, lost and wild, as a young girl after having almost murdered her own sister.
“Vanadís granted you a valkyrie’s heart, but like a seeress, you need to learn to control your powers,” Sigrid had said. “Would you want to live with me?”
Asta had nodded eagerly because she didn’t want to return to her father and her family’s farm, and she knew that Sigrid could reward her amply if she served her well.
“Then you need to learn to hide the wild animal behind your beauty and all your delightful charms. If you’re strong enough to do that, you’ll get to enjoy the sweetness of killing in the name of Vanadís.”
That was the moment when Asta had begun to love Sigrid. No one else had ever understood her so well and seen that she actually served a higher power. It had been so strange to feel such a strong devotion. From that moment there wasn’t anything Asta wouldn’t do for her mistress.
“Who are you looking for, Manne?”
The buxom Hedda glanced up as the king’s servant stepped into their camp and looked around.
Ingrun with her dark curly hair stood up smiling, confident that he had come for her, but the old servant’s eyes didn’t come to rest on her but on Asta. Ingrun’s was not the only woman whose face dropped.
“Gift of Scylfings, follow me.”
The other women were annoyed, but Asta didn’t even look at them as she followed the servant through the ranks of warriors eating their suppers in the warm twilight.
The men looked up from their bowls of porridge, and she could feel the heat of their arousal through her skin.
“What’s whore-master Manne bringing us this evening?”
“The king always finds the best.”
Asta smiled contentedly as she walked proudly past them and into the circle of torches surrounding the king’s tent, where the Svea nobility sat eating at a long table, absorbed in loud, drunken conversation. There was no sign of the king. Olaf was the only Scylfing among them; not even Ulf or any of the chieftains sat among the Svea.
Asta dropped into a deep bow before Olaf, King of Geatland.
“Your Highness, I greet you,” she said humbly.
“You’ve got the wrong king. You’re supposed to screw the older one,” a burly soldier exclaimed from where he was flopped over the table, drunk.
“Can I do anything for you, my king?” she asked, hoping briefly to bring the old, familiar light back into Olaf’s eyes.
He was no longer the teenager she felt she knew.
Olaf turned his back to her, and Asta shrugged her shoulders. Whatever was weighing on Sigrid’s son, it was his own business. She had more important things to think about.
Stripped to the waist, the king emerged from his tent, his belly bulging over his waistband. Asta bowed before him. This w
as her moment. On light feet she hurried toward the king of Svealand.
The wide bed in the tent was covered with thick animal pelts, and several carved wooden chests lined the walls. The king’s armor and his tunic had been tossed on top of one of them.
“Such unusual talents you offered when you last warmed my bed,” the king remarked.
The light from smoking lamps flickered on his face as he inspected her, and she caught wind of his uncertainty. This would go well. She was sure of it.
Asta straightened from her bow, her eyes focused on him. King or not, men were simple creatures controlled by their penises, and she could smell their desire from far away.
Erik ruled Svealand and could have any woman he asked for. She had to offer something he had never experienced before. Without taking her eyes off him, she stepped forward to Svealand’s ruler and put her hand on his cock.
“Lie down on the bed,” she ordered.
Erik’s eyes darkened, and without hesitation he punched her in the mouth so hard that her lip started bleeding.
“Show some respect, bitch,” he roared, but Asta didn’t back down.
She slowly licked the blood from her mouth while gripping his cock more firmly until he groaned in pain.
“Lie down on the bed, my king,” she ordered, her voice firm, and now he complied and obediently settled onto the furs.
It was that easy.
Asta undid her dress and let it fall to the ground before she climbed onto the bed and moved to straddle Erik’s face. The haze of lust in his eyes showed her how much he was enjoying being reined in and liberated from all responsibility.
“You are not allowed to move,” she informed him strictly, and then lowered herself over him.
“As you wish, my mistress,” the king of Svealand mumbled.
Asta smiled with pleasure. She wouldn’t need to travel in the concubine cart again. She was sure of that.
“Mutiny?” Sweyn shook his head in disbelief, because he couldn’t believe what the messenger had just said. “That’s a lie.”
The Jómsvikings were the finest elite band of soldiers. All members of the brotherhood had sworn an oath to live and die by Palna’s strict code of conduct.
No one could back down from a fight if the opponent was an even match in arms and skill and be allowed to stay in Jómsborg. Even if two opponents attacked, a Jómsviking could not back down. Every warrior who joined the order was honor bound to avenge the others as if they were his own brothers. No Jómsviking would ever sow dissent among the others. There was no chance anyone there would have spread rumors or lies. Revolt or mutiny in Jómsborg was unthinkable.
“I swear by Odin that it’s true,” the distressed teenager said. “The warriors from Agder approached Åke together, demanding higher pay. When he refused, they demanded that Eskil from Gardarik be chosen as leader. Most of the men were on Åke’s side, but the men from Trondheim took up arms. Then during the fighting a destructive fire broke out.”
He swallowed and looked beseechingly at Palna, who listened, his arms crossed and his face frozen with rage.
“Once the fire took hold, it spread quickly. Two men died in the flames. The rest managed to escape, and the mighty Jómsborg was devoured by the conflagration. By the time the sun rose, there was nothing left, no buildings, let alone any provisions. The men from Trondheim had already run off, and the rest of the Jómsvikings were spread to the winds. Jarl Åke went back to his farm. He asked me to stay here and wait for you, Chieftain Palna.”
Sweyn kicked a charred chunk of wood on the ground while his infuriated foster father turned away from the youth. This was worse than anyone had feared. The sacred brotherhood was decimated by insurrection. It was the same when his blood brothers had crushed his kingdom through treason.
Anguished, Sweyn looked up into the menacing night-black sky settling over them.
Damn it. What forces were these that tormented him?
Eskil from Gardarik had hated Åke from childhood, but it was still hard to fathom that he would go so far as to intentionally do such a thing. Maybe it had just gotten out of hand.
Sweyn pulled his hand over his face, trying not to become despondent.
Without the Jómsvikings, it would be impossible to win the battles he needed for victory. The men, depressed about the loss of Jómsborg, stood talking in small groups. This wouldn’t do, not now when they were about to face two powerful enemies and needed all their steadfast courage.
He put his hand on Battle-Fire’s hilt.
Faith was what gave a man the will and the strength. Without it, nothing could be done.
“King Sweyn,” the teenager said, pointing to his sword, “is that really an Ulfberht?”
Sweyn nodded and drew Battle-Fire, which gleamed coldly in the dawn light. When he saw the young man’s enthralled look, he knew what needed to be said. He needed to inspire every man to visualize victory, not defeat.
“Jómsborg was a dream created by Palna’s irrepressible vision,” Sweyn announced loudly. “Only here is the sole measure of a man. It depends on his fighting prowess and courage, not his pedigree, his wealth, or the god he worships.”
A hush fell over the men, and they gathered around Sweyn.
“The brotherhood as it once existed may be gone, but the Jómsvikings live on in each and every one of us.”
Sweyn smiled soberly at the men, many of whom had been following him into battle since they were quite young. They had followed him as he was made king and after that when he became an outlaw. No warriors anywhere in this world were more loyal or more feared. The future would rise from the ashes of what they had shared.
“Jómsborg may be gone, but I swear before you all that once we have conquered Svealand and Odo’s armies, the dream of the Jómsvikings will be resurrected from these ashes, not just here but throughout Denmark.”
Sweyn took a firm hold of his sword hilt and felt its power saturate his body.
“Every man will be judged by his honor, integrity, and abilities. The law will apply to all, and even a Jelling could not buy his way out of failure to live up to it.”
The force of his words made Sweyn sure that the gods themselves spoke through him. The Danes had stayed on their farms for far too long, bound by bickering chieftains and the old ways, but now a new era drew nigh.
“I swear that Denmark will rise once again, strong and mighty. Join me and earn immortality through our magnificent victory.”
The men stood completely silent, and all bowed their heads in acknowledgment of his words.
“I am with you,” Ax-Wolf called out, and more joined him.
There was no cheering, but their impotence was broken now that he had shown them the future.
“You have my sword!” Ragnvald yelled.
“And mine!” bellowed the warrior beside him. And soon they had all sworn their loyalty to Sweyn.
Palna was the last to nod.
Sweyn had never felt this level of conviction and power before. This truly must be a gift from the gods.
Then he spotted his father’s ghost, mocking him, sneering in the shadows, bleeding from that fat belly of his.
“You know you can’t win this. You’re going to reward the loyalty they just pledged to you with death and failure.” King Harald’s contempt was like a kick to the gut. “You judge me, but you’re your father’s son in every regard.”
Sweyn clenched his teeth and refused to look at the ghost. He had none of this Harald’s insanity, and he was a better man in every respect. That was what Knut Danaást had said. He honored his men and safeguarded their lives. Sweyn raised Battle-Fire, and the sword shone a blazing blue in the darkness.
“To victory!” he yelled.
“It looks just like in my dream,” Estrid said with a heavy heart, looking out at the valley that opened between the mountains like a lush jewel.
Cattle grazed around farms with houses built of stone and fields filled with sprouting greenery.
“Are yo
u sure?” Katla asked.
Estrid nodded. The minute they saw the dark mountainside stretching up to a spiny ridge of peaks, she recognized the place from her recurrent dreams about the beast.
These were the precipices where he had sunk his claws into her as she desperately struggled to reach the light.
They had walked a long way through woods and over ground. Estrid didn’t know exactly where they were, but she thought they were close to Rogaland in the land of the Northmen, the kingdom of King Håkon Sigurdsson. But since he was not a secure ally of her mother’s, Estrid didn’t expect any help from Rogaland.
“This is where my fate will be sealed. Everything that’s happened is in the tapestry. I know that now.”
Estrid wrapped her cloak tighter around her body and watched gloomily as people came running from all directions in the deep recesses of the valley to meet them. There were cheerful greetings and tender kisses, and relieved mothers embraced their sons. Estrid carefully avoided the curious looks as Anund’s men reunited with their families.
“That’s the Scylfing bitch’s daughter we captured,” Turid exclaimed with a sneer, pointing a finger at Estrid huddled under her cloak.
Agnatyr shook his head with displeasure, but it was too late.
Like a flock of bloodthirsty wolves, the crowd turned toward Estrid, teeth bared.
“A curse upon you, Scylfing!” screamed a red-haired woman with a snotty brat on her hip.
“You’re going to hang, like your people hanged my husband!” an older woman yelled.
Estrid took a step back as she stared at their contorted faces.
“Don’t look at them,” Katla urged.
Ragna took hold of her arm, and with the pale wolf of death by her side, she ran the gauntlet through the anger. Estrid watched how shadows flocked around the Anund people, the dead who had stayed to be close to their anger. Everything in this place was death, hatred, and torment. Hel had sent her to the valley of evil for the ultimate test.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 20