"We went deeper today. It looks like we've found some sort of Royal chamber, one with thrones that sit above the rest of the room. The Sognefjord culture (I came up with that!) had kings. As a warrior culture, one can only imagine they'd have to be proficient in war to gain and keep their titles. With each passing day I'm building a larger picture of these people. I think I like them." Personal notes of Dr Otto Reichart, chief archaeologist at the Sognefjord dig.
XIX
Crowds parted and made their obedience as he passed, some cowering whilst others merely knelt. All knew who he was; his height, his sunken eyes, his black cloak billowing with unseen wind, and the fearsome hounds at his heel left no room for doubt.
Thrymwald was king of all the world by might alone. And among a race of hearty warriors, he found no equal, let alone a challenge.
Not so long ago in his mind, such a scene would have included little ones darting behind their mother's skirt. He'd have laughed under his breath and thought about his own brood when they were that age.
There were no little ones to be seen here.
He continued on up the road, past the taverns that still somehow sounded with song and merriment, through the gatehouse of the surrounding wall that served no purpose, and out into the dead forest. His feet crunched on lifeless red grass as a purple, stormy sky, swirled above him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Cynerid and Varlgan, his eldest niece and youngest son, making their way to a different part of the forest. He sighed through his nose, but humour tickled his heart.
Late. Varlgan surpasses most with his disappearing acts.
The brief flicker of warmth faded as it quickly as it came. He made no effort to call out to them, or playfully reprimand Varlgan for his disobedience. He lacked the will to do much with his children, of blood and practical adoption, anymore.
Not with their mother gone.
What do I do, Aerid? What do I do?
He swerved and put a good hundred paces between him and them. His destination was different in direction and purpose to Cynerid's hunting grounds anyway.
The trees thickened as he walked. With faint bemusement he noted Hoislt and Hasa's mood improve, this place likely reminiscent of their old home. They bounded a bit further ahead, happily barking at each other, but never too far from their master.
When even the dead dry branches interlocked so thoroughly that the dead purple light of this "world" was blocked out, Hasa, suddenly paused and sniffed the ground with a growl. Thrymwald knelt next to him. He didn't question the beast nor dismiss him.
Wolves smelt better than most.
He drew his hand across some dead twigs to reveal freshly made footprints, clearly attached to a winding trail. Thrymwald petted Hasa.
A hunting trail?
His red gaze flickered up at a shadow in the trees.
It looked back at him.
Hasa barked savagely and so did Hoilst.
Unperturbed, Thrymwald raised a hand in greeting. The shadow growled, frustrated, and disappeared into the forest's roof.
Waendel? How long was he watching me? I'm getting slow in my old age.
"Easy boys, only my huntsman." He ruffled his hounds's heads and started to walk away. They gave a few unsatisfied looks at the forest's roof, and reluctantly followed his lead.
My dear boys. Always watching out for me. Out of anyone's sight, Thrymwald smiled. The Gods had taken much from him, but seen fit to leave his hounds, loyal and strong like their namesakes. They'd die without a second thought for their master, their alpha.
Not that Thrymwald required that. Waendel, Cynerid, and any of their skill could stalk him all they liked in vain. There was no person alive who could face him.
I slew any who could long ago.
After a while the tress began to thin, until a small clearing at the heart of this dead forest came into view. His ears were tickled by a stream that bubbled quietly. He paused at the "entrance."
"Stay here." Thrymwald commanded. Hoilst and Hasa whined and whimpered but sat down all the same.
He entered the clearing. His boots quietly pressed into wet grass as his nostrils were flooded with an earthy scent. He closed his eyes and drew deep of it. Here there was the one bit of true life in this false world he'd conjured.
At the heart of the clearing stood a rich brown tree, the last of its kind. A ring of stone monuments, faces carved into them that stared at all, were arrayed around it. A table had been set aside, littered with bowls, incenses, and runes. A figure, clothed in grey kirtle and veil, hunched over them and muttered under her breath.
Her mind is cracked, my King. Even the whispers of my spies prove more useful. Thrymwald could hear Hreki's disapproving tone echoing through his head.
He didn't bother announcing himself. Her posture stiffened out of irritation instead of surprise. She probably heard him long before he saw her.
"Come forward." She beckoned with an annoyed hand.
He obeyed.
As he approached, the woman lifted her head. The ruined horizontal valley where her eyes had once been, torn out by human thunder weapons, unnaturally fixed on him.
"Hand." She held out hers. Thrymwald took off his gauntlet and placed his palm in hers. The last volva smiled.
"Ah, my king." She bowed deeply. "Please sit. Come to honour Ierfr again?"
"Not today." Thrymwald sat on a stool comically undersized for him.
Shitting in a wet hole in the ground is more comfortable.
"Then to what do I owe the pleasure, my king?" She returned to chanting over her bowl.
"You already know."
"I can make a good guess. The Gods never intended for us to know everything."
Thrymwald ignored her impudence. "Do they say any more of my fate?"
The volva, absent minded, drew her hand through the water in her bowl. "The Gods never spoke much even before the cataclysm. They say even less now. All that is known, is that you will be humbled by a child."
"Humbled by whomever shall succeed me?" Concern edged into his tone more than he'd have liked.
Not Varlgan. Please, Allfather, not my youngest.
The priestess shook her head. "They would not be so simple. I do not know for certain but-"
"You can guess?"
She laughed.
"Yes. Perhaps." She picked up some runes and scattered them across her table. "I believe it is a human child that would best you."
Silence hung over the clearing for a moment, before Thrymwald shred it with a humourless laugh. "Their greatest warrior can barely stand against us, even in a steel giant. Humans are dirt beneath our boot. Their whelps are even lesser."
"Perhaps. But they aren't without courage. And courage is what sagas are written in."
"Ah yes." Acid dripped into Thrymwald's tone. "I forget you admire them."
"It is true I respect them." She shrugged, then picked the bowl up and walked over to the tree. "We are all given life by the world tree, my king. It is a shame we must slaughter one another."
"A shame? You would feel remorse for those who took your eyes, slaughtered your sisters and brothers, butchered our children, defaced Waldin's creation, murdered Aerid-" He took a breath. "-your queen."
The priestess didn't respond.
Thrymwald bit his tongue, a glimmer of shame in his soul. "Forgive me. I know you lost much as well."
"…not a day goes by that I don't remember I am the last of my way, Thrymwald. It would be a lie to say I don't feel some enmity." She got down on her knees next to the trunk. "But that way dictates we value all life. No exceptions." She poured the water into the earth. Enriched with a little energy of her own, it seeped downward into the roots of this very special tree.
"Value all life…" Thrymwald stood up. "I suppose I must be some sort of evil spirit in this place."
"You are but a man, my king. And for that we should all be thankful."
Thrymwald snorted a little. "I had come to pray as well, if that's alright."
"Be my guest." The volva gestured at the stone circle. "But as I have said, the Gods are hard of hearing these days."
Thrymwald walked to the circle, to the largest stone in particular. Unlike the others, where its right eye should have been, there was an intentionally chiselled scar. Thrymwald knelt and drew his sword. With practiced control, he didn't wince as he drew the blade across his bare hand, allowing blue blood to drip on the ground beneath the stone's gaze.
"Waldin Allfather." He whispered. "What do you ask of me? What would you have me do?"
He knelt there for a full fifteen minutes and heard nothing.
As usual.
Thrymwald sighed as he stood up.
"Nothing, my king?"
"What must I offer? Why have they abandoned us?" He muttered.
"Abandoned?" The volva raised an eyebrow. "The Gods have never been ones to be begged or bargained with. We simply prove our worth and they grant us favour, you know that."
It was worth a try.
He turned to go.
"Hold." The volva appeared at his side and tugged him over to the table.
"I am not a little boy anymore." He laughed weakly but offered his injured hand.
"A wetnurse's job is never done, my king." She tutted, tracing her hand over his until she found the cut and nodded in approval. "Cleanly done."
Dipping her bowl into the bubbling stream, she filled it with water then poured it on the wound. Royal blue was slowly diluted until only the opened skin could be seen. The volva then artfully navigated the chaos of her table to find linen cloth, which she then wrapped around the king's hand.
"It'll heal of its own accord." Thrymwald protested in vain, but the volva would hear none of it.
"They think they're bodies are invincible. Gods themselves can die…" She muttered to herself and tightened the bandage. Thrymwald winced.
As he sat on that stool, like a scolded child, Thrymwald looked upward to admire the sky. "Hrofhem", this refuge he'd conjured, with rich purple sky and blood red grass did have an ethereal beauty of its own.
But it was not a living place, merely a supposedly temporary refuge. Not like Midgard, their true home, with its blue skies, white whispy clouds, and carpets of snow. Not like Norven, land of fire spitting mountains and veins of priceless obsidian that never ran dry, of raging grey sea that crashed against the shore.
Ah the sea.
Like all true Erafir, Thrymwald felt a hollowness in his heart at being cut off from it, denied the salty spray and the wind that bit. Then again, his heart was hollowed anyway.
For the Erafir had deemed the sea beautiful, even naming their daughters after it. Aerid had been such, and she more than lived up to her name.
My love, I can't do this without you.
His mind was tickled by the phantom biting cold of that blizzard, a gentle touch of his cheek, and a whispered plea: Be strong for me.
Thrymwald scowled, bottomless rage scarcely held back as it crashed against his spirit like the waves of old. Yet, intertwined with the fury, was a grief and a longing that would never fade. The volva sensed it as his hand tensed, and somehow looked him in the eye.
"Something on your mind, my king?"
"…do you think the Gods have forsaken us because of me? Because of my failure?"
"No." She said, her touch on his hand becoming gentle. "If they have forsaken us for anything, it wouldn't be that. Regardless that you are not to blame."
Thrymwald dropped his gaze and tiredly sighed.
I wish I could believe that.
"You are clearly suffering from a malady of the soul, my king." The volva grimaced. "It is not easily treated. Perhaps some warm food and mead may help you."
Thrymwald darkly chuckled. "Thank you, Grunhild."
I know what you're talking about. The "absence." Few survive it.
Bandage tied on, Grunhild relinquished her grip. The King of the Erafas stood, gave a respectful nod of his head, and turned to leave.
"Prince Varlgan suffers much like you do." She said. "We all mourn the Queen's passing to this day, but it eats at him like no other. Be there for him."
Thrymwald paused but didn't turn to face her. "As long as I breathe, no one shall lay a finger on him."
His mother died on my watch. He will not.
"That is not what I meant, my king."
His hand fiddled with his sword hilt for a moment before he walked on. A quiet sigh from behind him told Thrymwald all he needed to know of Grunhild's thoughts. A part of his soul twitched angrily. What did she know of raising this boy with so terrible an infancy, of a child baptised in his mother's blood?
Likely everything. He corrected himself. Grunhild has been wetnurse for more babies than men I've killed. By Thrym's hammer, she was my wetnurse. Perhaps she is right.
He shook his head.
I need to win this war first. Then Varlgan can have his own hold with all the scrolls he could ever ask for.
Hoilst happily barked at the sight of him, whilst Hasa lifted his head and wagged his tail. Thrymwald ruffled the heads of his precious hounds.
"Come."
The two great wolves obeyed and followed, bounding along at his heel. Thrymwald frowned in thought as they made their way back to the gatehouse.
If the Gods will not aid us, then we must conquer for ourselves as we've always done. This could even be a test of sorts. His mind went over Hreki's recent reports. The enemy is off balance, unaware of our strategy, and have only one warrior to face us. We must press the attack.
He lips lifted cruelly. Grisca will leave tomorrow then. He'll have my leave to kill as he likes, except for the rider of this "Evangelium"...
"No quick, clean, end." Thrymwald quietly snarled. "You will die slowly."
Author's note
Hopefully you all understand that Hoislt and Hasa are good boys, despite being wolves the size of a small horse. Worry not, we're about to switch away from the magical Vikings-(cough cough), ahem, I mean "the Erafir", and go back to our favourite sad boi trying to settle in to his new school.
