Vissivaldi stood up.
“Where are you going, my lovely?” His voice was menacing, and the hall grew instantly silent. Sigrid stopped and turned around.
“Where I choose to go in my own house is my own business, foreigner.” Her tone was as sharp as the crack of a whip.
He leaned over the table, supporting himself with his hands.
“You’re not leaving until you’ve made your choice.”
Behind her, the servants and her kinfolk started making for the exits until only the drunken foreigners were left in the guesthouse.
Sigrid stretched her back and looked at the two men disdainfully.
“I have been chosen by Vanadís and am the mother of the king of Svealand. You should know your place.”
She turned around and left the building, walking quickly away. Her men immediately blocked the door with a wooden crossbar. The prisoners started pounding on it to break their way out.
“Open up, you bitch, or we’ll whip you to a pulp!” Grenske yelled.
Sigrid scoffed as she backed away from the door.
“It won’t be easy to whip anyone from where you’re headed,” she retorted.
Three of her warriors were ready with torches, and when she nodded to them, they lit the roof on fire. The flames instantly took hold in the dry thatch and hissed toward the twilight sky. At first it was quiet, but when the men inside realized what was happening, they started screaming, pounding on the door, and cursing her name.
Sigrid watched vacantly as the fire giants feverishly engulfed the guesthouse. The devouring heat and choking smoke freed her.
They thought she was some weak prey, just waiting to be the personal plaything of some predator.
She, the defender of the ancestral faith, who was blessed and baptized in blood, would eradicate anyone who tried to stop her from getting what she wanted.
Sigrid smiled wanly as the valkyries swept down from the skies with their talons splayed to feast on the charred bodies. As shadows, horrific in their blood robes, they stood ready to consume the enemy.
“God help us!”
Coughing and anguished cries could be heard from inside the guesthouse, and people started trying to chop their way through the wall, but Sigrid’s warriors were ready. A foreigner staggered out, his cloak aflame and his clothes singed, and he was immediately cut down. The fire grew, roaring into the night sky. The roof was almost completely engulfed and would soon collapse on them all.
Vissivaldi staggered through the hole that had been chopped through the wall, his hair and clothes on fire.
He raised his singed arm and pointed at Sigrid.
“A curse on you, witch, thrice I curse thee!”
“You don’t have the power to curse me,” Sigrid said, regarding the foreigner with scorn.
Kolgrim raised his ax and split the man’s head in two, causing him to drop to the ground, dead. Just at that moment the blazing roof collapsed, and a wave of heat swept over the people who had gathered.
Burning beams silenced the death screams of those within, and the blazing fire devoured the building with a ravenous roar.
It was done.
Sigrid stared vacantly into the flames, which heated her face. Erik thought he could overpower her; the Scylfing chieftains had turned away from her; Edmund had betrayed her; and suitors had come from near and far to get their hands on her riches and power. She hadn’t yielded but had conquered them all, like a true Scylfing.
“From this day on let it be known that no one demands anything of Sigrid Tostedotter,” she cried out to the people of her estate and her hird, who all bowed their heads in submission.
Sigrid took a deep breath and enjoyed the valkyries’ wrath that filled her with bloodred power. Now all would respect her.
The sound of rapid hoofbeats caused her to turn around.
Two of Toste’s men rode into the courtyard on sweat-lathered horses. She hurried up to the men, who dismounted, eyeing the fire.
“What is the word?” she asked impatiently.
The older of the two pulled off his head-cloth.
“Your Majesty, I come bearing a message from your father: The Anund clan’s nest has been found in a valley on the border to Rogaland. The Scylfings are massing for an attack.”
Finally! After all this time the dastardly Anund clan had been located, and she would finally learn whether Estrid was still alive. Rage flared up within her as high as the burning house. Kolgrim walked over, sweating and holding the bloody ax.
“Then we will join them in the fight.”
Of all his enemies, Sweyn disliked Odo the most. Sweyn stood just an arrow’s shot from the Danevirke, watching the little guy approach on horseback accompanied by two men, as had been agreed. The horse was every bit as opulently adorned as Odo himself, but neither the silver fittings nor the expensive fabrics lent that yokel any air of manliness. His face was as tender as a woman’s behind his meticulously trimmed beard. His back was slightly bent, and his arms were as scrawny as whale bones. How the Saxons could let themselves be ruled by a weakling like that was beyond Sweyn.
It had taken days before they agreed as to how the talks would be held, and Sweyn had delayed them as best he could, but the meeting with their peacock of a leader had to happen now.
Odo reined in his horse, without showing any inclination to dismount, and regarded Sweyn with displeasure.
“You should have stuck to pillaging, Sweyn Forkbeard.”
Sweyn moved his hand to the hilt of Battle-Fire as his heart raced in his chest. One slice across the neck, and Denmark would no longer be under threat from the emperor’s hirdman. Åke and Palna stood at the ready beside him, and he could feel their longing to put an end to the Saxon on the spot. But a king couldn’t allow his own desires to rule the day when his kingdom was under threat.
Sweyn took a deep breath.
“Inform Otto, your ruler, that the agreement we once reached still stands firm. No churches will be burned on Danish soil, and he will receive the taxes we agreed on. Pull back your men, and no blood will be spilled at this wall.”
It stung quite a bit to have to keep paying tribute to Emperor Otto, but it was better than being dead with his kingdom in ruins.
Odo’s mouth twisted as a look of scorn came over his face.
“You broke the agreement you once reached. Your own people have asked me to liberate them from the heathen beliefs and witchcraft that you force on them, you father killer.”
So that was Odo’s reason for conquering the fertile Jutland. Sweyn eyed the Saxon calmly. He couldn’t hate him any more than he already did.
“Send a message to Otto, your master, that the agreement I reached with him remains in place.”
Saying no more to Odo, he turned away and walked back with Palna and Åke to the imposing twenty-foot gates of the Danevirke, heavily fitted with iron. A huge group of warriors watched their every movement from atop the wall.
He did not hold out much hope that Odo would convey the message, but each day he could delay the Saxons’ attack improved his chances. Several ships of warriors had already arrived to reinforce the ranks on the wall.
“Otto’s reinforcements for Odo haven’t arrived yet,” Åke said. “Now is the time to fight.”
Sweyn walked through the open gate, which was immediately shut behind his back with a dull rumble.
He grimly surveyed the extensive military camp, where warriors swarmed between the tents and the banners of the various divisions fluttered in the wind.
“Make it known that I seek peace with Odo and Otto,” he said, practically spitting out the bitter words.
Ragnvald scurried over to his side right away.
“What is it now?” Sweyn muttered.
“Crowbone landed at Kaupang and proclaimed himself king,” the young warrior said.
Sweyn had a headache.
Kaupang in the land of the Northmen belonged to Denmark. His former friend had stabbed him in the back. He should have
realized things were too easy when Erik was poisoned and he was able to retake Zealand without a battle.
“Does he have enough men to hold on to it?”
Ragnvald nodded glumly.
“Yes, and the Northmen recognize him as their rightful king.”
Sweyn sighed heavily. Crowbone took what he wanted, knowing full well that Sweyn was fettered to the Danevirke in the south.
“He’s planning to attack us from the north when Odo attacks from the south,” Palna said.
Sweyn nodded seriously.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, eyeing Ragnvald with irritation. “Why are you still standing here?”
“There’s one more thing. Thyre sought refuge with Crowbone, and he granted her asylum.”
So that was where the weasel went. She was cunning at any rate; he had to give her that. Crowbone was the only one who could give her the protection she so desperately needed.
“He’s going to marry Thyre,” Sweyn said. “Once he’s married to a Jelling, Crowbone can lay claim to the Jelling throne.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a crushing weight settling over his shoulders. It couldn’t get any worse than this.
Palna scratched the scar on his cheek.
“The Svea still hold Aggersborg, and Knut Danaást’s people haven’t been able to secure the territory.”
“Then we’ll have to hope they succeed before Crowbone attacks from the north,” Sweyn said tersely, and accepted a stoup of mead a servant offered him.
Damn it all. He drank, his head still aching.
“Let me attack Odo from behind,” Åke said, meeting his gaze.
Sweyn hesitated. If the Jómsvikings flanked the enemy and attacked them from behind, he would be forced to attack from the wall to try to win. It was a big gamble that would squander the lives of a lot of men.
“It’s your only chance for victory,” Åke pleaded, meeting his gaze again.
They had grown up and been hardened into warriors together. Their lives had been filled with the battles they were born to fight until they died an honorable death. Now Åke was asking Sweyn to send him to his death. Sweyn gulped down the bitter mead and then sighed heavily.
“The boy’s right,” Palna said, and looked at Åke, who seemed surprised that his father had agreed with him. The old man’s cheek twitched. “But you won’t lead the men.”
Palna would take the Jómsvikings behind enemy lines.
“My life is nearing its end anyway, and I’d rather die fighting the Saxons than sacrifice my only son.”
It was an honorable decision, and Sweyn couldn’t turn the offer down.
“Pick your men,” he said with a slight nod.
They were still all going to die in battle.
She had arrived at the last minute.
Sigrid urged her horse past the phalanx of muddy Scylfings in their battle gear walking through the forest, and they all greeted her with respectful nods and raised weapons. Her body ached from the long ride, but she needed neither sleep nor food, not now when Estrid was so close.
Please let my daughter be alive, Vanadís. I pray you.
The worry that Sigrid had bravely kept in check finally broke free, tugging at her heart and compelling her forward. She clutched the reins with sweaty hands, and her legs ached with exhaustion as she drove her horse onward through the mud. They had found the Anund clan’s nest at the last moment, because the frost giants had already arrived here in the mountains and crowned the woods with snow as their icy breath raced in over them from the north.
“You bless us with good fortune, king mother,” Styrbjörn from Gudheim cried out, and raised his simple iron ax to the sky.
Sigrid eyed the white-bearded warrior calmly.
“May Vanadís grant you victory,” she called out loudly, and looked out over the men. “Do not fear Ragna or anyone else, because Freya herself has sent her valkyries to protect you. Slaughter the Anund clan! That is the will of Valhalla.”
The men shouted their approval.
“No one in that cursed clan will live to see tomorrow,” said Esbjörn with a toothless grin. He wore leather armor with expensive silver buckles at the shoulders, certainly plundered from the raids in the west.
“It pleases me so much to see you ready,” Sigrid said, riding on down the line and inspecting her troops.
Her father rode at the head, dressed in his chain mail but with his helmet hanging from his belt. He grinned in pleasure when he saw her ride up.
“I was sure you’d come,” Toste said. He nodded to Kolgrim and Hawk behind her back. “Everything all right?”
“No problems,” Kolgrim said with a slight nod.
Sigrid wiped off a little mud that had splashed on her face and gave the men an impatient look.
“Where’s the enemy?” she asked. “When will you attack?”
Toste laughed quietly.
“You see those peaks?” He pointed to the mountains that towered over the snow-laden trees. “Those scoundrels have been hiding in the valley on the far side. Hold your horses, daughter. Anund’s people will never hurt us again.”
A sharp chill settled over the valley, and dawn was a mere promise over the top of the mountains when the Scylfings stormed into the valley where the Anund clan had been holed up.
With swords and axes drawn, the Scylfings ran fearlessly at the warriors who came at them. Toste rode in the lead. Swinging his battle-ax, he cleaved a young man’s head in two. The Scylfings cut down the enemy one by one, as if harvesting corn plants. Soon there wouldn’t be anyone left.
Sigrid reined in her horse, which stamped impatiently beneath her while she watched the warriors’ relentless bloodthirst. Estrid was out there in the valley somewhere. “May she take heart that her rescue is approaching,” she said as the Scylfings’ battle cries echoed down the narrow valley. Sigrid swallowed, her throat tight with worry. Please let her still be alive.
“We can wait no longer,” she cried to Kolgrim as the fighting pushed its way farther into the valley. “They might run off with her.”
The warrior surveyed the twisted bodies of the Anund clansmen where they lay on the frozen white ground while the Scylfings rushed into the valley like a relentless wave of death and destruction. They had already reached the closest of the farms and would set them on fire soon. All it would take was a single stab in the heat of battle, and then a bound-and-gagged Estrid, hidden in a chest, would burn to death.
“I can’t safeguard your life in the midst of all this fighting,” Kolgrim warned.
“I have to find out!” Sigrid roared, digging her heels into her horse’s sides.
Her cloak fluttered behind her back as she raced ahead to the biggest of the farmhouses the Scylfings had taken. If Estrid were a prisoner, this was where she’d be, noblewoman that she was. All that mattered was saving her daughter.
The sound of hoofbeats made her turn around. Kolgrim and Hawk rode up on either side of her.
“Let me go in first,” the jarl cried.
Sigrid nodded and reined in her horse, and then trotted in through the gate in the wall and up to the courtyard in front of the door.
Scylfing warriors were already plundering the farmhouse, and there were two dead bodies lying on the ground.
“Is there anyone alive?” Sigrid yelled, her heart fit to burst.
“We found the seeress!” yelled Yngve, one of the warriors in Toste’s hird. He came out of the house, dragging an old woman with straggly gray hair, and tattoos on her wrinkled face.
A wave of cold swept through Sigrid when she saw Loki’s symbol etched in the woman’s forehead. She was a seeress dedicated to the falsest of the Æsir.
“It looks like you found the Anund clan viper,” she said flatly.
Ragna tried to break free from Yngve’s grip before she looked up at Sigrid with so much loathing, her face contorted.
“Filthy Scylfing bitch, thrice are you cursed, for the evil you spread,” Ragna cried. “Your daughter is dead, s
acrificed to Loki.”
Sigrid’s heart stopped beating, and she no longer heard the battle cries or the yelling. The abomination’s voice was all there was.
“Your daughter wailed like an animal when she died the threefold death, screwed by every Anund clansman in the valley. She cried and begged for mercy,” Ragna hissed, and then spat on the ground and once again tried to get away from Yngve, who punched her right in the mouth with his closed fist.
Estrid was dead. The sound of her heartbeat roared through Sigrid’s head as a freezing cold filled her.
“I enjoyed taking her life,” Ragna said, her eyes fixed on Sigrid as she wiped the blood away with the back of her hand.
“Where are her bones?” Sigrid asked flatly.
The seeress cackled. “You can search for them until Ragnarök comes.”
Estrid was dead. Sigrid looked up at the gray clouds, and a few snowflakes landed on her face.
“Then you’re worthless to me,” she said.
Hawk came out of the house, where he’d been searching for Estrid. The scarred old warrior shook his head somberly. There were no signs of the girl. Sigrid took a deep breath of the frost-nipped air. The seeress knew she was going to die, so even if Sigrid lied, she wouldn’t learn anything else from the wicked one.
“Chop the head off the snake,” she ordered.
Ragna suddenly looked afraid as Yngve forced her to her knees and Kolgrim positioned himself by her side with his ax in hand.
“I’ll haunt you until you lose your mind, you filthy Scylfing whore,” Ragna threatened.
Sigrid numbly watched the seeress’s fear rise like a bloodred cloud around her head.
Then she nodded to Kolgrim, who took a step back with his ax raised. With one quick chop, he hit the back of the seeress’s neck, but the cut wasn’t deep enough. Ragna fell forward, shrieking. Still alive, she tried to crawl away. The jarl slowly raised the ax, and he waited for a few breaths before he let it fall, severing the seeress’s head from her body with a second whack.
The blood ran from the body onto the frozen ground and gathered around Ragna’s head on which her face had stiffened midscream.
Estrid (The Valhalla Series Book 2) Page 37