“This doesn’t bode well.”
Estrid was huddled in the shade of the thatched roof when he came walking down the road with his retinue of soldiers. The men were exhausted from their journey, their clothes dusty and their faces dirty. Agnatyr must have talked to her father, and now he knew that Estrid didn’t hold any value for the king. Based on how angry he looked, this much was completely clear to her.
She edged closer to the wall, which was still in the shade, as he said good-bye to his hird at the gate and came toward them.
Damn it all! There are only a few days until the new moon.
Agnatyr didn’t even look at her as he hurried over to the well, where he pulled off his shirt while Vidya hastened to pull up the water to fill a tub. He poured a ladle of water over his head and shook himself like a dog before turning to Ragna, who’d come out of the house.
“Well,” the seeress called. “What did he offer you?”
Agnatyr wiped the water off his face with his hand before he answered his mother.
“I didn’t get to talk to Erik. He had ridden south to fight the king of the Danes.”
“Damn it!” Ragna turned and nodded at Estrid. “What do we do with her now?”
Agnatyr didn’t seem the least bit afraid of her. His eyes contained none of the delicious fear that Ragna harbored for her, just loathing.
He put on the clean shirt Vidya held out to him before answering his mother.
“The Svea jarl Ulrik was the only one left in Åborg. He just laughed out loud when I mentioned the marriage, and hoped she was fit enough to give me many sons.”
Estrid crossed her arms in front of her chest and started rocking back and forth.
This was good news, which would give her some time. If Agnatyr had gotten to speak to King Erik, the Anund clan would know she wasn’t worth anything to the Svea.
“They’re probably just happy to be rid of the crazy girl,” Ragna said, and shook her head, heavy with desperation. “This has all been for naught, and now we’re stuck with her.”
Estrid stopped rocking and looked up at the seeress in anger. They had no right to talk about her this way. She was a king’s daughter, a highborn Scylfing, worth so much more than the entire Anund clan put together.
“Bash her in the head the way you did with Brisa,” the furious Katla suggested to Estrid under her breath.
Estrid smiled at the memory of that filthy kinswoman who had mocked her. Estrid had smashed her with a tankard in the jaw over and over again until her teeth fell out and her nose was broken.
“I am a member of the nobility, a king’s daughter, the sister and daughter of the most powerful men in the North,” Estrid said, standing and walking over to the well with her head held high.
“You are an abomination, a driveling fool who talks to phantoms, corroded by wickedness,” Agnatyr said, glancing at her in disgust.
How dare that filthy beast!
“My brother, Olaf, will punish you severely for your misdeed,” Estrid insisted, brazenly looking him in the eye. “Has he been crowned yet?”
Even Olaf, for all his obnoxiousness, would never desert his own sister.
Agnatyr looked at her with an inscrutable expression.
“Your brother travels with King Erik. He has been named King Olaf of Svealand and Erik’s heir.”
Estrid shivered with repugnance. Then it was done. Her abomination of a brother was the most powerful man in the North.
“Then my value as a wife is considerable. If you harm me, he’ll kill you and everyone in your family down to the last child.”
Agnatyr’s eyes clouded with rage as he raised his hand to strike her, but then he loosened his clenched fist and dropped it to his side.
“Understand this. You are nothing to Svealand’s kings, you sickly Scylfing!” he bellowed. “All you are is feeble and stupid, a worthless embarrassment to your family and to me.”
Desperation was driving the Anund clan chieftain out of his mind. Estrid could plainly see that.
King Erik had abandoned them, and nothing had come of the promised alliance with the Scylfings. Nothing had come of Agnatyr’s hope that she would strengthen his alliance with Svealand’s accursed leader. The power of fear, which protected her from the enemy, crumbled away.
Estrid couldn’t wait for the new moon any longer. She had to escape as soon as possible.
Ragna soothingly stroked her son’s arm and quieted him with a whisper.
“I’ll take care of her, in due time. Rest from your journey, my son. Then I’ll gather people for a Thing.”
Without saying a word, Agnatyr grabbed Vidya by the wrist and yanked her into the house while Ragna hurried to the gate. Estrid gulped, following the old woman with her eyes. They were definitely going to have to get Vidya out of here before dawn.
“You heard that,” Estrid said. “We have to leave tonight.”
Katla nodded toward the house. They heard hitting and Vidya’s muffled screams from the darkness within.
“If he doesn’t kill her first.”
“Damn it!”
Estrid took a couple of steps toward the open door. Vidya’s screams of pain made it sound as if she were dying. Agnatyr yanked up her shift and forced himself into her, standing there by the table.
“If he kills her, we’re sunk,” Estrid said, revolted by what she was seeing.
A dead slave would be no help to their escape.
“She’s his slave. He has the right to kill her,” Katla said. “She’ll probably be fine, and it’s better for him to take his anger out on her than on you.”
Estrid peered gloomily up at the mountains. If Vidya was still alive, her being battered and weak would delay their escape. Estrid rubbed her neck and tried to sort the elusive and contradictory thoughts that flowed through her head like mist. It was her destiny to try to escape over the mountains, and maybe she would be able to escape from the beast. Whatever she did, whatever she tried or said, Hel was guiding her toward the mountains. Either she would come through this biggest test or not, and whether the beast killed her or she managed to escape, she would be free.
Agnatyr came out into the courtyard again and squinted up at the sun as he did up the waistband on his breeches. Without even looking at Estrid, he crossed the courtyard to talk to the burly Ofrid.
The door was still open, and Estrid slipped unnoticed into the house, where she found Vidya crawling across the floor with her shift pulled halfway up her back. Dirty wisps of hair were stuck in the blood that ran over her swollen face.
“Don’t concern yourself about this, miss,” Vidya whispered.
Estrid couldn’t hide her revulsion as she took a rag and started wiping the blood off the slave’s face. She would live at any rate.
“We’re going to escape tonight,” she said.
The slave whined like a wounded animal, sitting on the floor with her head hanging.
“If you come with me, you will receive your freedom and money to live on. If you stay here, Agnatyr will kill you.” She took hold of Vidya’s head and looked her in the eye. Vidya’s eyes stared, empty and dead. “Do it, for your baby’s sake.”
A spark of engagement flickered to life in the slave’s broken mind.
“They’ll kill us.”
Estrid slowly shook her head and said, “I swear by Hel that we are going to make it.”
An eternity came and went before Vidya nodded that she would follow through.
Estrid smiled to Katla and patted the slave’s cheek, pleased.
“Then we leave as soon as it gets dark.”
Grief sat heavily on Toste’s shoulders, his hair uncombed and his travel clothes dusty, as he stood over Ulf’s body. His son was dead. Toste’s lined face was pale and drooped as if he’d aged several years.
“He sacrificed himself for Olaf and the Scylfings,” Sigrid said, adjusting the herbs that had been arranged around her brother’s body to mask the sickly sweet stench of death. “He sits beside Vanadís in Folkva
ng with our finest people.”
Toste turned his head and stared at her with red-rimmed eyes.
“I hope that I will join him soon.”
Sigrid was not impressed with how her father was taking this. Ulf’s death hurt her just as much, but he didn’t see her shriveling up in despair.
“There’s no time to wallow in grief when the ground is shaking beneath our feet.”
Both the hall and the courtyard outside were full of Scylfings freshly returned from raiding. Their carts were loaded with plunder, and their minds teemed with warfare and death.
Toste had stood vigil beside Ulf’s body for almost a full day without saying a word, and if he didn’t show some manly gumption soon, he wasn’t going to remain a Scylfing chieftain for very long. The wolves were already circling around the old man in the hope that he was weak enough to topple in a challenge.
Björn was talking to his son, Alrik, home from the raids, and Sigrid could see the hunger for power in their eyes. Egil Iron-Fist stood with them. He’d held a grudge against Toste for a long time.
With Ulf dead there was no clear heir for the mantle of chieftain, and if Toste was too broken to hold on to his power, everyone would make a grab for what they wanted.
“The family needs your strength,” Sigrid told her father in a voice so quiet it wouldn’t be overheard over the flutists’ dirge.
Toste didn’t respond but just stood there with his head hanging.
Sigrid sighed heavily. Enough already. He couldn’t continue to be weak at the moment when he was needed the most.
“Björn has already challenged your chieftainship, and he’s not the only one plotting behind your back.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Toste said. “It’s not right for a son to die before his father. The gods should have spared him instead of you. What good is an impudent daughter with a heart so hard that she won’t let her father grieve the loss of his only son?”
Sigrid swore to herself. Her family was falling apart. Estrid was a prisoner of the enemy, and this current situation required manliness and action.
She looked around the hall, where men stood in groups, talking together quietly. Impoverished young roosterlings eager for power and wealth surrounded scarred warriors with heavy silver chains around their necks and expensive tunics. Björn and Alrik weren’t the only challengers. Folke and Jörn were both battle-tested and strong, even if they didn’t have Toste’s wealth. Käll, with his bulging gut, was rich from trading with the Svea, and his hird was big.
The Scylfings were the power Sigrid relied on the most, and if they turned against each other, the other Geatish chieftains would turn on them. The fragile unity that Toste had built would give way to new fighting, and that would threaten Olaf’s power. If only she had given birth to the strong, bold son the Norns had prophesied, the defender of the North who could unify the family and drive back the cross worshippers. If only she had married Sweyn.
Sigrid took a deep breath. Things were the way they were, and there was no point in languishing over what hadn’t happened.
“Pull yourself together, Father,” she said. “Ulf died safeguarding Olaf’s power and the power of the Scylfing clan. You dishonor him by succumbing to feebleminded sorrow and allowing everything he died for to come to nothing.”
Toste looked up, and finally there was a spark of anger in his eyes.
“Did you just call me feebleminded?”
Maybe the old man wasn’t a lost cause.
“The Anund clan, your sworn enemies, kidnapped Estrid. Our clan is falling apart in a power struggle, and you’re just sitting by and letting it happen. I hear Agni Skjálfarbóndi screaming in anger from the afterworld. I hear Hugleik, Óttarr, Aðils, Eystein, Yngvarr . . .”
“That will do, daughter,” Toste said gruffly, and rubbed his hand over his wrinkled face, ashen from grief. “I’m listening.”
Sigrid stopped enumerating the Scylfing kings of antiquity who had founded their family dynasty.
Toste looked around the hall.
“These weaklings aren’t strong enough to come after me.”
She took his hand and kissed his knuckles, a gesture no one in the hall missed.
“They’re doing it right now. While you were away, Björn strengthened his power and turned the chieftains against us. He wants to break the peace with the Svea and force Olaf off the throne. Björn didn’t raise his weapon when the Svea forced Ulf to drink the poison, content as he was to get that much closer to power.”
If she succeeded in awakening Toste’s anger, he would wage the fight they both needed to see happen.
“No lie is too great for you, no trick too mean, and still you stand beside your brother’s body without grief,” Toste said, eyeing her with an inscrutable look through the graying locks that had fallen over his face. “You truly are a genuine Scylfing daughter.”
He put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture of recognition, before turning to look at those assembled in the hall.
“You limp-dicked good-for-nothings!” Toste roared. “How could you let the Svea murder my son?”
The men looked up in surprise at their chieftain’s anger, and the hall went quiet. Finally Björn stepped forward.
“There was nothing we could do. Your daughter, Sigrid, was the one who . . .”
In two steps Toste was face-to-face with his brother, with a firm hold on his tunic.
“Are you hiding behind my daughter’s skirts?” he roared so the spit sprayed. “Was she supposed to protect the Scylfing chieftain?”
Björn shook his head, and Toste dismissed him with a look of disgust.
Sigrid could hardly conceal her satisfaction.
“My whole life I’ve fought to make our sacred family stronger and more powerful,” Toste said, pacing angrily around the hall like a scarred wolf. “I’ve fought kings and rebels and always been victorious. I made peace with the Svea and led you in raids that brought us honor and riches.”
He looked at each of the noblemen in turn, and they all looked down at the floor or nodded in agreement. He stopped his pacing in front of Björn and his son, Alrik, who seemed unsure whether to obey his father or his uncle.
Toste tossed his cloak back over his shoulder and put his hand on his sword hilt, staring down his brother, Björn, like an aggressive wolf.
“You are not the equal of a man and not a man in your heart. You will pay for your insult to my son and me in single combat.”
A murmur immediately spread through the hall. For the most senior members of the Scylfing clan, two brothers no less, to meet each other in a fight to the death was unexpected. Sigrid closed her eyes and sighed heavily. The old fool should have used strategy in this matter, not his sword. Still, Björn looked broken, standing there before his older brother. His honor was already lost, and he wouldn’t gain it back again even if the gods gave him the victory.
“I will fight in my father’s place,” Alrik declared, taking a step forward.
The warrior was a half head taller than Toste and broad-shouldered and strong. That fight might not go well, but Toste brushed off the young warrior.
“This is between me and your father.”
“The law gives me the right to . . .”
“You are a warrior in my hird and have no right to challenge me, your master and chieftain,” Toste said so angrily that Alrik backed down, his face bright red.
Björn put his hand on his son’s arm and squeezed gently before stepping forward to Toste.
“If a fight is what you want, my brother, then I’ll give you one.”
Sigrid gasped when she saw the knife in Björn’s hand. Like a poisonous snake he struck, jabbing the blade toward Toste’s heart, but her father was faster. He grabbed Björn’s hand and bent it away as he head-butted his brother and drew his own dagger.
The whole thing happened so fast that Sigrid could hardly see what happened. Björn wobbled and grabbed his chest, where Toste’s dagger sat buried deep in his heart.
Alrik bellowed out his rage, and, ax in his hand, he lunged at Toste, who easily dodged away and knocked him down so he fell flat on his face. Just as he hit the floor, Toste crushed Alrik’s hand that held the ax by stomping on it. He grabbed the ax and, straddling Alrik, raised it, ready to split the young man’s head in two.
“I have no bone to pick with you. If you give up and swear your loyalty to me, you can live.” He panted, out of breath.
The hall was completely silent as everyone awaited Alrik’s response.
“Never!” Alrik yelled, and tried to roll to the side.
Without hesitating, Toste slammed the ax with a crunch into his skull.
Sigrid’s heart was pounding so hard, her chest hurt. Father and son lay dead, side by side, in front of the thrones.
Sigrid’s father’s face was expressionless as he pulled his dagger out of his brother’s chest and then looked around.
“Who disputes the righteous death of Björn and Alrik? Who disputes my position as leader of all the Scylfing chieftains?”
No one raised their voice against him. Not even the immediate family of the two men killed stepped forward. Instead they swallowed their anger and submitted to Toste’s power.
Sigrid looked at her aging father with pride. He was still the strongest among the leaders of the warrior families. None of the men plotting insurrection against him dared to speak up, choosing instead to respect his show of strength.
“You are our chieftain, Toste!” cried Folke, who had been scheming against Toste only a short time before, and everyone agreed.
“You’re the wisest, sent by the gods!”
“No one will take you on, Toste!”
Toste strode proudly over to Ulf’s body, placed the bloody knife on his son’s chest, and said, “Tell the family how I avenged your death with this knife.”
Sigrid put her hand over her heart and bowed her head.
She had just witnessed a truly magnificent moment. Her father had awoken from his grief and had avenged his son with righteous anger. Now he had secured not only his own power but also hers and Olaf’s.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 28