by J. M. Hofer
After Ingvar exhausted himself, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the floor. “Have at her, men!”
This, Arhianna had not been prepared for. She had expected only to endure Ingvar. Terror engulfed her as his men closed in on her. They dragged her off to a pallet, where they took turns holding her limbs and having their way with her, cheering each other on.
When the ordeal was over, two men dragged her outside and left her lying face down in the mud outside the barn. She did not move until the men’s voices disappeared. The cold mud was a mercy, numbing her swollen face and body, taking the heat of the men off her skin and erasing their touch.
Fear, sorrow and anger coiled about her like snakes, squeezing her mind into paralysis. She rolled over and stared up into the sky, unable to sit up. She put a hand to her belly. Lady Freya, take this child from me. Spare his suffering. I offer him to you. He has neither father nor future. Carry him away to Vanaheim, that he might abide with you there and wander its green hills and forests. Take him so I may rain fire down upon our captors and avenge us all.
Then, came blackness.
***
“My queen?” Sigrid’s voice whispered.
Arhianna opened her eyes. No. Gods, no. I’m still here.
“Can you stand up?”
She moved her hands, feeling her blood slowly return to them, then attempted to push herself up on her knees, but a jolt of pain caused her to whimper.
“No, no, stay where you are. We will help you.”
Arhianna felt warm hands grip her body, roll her onto a blanket, and lift her off the ground. She noticed stars peering down at her through the gap in the blanket.
The women returned to the slave house and laid her body on a pile of hay. One by one, they uncovered her limbs, washed them, and covered them once again. Sigrid washed her face and put ointment on her lips. “You are the strongest woman I have ever known. Never have I seen such courage, my lady. Never. I swear these men will suffer the full force of Freya’s wrath for what they have done to you.” Sigrid’s voice faltered. “More blankets!”
Arhianna felt the weight of the blankets laid over her. Their warmth brought her flesh back to life, bringing pain in its wake. She longed for the numbness of the cold mud. She whispered, “We must escape. We must try.”
Sigrid shook her head. “No. We have tried. None but Ragna have managed. Since then, every night, they keep a few of us in the longhouse, locked in a cage. If any of us attempt to escape, Ingvar has promised to cut off their limbs, one by one, and make them watch as he feeds them to his dogs.” Sigrid grimaced. “No. We must stay together. Ragna is our only hope. Pray she lives. Now, drink this. It will make you sleep.” Arhianna felt Sigrid’s hand lift her head and then felt a cup at her lips. Thirst leapt up like a madman in her parched throat, and she gulped down whatever was in it.
She laid back down into the sea of her pain. The atrocity of what had happened to her infected her mind like a plague. Black and loathsome, it leered and laughed at her, spreading its disease through her body, tormenting her with flashes of the vile acts she had been forced to endure.
Like a demon, the monster followed her deep into the forest of her sleep, slinking from tree to tree, staring at her with its cold yellow eyes. When she at last found the courage to stare back at it, it fed off her fear and hatred and laughed, baring its teeth in a wide, wicked grin. You belong to me, now.
***
Never again was Arhianna as violently abused and humiliated as she had been on that first terrible night, but she may as well have been. The ceaseless dread of what could, at any moment, be inflicted upon her or her companions began to drive her mad. Every night, her fear of it seeped more deeply into her bones, its venom poisoning her heart, robbing her of sleep. The demon was right. I belong to him. I cannot escape. She murmured constant prayers to Freya and the Great Mother for protection and deliverance, but no help came. Only more suffering.
Days turned to moons, each one darker than the last, until her belly began to swell.
“There will be no hiding it anymore,” she confided to Sigrid.
“No. But Ingvar will assume the child is his or one of his men’s. He will leave you alone until the babe is born. As monstrous as they are, they are as superstitious as the rest of us. None of them would dare killing their own child.”
“And then what?”
Sigrid shook her head. “I do not know. I still pray Ragna will come for us. I know, if she yet lives, she will. We cannot give up hope.”
Arhianna said nothing and turned away, staring into the fire that was no longer her ally. She found no comfort in Sigrid’s words, only in black fantasies of revenge. Anger had eclipsed all other emotions. It had vanquished her fear and banished hope to the deepest and darkest of dungeons.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Scáthach
“My lady!”
The words entered Arhianna’s mind like two swift arrows shot through the darkness, jolting her from her half-rest.
“Listen! Do you hear that?”
Arhianna leapt to her feet like a cat, swift and silent in spite of her swollen belly, her ears in pursuit of the faint, eerie sound in the distance. It waxed and waned between human and animal, sorrow and fury. “What is it?”
Sigrid shook her head. “I don’t know. We can only hope that whoever or whatever it is, it’s on its way here. I’ll wake everyone—we must be ready to run if we get the chance.”
Ingvar’s men had taken all their shoes to discourage attempts at running away. They had saved strips of wool and rags, however, and hid them within the straw of their sad beds. Heart pounding, Arhianna fished hers out of her pallet and wrapped them tightly around her feet.
The women stirred around her, doing the same, gathering blankets and pulling stashes of food out of holes they had dug in the earthen floor.
Arhianna caught a glance of Hilde, and, to her surprise, saw she was crying. Not once had Arhianna ever seen her cry, no matter how brutally the men had treated her.
The eerie sound grew stronger, floating across the land on the wind, chilling the blood.
“It is Ragna,” Sigrid whispered. She, too, had tears welling in her eyes. “It must be Ragna…”
Arhianna bit her lip, refusing to hope. She stared, unblinking, through a hole in the wall.
Soon, other sounds rose around them. Ingvar’s men streamed out of the hall, spears and swords poised, stirred to arms by the strange, bizarre cries.
Arhianna’s heart pounded. She reached into her pocket, fishing out the long bone she had managed to steal from one of the dogs. She had used a shard of slate to whittle it to a sharp point, and had dreamt of stabbing it into Ingvar’s eye every waking moment since. Let it be tonight, Lady Morrigan. Let it be tonight. She did not pray to Freya anymore. Freya had offered her nothing but compassion. Instead, she had turned to Morrigan, goddess of war, battle, death and destruction. Morrigan, who took the form of a raven, namesake of her father, and sigil of her terrible grandfather. It was she who now received her prayers and worship, and she who answered. Arhianna closed her eyes. Morrigan! I call on you! Fill me with your terrible wrath and strength! Let me be your instrument of vengeance upon these men! Let me send them to you in pieces!
A power filled the darkness and entered her body, flooding her blood with hot, surging wrath. She smiled, her hands closed into anxious fists, terrified and thrilled that her prayer had been answered. So strong was Morrigan’s spirit within her that she let forth a war cry, piercing the sky and roof with her terrible rage, like a she-bear caught in a trap. She gave herself over to its fury, smashing her body against the door of the slave house, over and over.
She was only faintly aware of the others trying to hold her back, but there was no stopping her. When the door did not give way, she threw herself against the wall where the small crack was, until the boards cracked and split open. A rush of cold air invaded the barn. Like a hound that has just caught scent of its prey, she clawed her way
out of the slave house, gripping her bone dagger in her fist. She felt no fear. Only the overwhelming desire to tear Ingvar’s limbs from his body.
Then, she saw the coming of the one Morrigan had promised.
She and her war band crashed into the village like a giant, black tidal wave, descending on the men with a terrible momentum they could not withstand. Spears, swords and knives flashed all around the village, heightening Arhianna’s verocity. She ran into the battle, searching for one face. First, him. Then, the others. She spied him within seconds and fought her way to where he stood.
She was stopped by one of his men, who hit her in the chest with the handle of his spear and sent her sprawling backward off her feet. She got up just in time to see one of the wild women drive a spear through his bowels with a shrieking war cry.
Arhianna scrambled over and grabbed a dagger out of the dead man’s sheath. She fought her way to where she had seen Ingvar a moment before, but it was too late. He was gone.
No! She scanned the men in the battle and turned her fury on a man who had been particularly violent with her. She ran toward him in a rage and leapt onto his back, knocking him off balance and onto the ground. She leapt on his face like a wildcat, jamming her knees in the crooks of his elbows, and buried the dagger into his throat and chest.
She whirled around looking for another to attack, but the battle was already over. The ground was littered with Ingvar’s men. Those who still moved or moaned were being put out of their misery, one by one, by women with spears.
“Where is he?” she shrieked, her hands sticky with blood. Like a crazed animal she ran through the village, looking at each man in turn. “Where is he!” she screamed so loud her throat felt scorched by the words. She scanned all the dead men again, moving through the field like a rabid dog, but still did not find his face among the dead. The idea that he might yet live filled her with terror, and her terror filled her with anger.
“Arhianna?”
She felt someone squeeze her arm and whirled around to see a face from her past. “Ragna.”
She could not determine from Ragna’s expression how she felt about their reunion. It is sorrow or anger I see in her eyes? Perhaps both.
Ragna turned away from her and addressed the women. “Ingvar has escaped, but he shall be made to suffer as we have. This, Scáthach has promised.” She gave Arhianna a knowing look. “I am sorry it took me so long to return, sisters, butScáthach is a hard woman to find. I wish it could have been sooner.”
Arhianna did not have to ask whoScáthach was. It could only be one woman. She towered over them all, her body smooth and hard, as if carved from marble. Her hair was covered in lime, glowing greenish-white in the cold moonlight. She raised her hands. “You are free women now. Stay here and take this village back, or return to your families.”
Arhianna looked around. “Stay here?” She laughed in disbelief. “Stay here? We cannot stay here while Ingvar still lives! He’s a monster. As long as he can still draw breath, he will never give up. He will come back with more men, and every one of you will be forced to endure this hell again!” She turned around, feeling light-headed.
Scáthach moved toward her like a lioness on a hunt. “I’ve already sent my best warriors after him. He’ll not bother you again. You will be safe here.”
Arhianna barely heard her words. Her heart felt like a fish upon a hook, being reeled in by Scáthach’s eyes. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go with you—I want to learn to fight like you do.”
Scáthach looked her up and down. Arhianna held her breath until, at last, she spoke. “You’re a good fighter with the right spirit, but you wouldn’t last a moon.”
Arhianna’s feelings quickly ignited into anger, like sparks in dry brush. She was about to argue, but Ragna shot her a look that froze the words in her throat.
As if Scáthach had heard Arhianna’s silent protests, she turned and motioned toward her abdomen. “Dun Scáthach is no place for a child.”
Arhianna’s blood ran cold.
Scáthach motioned toward the dead men. “I suppose you don’t know which of these cowards the bastard belongs to?”
Arhianna spit on the ground. “None of these vile dogs is the father. I was already pregnant when they took us.” She looked over at Ragna and put her hands around her belly. “This child is Jørren’s.”
Blood drained from Ragna’s face. She reached out with shaking hands and grabbed Arhianna by the shoulders. “Where is he? Is my son alive?”
The intense hope in her eyes felt unbearable. Arhianna could not bring herself to meet her desperate gaze, so reached for her hands instead and squeezed them. “I’ve much to tell you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fortress of Shadows
The moon had given the slaughter at Ingvar’s village a certain ghostly glory, bathing the grisly scene in hues of blue, grey and silver. The rising sun was not as kind. He did not paint in pale watercolors or dreams. He preferred vivid colors and ruthless detail. Blood and entrails, mouths frozen open, eyes staring at nothing—this was the gruesome scene he painted.
The women had spent the night gathering and chopping wood to burn their former oppressors. Ragna and her women planned to stay in the village, as Scáthach had suggested, for they had no families to return to. Nothing of this horrific past could be allowed to survive. All traces of Ingvar and his cruel brood would be reduced to ashes, as would the barn where they had been kept prisoner. They would build a new one.
“Burn their bodies, but I want their heads,” Scáthach insisted. “Those are mine.”
No one asked why she wanted them. After the women finished chopping wood, they chopped off heads and tossed them into the back of a wagon. When finished, a grisly mountain of macabre faces loomed over them, the morning rain running down their hell-bound gazes.
Next came the bodies. The women dragged the headless corpses to the pyres they had labored over all night. When it came time to ignite them, Ragna looked over at Arhianna. “Burn these bastards, child.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The child. It doesn’t work.”
Ragna’s face went from surprise to understanding in but a few moments. “Now I understand why this village yet stands.” She put a consoling arm around Arhianna’s shoulders.
The time it took to burn the bodies gave Arhianna many hours to speak with Ragna. She had told her the night before that Jørren was dead, but had saved the story of how they had been reunited until now. “He was taken prisoner by Ceredig’s men in the battle for Mt. Damen. My brother found him there, in the dungeons. He was taken to Caer Lundein to be executed along with the other prisoners, but my father secured his release. He brought him to Mynyth Aur with our clan, but he wasn’t happy.” She shook her head. “I prayed to Freya, day and night, but it did no good. He had to know what had happened to you and the clan—so we came north to find you. But Ingvar found us first.”
Ragna stared straight ahead, braced for the weight of the words she knew Arhianna had to lay across her shoulders.
“He found us at a tavern. He called Jørren a traitor to Hengist, pulled out a dagger and stabbed him. There was no warning. And even if there had been…” Arhianna trailed off.
Tears spilled out of Ragna’s eyes, but it was as if a statue were weeping, for her face was made of stone as she finished Arhianna’s sentence. “And even if there had been, you could have done nothing to save him.”
“No.” Arhianna put her hand on her belly, feeling a rush of terrible shame, standing next to Ragna. The child in her womb was the only thing left of Jørren. And yet I prayed for this babe to die, so that I might have my power back.
When the last of the bodies had at last burned to ash, Scáthach and her women prepared to leave with their gruesome cargo. Arhianna felt a wave of panic rise up into her throat like bile as she watched them ready their horses. All that was fearful, black and knotted inside of her trembled in Scáthac
h’s presence, unable to grip her. She knew the moment Scáthach was gone, the yellow-eyed demon would return, sneering and laughing, and smother her once again. In a surge of desperation, she ran to Scáthach and fell to her knees. “Please, let me come with you, great Scáthach—I want to serve you. I’ll do anything you ask…”
Arhianna could see Ragna rushing over out of the corner of her eye. “Stop this! Are you mad?” Ragna looked up at Scáthach. “She does not know what she is asking, she has been through too much…”
Scáthach held out a hand to silence Ragna and looked down at Arhianna with fierce eyes. “Let me see your hands.”
Arhianna did as she asked, offering up her hands.
Scáthach turned them over and examined her palms, her eyes lingering on certain lines for some time before she spoke again. “Very well. Come, then, and serve me—but know this—you will suffer more in my service than you have here.”
“For you, I will do it gladly.”
“As I have said before, Dun Scáthach is no place for children. Are you certain you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Again, Ragna intervened. “Arhianna, no! You do not know what you are agreeing to—most die in Lady Scáthach’s training—and you are with child! How can you deny me my only grandchild? The only hope of happiness I have? You do not know what it is like up there!” She grabbed her by the shoulders and stared her in the eyes. “Listen to me! You are going to lose the babe!”
“Quiet!” Scáthach turned on Ragna like a wild animal, eyes flashing and terrible. “Step back, Ragna. She has made her choice.” Scáthach leapt on her horse and pointed to the wagon full of heads. “Either find a horse or ride in the wagon.”
Arhianna feared running to the stable, coming out, and finding the women gone, but rushed off anyway. Ragna flew after her in pursuit. “Arhianna, listen to me—please! I know what you suffered here—the women told me. The bastards did the same to me. But they will never bother us again. This, I promise you. Stay here, please, for the love of Freya…”