My father was a wise man, or so our clan, Pilombrug, believed, I was too little to remember. A kind Jarl, yet vicious when needed. Thoughtful, but never hesitant. His brother, Mültegjol, was nothing like him. Greedy. Power-hungry. He wanted to rule, to hoard wealth, to see men kneel before him. And when my father refused to rule as he wished, Mültegjol did what any spineless coward would do. He took matters into his own hands.
I opened my eyes, only for a moment. A raven perched on a tree branch above me, its dark gaze locked onto mine. Watching. Waiting. My vision blurred, and I slipped away again.
I was ten the day Mültegjol betrayed us. He and my father, Drogni, went on a hunt, taking my brother and me with them. My father said we needed to learn—how to track, how to kill, how to survive. I remember the cold air biting at my face, the crunch of frost beneath our boots, the smell of pine hanging thick in the forest. I remember trusting him and my father.
"He's stirring." A voice cut through the darkness, urgent. "Hey, drengr! Can you hear me?"
"Mmm…" Another voice grunted in response. "He's not waking up. We've rested long enough. The horses are ready."
"He can't die!" Ela's voice, high and trembling. "We have to go!"
"You heard her! Move!"
We followed Mültegjol into a cave that day, deep into the den of a great black wolf. I had no reason to question him. He was family, we were just hunting. And—we didn't see the trap until it was too late. The bastard snuffed out our torches, leaving us blind in the suffocating dark.
"How did he fight like that?" a voice whispered. "It was like watching Thor himself in battle."
"My father…" Ela's voice again, quieter this time. "He… he didn't make it, did he?"
Pilddr, who I considered my brother, scooped me into his arms. I was too small, too weak, but he was older—stronger. He carried me, running blind through the tunnels, the gods guiding our steps. My father wasn't as lucky. He never made it out. I wanted to go back, to fight, to die at his side, but Pilddr held me tight.
Then, after what felt like eternity, Mültegjol emerged from the cave, untouched. The black wolf followed him. It was his. I learned later that he had raised it since it was a pup. He had led us into the dark, knowing what awaited us there.
"Ugh…"
My eyes fluttered open again, this time to the pale glow of the moon. My head rested against someone's back, the steady rhythm of a horse's hooves jarring my wounds with every step. I groaned, my fingers curling weakly against the blood-soaked saddle beneath me.
"Valhalla…?" My voice barely escaped my lips.
"Not yet, drengr." The old man in front of me chuckled, his voice steady. "One day, I'm sure. But not yet."
I swallowed, trying to straighten myself. Pain seared through my ribs. "Where am I…?"
"Close to York." He kept his horse's pace even, as if careful not to jostle me too much. "Don't sleep. Talk to me."
I forced a breath through my nose, my vision swimming. "About what…?"
"Your belt." He glanced back at me. "That's Höggskjold, isn't it? Just like in the legends."
I nodded weakly. "Yes…"
"They say the blacksmith who forged it climbed a mountain and begged Thor for a blessing. He spent two winters up there, shitting in a bucket and eating bugs."
I let out a dry, rasping laugh. "Then—" I coughed, wincing. "Then Thor heard him."
"That's right." The man smirked. "One stormy night, lightning struck the belt. That's why the metal has ripples, like waves frozen in steel."
A shout rang out ahead.
"York! We're here! Get him down—now!"
The horse came to a stop, and the man in front of me dismounted. Without hesitation, he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder. My head was hanging limp as I watched the ground below. The muddy path bore the imprints of his boots, each step sinking slightly into the wet earth.
I barely had the strength to lift my head, but in the dim torchlight, I caught sight of a small figure walking ahead. A dress. Short stature. Ela. Freydis' daughter.
The man carrying me halted near a flickering torch, its glow casting long shadows over my face. Ahead, voices swelled—talking, laughing, crying. The unmistakable sounds of a city's entrance. York.
"We're with Freydis. Let us through," the man beside me called out.
"Freydis?" A rough voice, likely a guard, snapped in response. "You Dane dogs! Leave now, or I'll cut you down where you stand!"
"We are expected, Saxon!" Another one shouted from behind. "Let us through!"
"Sound the alarm!" the guard roared. "We're under atta—"
"Stop!"
A familiar voice cut through the night. John.
The torchlight shifted as he stepped forward. "Let them through," he ordered. "They're expected."
A tense silence followed. Then the guard scoffed. "Fine. Get inside. But if any of you so much as look at someone wrong, I'll see you all hanged."
With that, we passed through the entrance.
John walked beside us, his sharp gaze sweeping over me. Without a word, he reached out, tilting my chin up. He grimaced.
"They messed you up," he muttered.
"You should've seen the other guys," I rasped, wincing.
John exhaled through his nose, then glanced past me. "That little girl… That's Ela, isn't it?"
I barely managed a nod. "That's her."
We walked in silence until the man carrying me stopped in front of a house and knocked. Ela stepped closer nex to John, peering up at me. Her small face twisted in a grimace, much like John's had.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured. "For saving our men."
I didn't respond.
The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Inside, the house bore the marks of Saxon living—wattle-and-daub walls, a thatched roof, and a central hearth casting a warm glow. The scent of smoke and dried herbs lingered in the air, and wooden beams stretched overhead, their rough surfaces blackened by years of soot. Animal pelts lay scattered across the floor, serving as makeshift rugs, while a long table stood against the wall, cluttered with earthenware and tools.
Freydis, seated at the table, shot to her feet the moment she saw us. In an instant, she was across the room, scooping Ela into her arms and holding her tightly, spinning her once before setting her down.
Meanwhile, the man lowered me onto my feet, ensuring I could stand before releasing me. I barely managed a few steps before finding a bed and collapsing onto it, my head sinking into the pillow—already damp with my own blood.
"He needs healing," John said, crouching beside me. "Do we have yarrow and willow bark?"
"Yes," Ela piped up. "I stole it from Ragnar's camp."
John huffed a quiet chuckle. "You're safe now, heathen," he said, his voice softer this time. "Rest, okay?"
I let my eyes close, my body sinking further into the mattress.
"Yeah…" I mumbled, barely above a whisper. "Rest, huh…"
And then, darkness took me.
ᚹᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ-ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ-ᚱᛖᚲᛚᛁᛅᛗ