Skuld raised her staff, and the sky trembled and a bloodred membrane was pulled over the moon. The grove grew dark from this unhappy premonition as the Norn nodded to her sisters.
“If he is not born, the three cocks will crow. Gods at war, mankind at war. Surt, the fire giant, raises his flaming sword toward the guardians of Valhalla. Ragnarök.”
Sigrid trembled all over as the world shook beneath the blood moon’s promise of ruin. She would be cursed for all eternity.
“Olaf was chosen by Valhalla,” she pleaded. “That is the fate you wove for him.”
Eternity filled the eyes of the three ancient women, standing there supported by their staffs, weighed down by time and wisdom.
“She saw only what she wanted to,” the three said as one. “She has accomplished nothing from her life-weaving.”
Nothing? The years of endless war, Erik, the knowledge that Olaf had been chosen by Valhalla, all the time she had gone without Sweyn—how could all of it have been a lie?
“Goddesses, have mercy,” Sigrid whimpered, and brought her forehead down to the dew-dampened grass. “My only wish is to serve Vanadís.”
The Omniscient Ones weren’t listening anymore. In silence the Norns turned around and, supported by their staffs, wandered off into the mists that concealed the nine worlds.
“Almighty weavers, advise me, I beseech you,” Sigrid called out in despair. “What do you want me to know?”
But the mists swallowed up the Norns, and the fog surrounded Sigrid in its damp, chilly embrace. The blood moon filled the sky with its warning of ruin, and grief tore her to pieces.
Olaf wasn’t the king of kings, the gods’ chosen one, born to defend Valhalla from the cross. Everything had been wasted, false notions woven from the lies she had spun from her own desires. How could she have been so blind? She covered her face with her hands.
Fifteen years wasted. Estrid was a prisoner in Jotunheim’s darkness, and Olaf was nothing of the king she had hoped. The power of Valhalla was faltering and threatened to collapse into Ragnarök. Everything she had believed in was a lie, woven from her own wishes.
Sigrid stared up at the moon, which, shrouded in blood, mocked her from the heavens.
“Why do you punish me, Vanadís?” she yelled.
Just then she felt a gentle caress on her hair, and a wave of rage washed away all her self-pity. Comforted, Sigrid wiped away a tear that ran down her cheek.
She couldn’t give in and careen into the darkness. Not yet, not while there was still hope for Estrid.
Sigrid raised her torch, which blazed brightly.
If she wandered all the way into Jotunheim, she would find her daughter. After that she would go to Sweyn and bear the son the gods demanded of her. She would get everything she desired. Sigrid took a determined breath as she hardened her heart.
It wasn’t over. It would never be over as long as she could fight and bear life. That was the greatest of Vanadís’s gifts.
The strong wind flapped the tent walls as Sweyn waited impatiently for the Scanian warrior’s next words.
“I saw Erik’s banner among the warriors sailing across the sound,” said the young soldier who had come to Jómsborg. He looked from Sweyn to Åke and Ax-Wolf, who walked beside him. “That was four days ago, and they were heading toward Lejre.”
This was what he’d been waiting for. Sweyn smiled at the soldier and his men. Finally he would meet Erik of Svealand in battle, and if the gods were merciful to him, soon he would hold Erik’s severed head in his hand.
“We sail for Lejre,” Sweyn announced. “And that’s good news. The Zealanders are more loyal to me than the Jutes.”
Banners from all over the North fluttered from tents and ships, and every day new men who wanted to fight Erik and the Svea joined them, and all of them brought new reports of Svea pillaging and plundering. Sweyn’s army was forged from revenge and anger. Erik of Svealand wouldn’t be able to conquer that.
“Any news of my brothers?” Sweyn asked Palna.
Sweyn had sent messengers to find his brothers and relay to them that he would pardon them if they supported him in this battle.
“No, the only Jelling who supports you is Thyre,” Palna replied.
Sweyn’s lips formed a pained smile. His sister was as sinuous as a snake and lent her support to absolutely anyone in the hope of being in the good graces of whoever ended up being victorious. Meanwhile Sweyn’s gutless, traitorous half brothers still clung to King Erik.
“There will soon be more. I’m confident in Thorstein. With Farman by his side, he’ll win us Jutland.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Palna said.
“Knut Danaást will lead him to victory,” Sweyn said, and took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. “All the powerful Jellings will follow that blessed old man.”
Sweyn looked out over the water, which glittered before them, filled with promise.
“Spread the word. We’re breaking camp,” he said, and smiled at the falcon that sailed through the sky above them. “The time has come for the Svea’s Ragnarök.”
Sigrid trembled with pleasure as Sweyn’s lips closed over her breast. Then his mouth was on hers, their warm skin and pounding heartbeats pressed together. Closeness bound them together through time and space, and everything was as it should be.
The next moment they were walking together side by side through a magnificent forest, where sunbeams sliced through the foliage like golden spears and stags slowly roamed between the tree trunks, peacefully watching them.
Sweyn was a stranger with a short bronze sword in his belt, as ancient as his short tunic and cloak, and she knew this was a fading memory from the time they had spent together long ago.
“I’ll be with you soon, my beloved,” she said.
His eyes were serious but without any hint of disappointment.
“Don’t tarry any longer.”
She took Sweyn’s hand, and they ran through the forest together. She was a young priestess who worshipped a goddess forgotten long ago. It was a memory, a life she’d lived many eons ago.
Hand in hand they ran over stock and stone, and the bond between them was bloodred, a chain woven by gods older than Vanadís.
A moment later flames blazed high around them, and when their bodies started to burn, they traveled up toward a blinding light that was the beginning and the end of all things.
Sigrid reluctantly opened her eyes and found herself looking up at Ylva, who sat in the grass before her under the warden tree.
Their kinswomen slept around them in the shadows, drowsy from the humid afternoon heat that lingered over the area.
“You were dreaming about him again,” her housekeeper said, looking up from her nap.
Sigrid sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes as her dream faded and disappeared.
“He must be quite something, this King Sweyn,” Ylva said with a wry smile.
Sigrid reached for the water and drank. Maybe he wasn’t even alive anymore, killed fighting Erik in battle, while she shouldered the burden of the blood moon’s promise of ruin by herself. Olaf wasn’t the chosen king of kings and the defender of the North and Valhalla after all. He was just a kid who’d been proclaimed king of Svealand, but that was good enough. She set her cup down in the grass and looked across the farm fields out at the sea, which glittered beyond the tall oaks of the sacrificial grove. The Norns said she hadn’t accomplished anything. But the memory of her tender lovemaking with Sweyn had imbued her with new strength. Her sacred son hadn’t been born yet, and that knowledge was a gift.
A cooling breeze swept over the hilltops and down to the villagers working in the fields, where the rye grew thick and tall. The trees were laden with fruit, and the gardens abundant with gifts.
“What are you thinking about, mistress?” Ylva asked, waving away a fly that buzzed around her flushed cheeks, plump from the plentiful crops they’d been granted.
“Freya has more than made up for the crop fa
ilures and famine that plagued us,” Sigrid said.
“It’ll be a good harvest this year,” Ylva said with a smile. “All that’s missing now is for the men to return home. The Svea are way too full of themselves again.”
“Yes, yes. All this I know,” Sigrid said, nodding at her housekeeper’s harsh words.
Erik’s men had calmed down for only a couple of days. Now they were worse than ever.
“Hard to understand how you can be so lenient. That’s not the Sigrid I know.”
Sigrid turned away from Ylva’s sharp gaze because Ylva couldn’t be permitted to see what Sigrid was so carefully hiding.
If Vanadís was with them, Asta would carry out her mission successfully, and Olaf’s position would be secured, as well as that of Sweyn and the Scylfings, and she would finally have her revenge. Worry gnawed in her belly, like an old wound. It was a big gamble, staking all hope on the shoulders of one deranged young woman. This waiting was excruciating, and yet there was nothing she could do. The vaguest suspicion of the plan she’d hatched could ruin everything. She had to force herself to wait, but she couldn’t keep self-doubt out of her mind. Was she denying herself the happiness she had desired for so long?
Sigrid stood up and looked out at the fields, her heart in her throat. There was one thing she could do, one thing she’d longed for and dreamt of all these years.
“Where are you going?” Ylva asked.
“I need to do something I’ve left undone for far too long.”
“Ingemar has never failed as a messenger before,” Edmund said as he showed the burly warrior into the hall.
Sigrid nodded, relieved. He was a good choice. He came from a poor Scylfing family and had served her since he was a child.
“Will he travel alone?”
“Not at all. Odd will join him along with three other warriors.”
That should be enough.
“You’re dismissed,” she told Edmund.
A look of discontentment passed over her jarl’s face.
“Those are my men you’re sending away, you know?”
She wrinkled her brow. There it was again, his impertinence.
“They all work for me, in my house and on my land.”
Their eyes met, and she noted how angry he was. He really was becoming more and more of a burden.
“As you wish, mistress,” he finally said, and stiffly nodded before stomping out of the hall.
Holding the gold brooch, Sigrid ran her fingers over the piece of jewelry that depicted Sleipnir galloping through the nine worlds. Hopefully it wasn’t too late. Maybe Sweyn wouldn’t want her anymore, or maybe he’d been killed in battle or drowned at sea, but she couldn’t believe that. If that were the case, surely she would have felt it when it happened, so strong was the tie that bound her to her beloved. Sigrid smiled calmly at Ingemar, who awaited his assignment with curiosity.
“I ask you to bear the most precious message for me to Sweyn Haraldsson, the king of the Danes.”
Her throat tightened, so she could scarcely breathe. She had yearned for this for fifteen years. Ingemar nodded and then carefully took the brooch from her and put it in his leather pouch.
“Do you know where I can find him, mistress?”
Sigrid remembered how they had offered the sacrifice together during the summer festival and been possessed by Vanadís and Thor. They had become the god and goddess that night and traveled beyond time into the magnificent tapestry of the gods, and nothing else had had any meaning.
“Seek him first in Lejre. If he’s not there, then sail to Jómsborg. Do not return here until you have placed the brooch in his hand.”
Ingemar nodded, and if he was surprised, he didn’t show it at all.
“Do you wish to send any words of greeting, Your Highness?”
She took a step closer to Ingemar and looked him in his gray eyes.
“Just tell him my answer is yes. That’s all.”
If Ingemar realized what that meant, he didn’t let on.
“I’ll set out immediately.”
“May the gods watch over you, for you have never carried a more important message,” she said, and placed a surprisingly heavy leather pouch in his hand, filled with more silver than he’d ever owned. “Another like this awaits you upon your return once you’ve successfully completed your task.”
“I won’t let you down, king mother,” the warrior said earnestly, and put his hand on his chest.
Sigrid’s heart ached with yearning. She just hoped this would go well.
Ingemar had only just left the hall when Ylva came in, quite breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“The Svea attacked one of our girls,” the housekeeper announced grimly. “It’s Gynnya, and she’s in a bad way.”
Sigrid took a deep breath.
Now they’d gone too far, those uncastrated Svea swine, and she wouldn’t accept this sitting down.
“Take me to her.”
“I see what you so carefully tried to conceal,” said Ragna, who sat on the bench on the other side of the hearth, staring at Estrid through the flames.
Estrid set down the bowl of stewed vegetables she’d been served for supper and swallowed her turnips with difficulty.
This did not bode well. The giantess followed her everywhere, keeping an eagle eye on her, so she hadn’t been able to talk to the slave. But they weren’t bound or locked up. Hopefully this meant that the seeress didn’t realize that they wanted to escape.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Estrid said with feigned innocence.
Ragna leaned forward so her gray braids swayed around her wrinkled cheeks and her eyes bored ever deeper into Estrid.
“I see the evil lurking in you, just as charred and terrible as Hel. She feeds off your life force, drinks your mind, and eats your will.”
Ragna spit on the floor, her face contorted with revulsion.
Estrid pursed her lips and couldn’t look at Katla, who, bright red in the face, put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
“A seeress consecrated to Loki must fear Hel’s revenge,” Estrid calmly retorted.
After Loki, the air walker, cast Hel down into Helheim, half of the dark, powerful woman’s face was crushed. Now Loki’s servant saw her mistress’s power and trembled.
“There’s something else as well,” the giantess said, unconcerned.
Estrid looked up anxiously, tension running down her spine.
Ragna’s gaze seemed to heat up as it penetrated further into Estrid’s flesh, burning it to pieces.
“Oh yes, I’m quite familiar with that,” the seeress suddenly said, and chuckled softly as she fingered the pieces of bone in her necklace.
The fire blazed up with a roar as Ragna whispered spells that floated through the light of the flames, brittle and crackling with power.
“Light against darkness, life against death, the ancient battle should not be raging within your pathetic body,” the seeress said, amazed.
“What battle?”
It felt as if a noose were tightening around her neck, so tight that Estrid couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t be afraid of Ragna. Fear was weakness that formed a path into her mind.
The slaves who sat on the floor farthest from the hearth looked up from their meals and stared at her in horror.
The bundles of herbs hanging above them began to sway back and forth from the rafters. Katla stood up, furious, ready to intervene.
“Get out of here,” Ragna roared, enraged, and leaned toward Estrid as if she were to blame for this.
The ground shook one last time and then calmed beneath their feet.
“It must be pulled into the light so the evil can be overcome.”
Ragna grabbed Estrid’s hand quick as a snake. Stunned by the sharp pain, Estrid looked down at the wound Ragna had cut, so deep that blood flowed over her skin.
“The life force of the gods.”
The seeress’s yellow eyes twinkled in the firelight. Her facial tattoos came
to life again and crawled around as she took out a piece of wood with runes carved on it and carefully rubbed it against the cut on Estrid’s hand. Then she leaned forward and licked up the blood.
“Loki, air walker, reveal the lies our prisoner carries. Force out the truth, or send the girl to Hel’s caves.”
Ragna smiled at Estrid, her face smeared with her blood; then she raised the rune stick.
“Show me, master. Guide your humble servant.”
She bent down and took out a drum with symbols painted on the taut leather. A dull sound filled the room as she began beating the drum, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed.
Ragna couldn’t hurt her with her weak witchcraft. Estrid clenched her fist, causing the blood from her cut to drip on the ground. Valkyries, protect me with your dark powers, destroy this witch and burn her to ash, chop her to pieces, devour her life!
Then the seeress opened her mouth:
Hear Ragna’s curse!
Now it will be sung,
So to be heard
’Round all the world,
Potent to all
Who do hear it,
Worst though to her
I cast it on!
Ragna was casting a spell on her with blood and powerful runes, as if Estrid were the dark, wicked dís herself.
How could a kidnapped young virgin cause so much fear in the mighty seeress that she was invoking the gods! Estrid laughed under her breath.
“Show me the creature who dwells in this girl. Let me behold her true nature,” Ragna hissed, and threw the magic rune stick into the fire.
The flames flared up with a roar while her drumming continued.
Against her will, Estrid was trapped in the witchcraft that rose whispering from the ground, conjured up by Ragna’s voice. There was nowhere to run to get away from the throbbing rhythm that bound Estrid while the air thickened around them and time turned backward.
She fell down into the darkness, trapped by the drums and the dance of the flames. A gust of wind swept through the house, and they were no longer under the roof but sitting in an infinite darkness, shielded only by the flickering light from the fire. The rumbling of the drum grew in strength, and now it made the ground shake, filling the black vault of the heavens and the entire world. And all that existed were those muffled drumbeats. And then everything went quiet. Ragna released the drum and threw herself down on the ground.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 24