Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2)

by Johanne Hildebrandt

  Estrid’s heart pounded in her chest, and there was a roar in her head as if she were stepping into Niflheim and standing by the spring Hvergelmir, where Níðhöggr gnawed on the roots of Yggdrasil.

  Ragna shoved her forward and they hurried on, deeper into the valley, while people crowded around them.

  Estrid was startled by a pain. A rock had hit her arm, and a young woman, no older than she was, grinned mockingly.

  “Sorry I missed the slut’s head,” she yelled, and the rabble crowding around her laughed.

  “That’s enough!” Agnatyr roared.

  “No way, not if you bring a Scylfing here,” a man in a gray frock called out.

  He spat at Estrid and made a sign to ward off evil.

  “Why does she bear your mark, Chieftain?” he screeched, pointing to the pendant Estrid wore around her neck. “Are you screwing this abomination?”

  The words caused Agnatyr to stop and raise his ax as he ominously silenced everyone with a look.

  “Come when the sun sets. Then I will tell you why the Scylfing is here. Now, let us through!”

  His words silenced the worst of their anger, and they reluctantly backed away so that Ragna could push Estrid down behind a low wall on a farm with a small longhouse with an aging thatched roof.

  Without a word, the seeress shoved her into the dwelling as the slave pulled the door shut again with a deep sigh.

  “Talk about cutting it close.”

  Estrid stood quietly as her eyes adjusted to the dark and her heart calmed down in her chest.

  “We have to escape from here,” Katla whispered.

  Estrid nodded and their eyes met. They both knew what this meant.

  “Yes, we have no choice.”

  She sat down on a bench by the door and found herself in the giantess’s pantry.

  It was a simple house, as simple as any of the outlying farmers’. Four sleeping benches lined the walls, and the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters released an unfamiliar scent. There were two simple benches by the hearth in the middle of the room. Animal skulls stared down from the walls at her with empty eye sockets, and on the short wall was a bench cluttered with boxes and jars.

  Estrid jumped when the door burst open and Agnatyr stomped in. He filled the crowded space with his stinking masculinity.

  “I told you it wouldn’t work,” Ragna muttered, and nodded toward Estrid. “They’re going to skin her alive.”

  Agnatyr dumped his backpack on one of the sleeping benches and pulled off his soiled tunic to reveal a sinuous chest covered in scars, fleabites, and tattoos.

  “They’ll do what I decide,” he replied harshly.

  “The only power you have is what the others give you, my son.”

  Agnatyr didn’t respond, just grabbed a clean tunic from the clothes chest and then walked back out the door, his face tense and his expression unreadable. Ragna wiped her hands on her apron and then looked at Estrid with concern.

  “There’s far too much hatred for the Scylfings here in this valley.”

  Estrid glowered at Ragna. Neither the seeress nor Agnatyr had any control over her fate. It rested now with those screaming, hateful valley dwellers with their simpleminded faces and half-open mouths, seeking their revenge for the things the Scylfings had done.

  “Is Agnatyr your son?” she asked.

  The giantess nodded proudly.

  “He is a blessing from Loki. The blessed air walker gave Anund a son strong enough to save the family line,” Ragna said, and set a leather pouch on the bench.

  Nothing was as it appeared.

  Estrid realized that Ragna was actually an incarnation of the giantess Angerboda, not the fawning old woman she pretended to be on their journey here. Everything fit. They had walked through the Iron-Wood to get here. Agnatyr was Fenrir the wolf. Truly he was like the beast. Estrid grabbed Katla’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  They were prisoners of the foremost enemies of mankind and didn’t know the way back to Midgard. Nothing could be worse than this.

  Åke was waiting by the gate to his farm, his face grim and his thumbs tucked into his belt. Sweyn’s foster brother had grown a bit rounder around the middle during the time they’d been apart, and he seemed glum as he watched them approach.

  “You’ve been missed,” Sweyn said sincerely, dismounting from the bony excuse for a horse he’d borrowed.

  Whatever had happened, he was fond of his foster brother, Åke.

  “I should have gone with you on your raids,” Åke said, and then turned to Palna to accept the blame. “I couldn’t stop them. Drunk and crazed, they were fighting all over the fortress, and when the flames took hold, there was nothing to do but flee.”

  Palna’s scarred cheek twitched, and he looked at his son with that steely expression he always had when he beat them when they were kids.

  “I should’ve known you weren’t man enough to lead the Jómsvikings. I’m certainly paying a steep price for that.”

  These words stung Åke. Sweyn could clearly see that his brother was in anguish. Still, Palna was right. His foster brother was the chieftain. The blame was his, and he must bear the shame of it alone.

  “I wish I’d done better,” Åke said gruffly, nodding at his father. “Still, all is not lost. There are about two hundred men in the neighborhood awaiting your return.”

  That was truly good news. Two hundred Jómsvikings were the equivalent of about six hundred ordinary warriors. Sweyn would be able to retake what he had thought was lost.

  “Send for them immediately,” Palna said. “We are going to join our forces with Sweyn’s. After he wins, you will track down those who broke the oath of the brotherhood and let them atone for Jómsborg with their lives.”

  Åke nodded and put his hand on the dagger in his belt.

  “As you wish, Father.”

  “Now, where are my men?” Palna asked irritably.

  “Sigvald and his division are at Ranstorp, and the Ulfhednings are staying at Guttrum’s farm.”

  Palna turned his horse. The men in his hird shot scornful looks at Åke before following their leader. A Jómsviking never made mistakes, never ran away, and fought to the death. Åke would never live down this shame.

  Sweyn folded his arms and watched Palna ride away with his men across the Jomsö Plains, where the beech forests rose like islands in a sea of greenery.

  “Well, now we’re both unworthy,” Sweyn told his foster brother. “Father could never stand why I hadn’t fought to the death in Jelling.”

  Åke shook his head.

  “A new era prevails, but Palna is trying to govern the old way. That has not served Jómsborg well.”

  Sweyn shrugged.

  “The battle and the war are the same, also the impertinence of young men who think they know everything but don’t actually understand anything.”

  “You of all people ought to know about that.”

  Being able to laugh about it brought them together. They had grown up together, withstood punishments and war exercises, battled side by side. No one else was closer to Sweyn.

  Åke pulled his hand over his beard and nodded to the sword.

  “Is that really an Ulfberht?”

  Sweyn drew the sword and set it in his foster brother’s hand. He was tired of displaying the sword over and over again, but since this was his foster brother, it didn’t bother him.

  “Its name is Battle-Fire. Knut Danaást stepped out of the shadows with this most valuable of gifts. Bearing a message from the ancient kings, he urged me to be victorious. I swore to him that I would liberate Denmark and avenge my brothers’ treachery.”

  Åke grasped the sword with a grin and weighed it in his hand.

  “You lucky dog,” he laughed. “Only someone favored by the gods could be given the most precious of swords from a relative everyone thought was long dead.”

  Sweyn’s smile faded, and he looked seriously at Åke.

  “I’m going to keep my word to Knut Danaást a
nd win back my honor.”

  Åke leaned on the fence and sighed heavily.

  “Not even an Ulfberht can heal the bad blood you’ve awakened. Your brothers are spreading nasty rumors about you, and no matter how much people hate the king of the Svea, there are many Danes and Jutes who still appreciate the kingdom being governed by those who worship the old ways. Battle-Fire may be mighty, but a sword cannot defeat lies.”

  Sweyn knew this all too well.

  “People speak well of whoever’s strongest,” he said, looking Åke in the eye. “The instant I conquer those traitors, people will start speaking well of me. Will you fight with me?”

  Åke scratched his beard and looked out at the meadows.

  “What you ask is no small matter.”

  Sweyn caught his eye again. The future was what mattered, not the shadows of the past.

  “If the gods will grant me victory over the Svea and Saxons, I swear to make Denmark as powerful as the kingdom of the Franks.”

  The kingdom would rise up, strong and mighty, and Sweyn’s name and news of his exploits would fly around the world, drawing crowds of trade ships into their harbors. Coins would have his name embossed on them, just like he’d seen in Britain with Æthelred’s name, so that everyone in the kingdom knew the king’s name.

  “I need you by my side.”

  Åke thoughtfully scratched his beard and then smiled.

  “Well, I’ve been following you my whole life, and I’ll do so now, wherever it leads.” He opened the gate in the fence and gave Sweyn an urgent look. “Your wife and your children are well looked after and waiting for you, if you’d like to see them.”

  Sweyn rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, relieved that his brother was with him but also filled with dread at the thought of facing his wife.

  “I can only stay for a little while.”

  Åke laughed.

  “No one expected otherwise.”

  Gunhilda stood out front of the longhouse with their little girl on her hip and that dark look in her eyes, sharp as a spear. She was not a beautiful woman, rather angular and skinny with a bitter fury that permanently bubbled beneath her fake warmth.

  “My king, I greet you,” she said, but there was no joy about her.

  Sweyn nodded a brief greeting. It would be a relief to repudiate his wife. No matter the break in trust with the Scanians, it would be worth it to escape the shackles that fettered him to this woman.

  Then their eldest daughter raced toward him with outstretched arms, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “Father!”

  Sweyn picked her up, and she reached her chubby arms around his neck.

  “I’ve missed you, Sigrid!” he said with a grin.

  She and her siblings were the only good to come out of this unhappy match.

  “Husband, we need to talk,” Gunhilda told him somberly while Sigrid clung to his neck as hard as she could.

  “I’m not going to let you go,” Sigrid said.

  Her words caused a pang in his chest, and Sweyn rubbed his daughter’s back with his hand.

  “Go see Ragnvald. He has a present for you in his backpack.”

  Sigrid wriggled free from her father’s embrace, and Sweyn followed his wife into the herb garden.

  “I won’t live here like a pauper anymore without servants or armed protectors,” she said as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “I’m going back to my family in Scania.”

  Sweyn shook his head. If word got out that he was planning to repudiate Gunhilda, the Scanians would never fight by his side against the Svea.

  “No, you’re worth far too much to the Svea. They’ll take you hostage.”

  He was going to have to hold on to her for a while longer.

  “As soon as I’ve defeated the Svea, you will be free to go where you please.”

  Then he would be able to fulfill his second promise to Knut Danaást and marry the daughter of Sigrid Tostedotter. Gunhilda eyed him, her face puckered sourly and her eyes filled with distrust.

  “All right, but the minute you win or die, I’m going home to my brother with the kids, and I’m not coming back.”

  Sweyn nodded in agreement.

  “Agreed. I’ll give you three hundred pounds of silver to keep you going. If I die in battle, you stand to inherit quite a sum and will be able to live well off what I leave behind.”

  Gunhilda closed her mouth in surprise. She’d anticipated having to fight for silver, and now she had what she wanted without any quibbling at all. They stood in the garden in silence as the bees hummed among the flowers, baking in the sunlight under the clear blue sky.

  “Thank you for your generosity, my husband and king,” she finally said.

  Sweyn smiled a joyless smile. She was a greedy, spiteful woman who had been forced on him, but no matter how much he hated her, she was the mother of their children and he looked after his own.

  “Then it’s decided,” he said, and turned to go.

  “There’s one thing I’ll never forgive,” Gunhilda said, rocking the whimpering little girl she carried on her hip.

  “What’s that?” Sweyn asked.

  “That you forced me to name my daughter after the bitch whose name you cried out all those nights.” She spat out the words, her lips contorted in disgust. “Even with my daughter I couldn’t escape your mistresses.”

  How dare she insult Sigrid with such talk. Sweyn clenched his fist in rage. He should punch Gunhilda’s bony face, break every bone in her skinny body, and toss her corpse into the woods unburned.

  Sweyn stared vacantly at the woman who had borne his children.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and without saying any more, he turned his back to her.

  “Bring that Scylfing bitch over here.”

  “She doesn’t deserve to live.”

  “Make her suffer.”

  Estrid stood in the very back of the room by the bench covered with boxes, animal claws, and rocks and listened to the Anund clan demanding her death. Their cries had grown louder and louder as dusk fell outside. She could feel their bloodthirsty loathing penetrating through the wattle and daub walls of the house.

  Her hand trembled as she ran it over her hair.

  This must be how the cross worshipper had felt while he waited to be led to the cross to be nailed up to face a slow, torturous death.

  Estrid gulped and her eyes met Katla’s.

  “At least I’m not going to die a slave,” she said weakly.

  She had been allowed to wash herself and put on her own dress, which the slave had washed, but they hadn’t returned her jewelry. That was lost forever.

  Katla smiled sadly.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “You won’t go to the afterworld alone.”

  Beloved kinswoman, blessed friend. Deeper and deeper they descended into the abyss.

  Estrid closed her eyes and drank in Katla’s presence.

  “As long as it’s quick and doesn’t hurt too much.” Her throat had so seized up, she could hardly breathe. “What if I scream from the pain and prove unworthy of Hel?”

  Fear of death fretted in her chest like a spooked horse. If only she could escape; if only it were over.

  “You’ll be strong. I’m sure of that,” Katla replied.

  “Promise you won’t leave me.”

  “I promise.”

  They exchanged a sad look, and the bond between them was strong. She had to overcome this last test. She would face death with dignity.

  A cough made Estrid turn around.

  The slave woman stood trembling behind her and held out a wooden bowl.

  “I hope it’s poison so I die fast,” Estrid said, and without hesitating she drained the bowl into her mouth.

  It was cloyingly sweet with honey, which almost hid its bitter flavor.

  “It’s strong, but not lethal,” the slave said.

  That was disappointing. Fear twinged again in Estrid’
s belly, fear that she would satisfy the Anund scum with her screaming and wailing. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  Estrid took a shuddering breath as Agnatyr stepped into the house and approached her with heavy footsteps. He looked like a beast with bared teeth, ready to devour her. Her time was up.

  She stretched her back, trying in vain to force the fear from her mind.

  “It looks like you’re going to have to break your promise of protection,” she said.

  Agnatyr’s face jerked, as if her words had struck him on the cheek.

  “It would have been easier for both of us if I had helped you on your journey to the afterworld when you asked for my dagger,” he mumbled.

  Estrid nodded.

  “That would have been better,” she said, and wobbled a little.

  Ragna’s drink was starting to take effect, and a pleasant sensation spread through her body.

  Agnatyr grabbed her arm to steady her. He loomed before her, and the stench of his body turned her stomach all the more.

  “I have no choice,” he said candidly. “Do you trust me?”

  Estrid swayed back and forth as the drink shrouded her in a comfortable fog. How was she supposed to trust Fenrir the wolf?

  “No, not at all,” she replied, and laughed so loudly that her cough came back.

  “Be quiet and do as I say,” Agnatyr said, and led her by the arm toward the door.

  A roar of anger rose like a cloud as they stepped out into the courtyard. Estrid clenched her chattering teeth and forced herself to keep her head high as she was led through the torrent of loathing.

  “You ugly sow! Burn her!”

  “Do you screw pigs, like your mother?”

  “Nasty Scylfing bitch.”

  They don’t know me, Estrid thought. They’re just filthy Anund people, lowborn rabble, hardly better than slaves.

  “Have you had a proper Anund cock? You should be screwed until you bleed to death!”

  They closed in on her from every direction, beasts gnashing their sharp teeth and howling out their wickedness. I’m a king’s daughter, a Scylfing noblewoman. I do not fear death.

  Agnatyr yanked her up onto a tall rock. Her legs were trembling so much that she could hardly manage to stand upright as wave after wave of hatred washed over her.