Eivor woke in a panic, her brother's name at her lips.
For a long time, she remained still and silent, hand over her heaving chest, sweat pouring from her brow. The room was as inviting as ever, filled with sunlight despite the closed doors. From beyond she could hear the joyous sounds of the feast. Eivor was in Valhalla still.
And—unless her eyes had deceived her—so was her father.
She stood abruptly, crossing her chambers. The bright light of the sun assaulted her senses as she stepped into the courtyard. "Havi!" cried the warriors seated at the tables, raising their drinking horn. "Lead us into battle! Lead us to glory!"
Eivor ignored their invitation, eyes darting everywhere as she passed rows and rows of inebriated drengir. Sigurd. She had to find Sigurd. And she had to find—
"Eivor!" a familiar voice hailed her. Sigurd was entertaining a group of warriors, a tankard held firmly in his right hand. "Overslept again, did you?"
Eivor stopped and stared, heart lodged in her throat. Her eyes flicked over to his arm. As before, it showed no trace of injury. "It grew back. Again."
"Of course it did," Sigurd answered. "I told you." He motioned over to his companions, who cheered as he said, "We are immortals in this place."
It was good to see him so full of life after so many years of watching him stumble through his days with the eyes of a dead man, but… "Sigurd, I saw my father," Eivor told him. "On the battlefield where we fought. He was there."
"And?" Sigurd punctuated this word by taking a swing from his tankard. "What does this bother you?"
"He shouldn't be here. He died a coward."
Dimly, she remembered another voice: Styrbjorn, telling her that Varin had died to save his family, even at the cost of his own honour. The memory made her frown; when had she spoken to her adoptive father? The man had stayed in Norway while they had sailed to England.
"Sigurd," she said precipitately, "how did we die?"
Her brother laughed. "Why does it matter? Cast aside your cares, Eivor! We are in Valhalla! That means we were chosen by Odin's maidens!"
Eivor was seized with sudden frustration, but she knew better than to explode in anger; she still remembered how arrogantly Sigurd had dismissed her on their quest for the Paladin Stone. "Brother, will you not help me search for Varin? Perhaps he can shed some light on the truth of the matter."
"Look at you, worrying like an old woman! What has happened to my bold and brash sister?"
She learned, Eivor thought with weariness and spite in equal parts. "Stay here, then. I will search on my own."
Sigurd shook his head with a slight smile, as if those had been the words of a petulant child. "Then we will see each other on the field of battle!"
"We will," Eivor said, before turning away. In the sea of feasting drengir, she was seized with an unusual sense of loneliness. She should have felt a pull toward them, a desire to sit beside those fellow warriors and share stories over a pint of ale. But now she could only think of the mysteries enshrouding this place like a heavy cloak. Why was her father here? Why was it so hard to remember the life she had led in Midgard?
And, more importantly, how had she and Sigurd found their end?
"Great warrior," she asked a burly drengr, "have you seen Varin?"
The man cocked an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Varin Egilsson, of the Bear Clan. My father."
"I have not heard of him," the man replied.
None of the warriors Eivor questioned knew her father's name. All enjoined her to join their merriment instead, handing her tankards full of mead and offering her the seat of honour at their tables. Again, Eivor ignored them.
Then, she felt a hand over her shoulder. "Eivor," a low, familiar voice rumbled.
Eivor whirled on her feet, fists raised and ready to strike. The tall, dark-haired man she was facing chuckled in response. The sides of his head were closely shaved, and his broad arms were covered in dark markings. Eivor dropped her arms as she finally recognized him.
"Ubba Ragnarsson," Eivor breathed. Immediately, she dipped her head in a show of respect. "Lord, I… I did not know…"
I did not know you were dead, she was about to say. And with that realization came the flood of memories. Aelfred's sneering taunt. Guthrum's call for violent retribution. And Ubba's corpse, propped upright by spears in a mockery of the man's once ferocious lust for life.
Ubba is dead, Eivor thought again, stomach churning. When had that happened? When had they met Aelfred's forces on the battlefield? Why were Eivor's memories of these events such a jumbled mess?
"Do not look so forlorn, Wolf-Kissed!" the great warrior laughed. "One would think you were mourning me!" Much like Sigurd had done, he gestured to the assembly of fierce drengir filling the hall. "Do you see grief on any face here? Of course not! This is a place made for songs and laughter, a land ripe for the sound of battle cries!"
"Some might regret the world below," Eivor ventured. "You, for one. I thought you wanted to settle down, build your legacy. Even have children."
Ubba's laughter rippled in the air. "Children! My legacy has already been assured, Wolf-Kissed! Our names will be remembered in generations to come, through sagas sung of our glorious deeds."
"That is true enough," Eivor admitted. Though we will never hear those songs ourselves…
Other words came from the depths of her memory—though she could not quite remember who had said them. Ubba had wanted children—but not solely to ensure the continuation of his line. He wants to grow old and fat on a farm somewhere, that person had said, with little Ubbas to chase about. Yes, now Eivor was certain: Ubba had sought a peace he could not find on the battlefield. He had been weighted down by a heart grown heavy with regrets—the same weariness that had ailed Styrbjorn, that had driven him to make the coward's choice. The realization was sobering.
"Then," she asked, wistfully, "you are content here?"
"Yes. This place is everything my brothers and I fought for."
"Your brothers…" Eivor frowned. "I've heard of Halfdan's death in Ireland, but not the details of his demise. Is he…?"
"Here in Valhalla? He is not. His name will be forgotten, along with his deeds."
It's the same as Brothir and Hemming, Eivor thought at his flat tone. Ubba should have raged to be separated from his elder brother, to have one of his blood refused by the Valkyries. Was that the fate that awaited Eivor as well, to live in a perfect world, yet be deprived of her pride and passion? It was a chilling thought to be sure.
"I am surprised he did not die in battle," Eivor said, speaking carefully. "Halfdan does not strike me as someone who would seek a peaceful end."
Yes, Halfdan had been a flawed man, Eivor thought, remembering Finnr's disillusionment, Faravid's disdain. The brusque, paranoid man she had met was a far cry from the giant depicted in the stories. Still, he'd shown courage and boldness enough in his days.
"Halfdan had avenged your father and made all but one of the Saxon kingdoms bend the knee," she continued. "Surely that should earn him a place in the Allfather's army?"
"He was a failure," Ubba continued. "A fledging who died in the egg before he could hatch. Unlike your brother, who has risen to the fullness of his potential. And you, who is poised to reach the same height, once you open your eyes to the truth."
What does that even mean? Eivor thought with repulsion. She suddenly felt uneasy. If Ubba was here, then… "Ubba," she began, "the Boneless, is he—"
"Of course Ivarr is here." Ubba's blue eyes shone with unsettling intensity. "Why would he not be here?"
Fury and disgust swept over Eivor, as powerful as a storm over the sea. She remembered the weight of a body on her back, heavy and light all at once; heavy as the burden she had never wanted to carry, light because Ivarr's victim—because Ceolbert—had been so, so young. "Your brother fouled your father's legacy with one last act of dishonour and cowardice. I denied him his axe. He should not be here."
"That is for the Havi to decide," Ubba said. "Not you, Eivor Wolf-Kissed."
She reeled, feeling like he had just struck her. "Ubba Ragnarsson, are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth? You once agreed with me, saying that your brother had gone too far in his lust for blood! Why does Ivarr deserve Valhalla while Halfdan is denied its glories?"
The horn sounded in the distance, interrupting her. Ubba grinned with great delight.
"Our own desire for a legacy is nothing compared to the Allfather's design," he told Eivor. "He has no need for selfish soldiers."
Again with those words! "Ubba!" she called as he turned to follow the other warriors to the gate. "How did I die? Why am I here?"
Ubba gave her one last, long look. He was still grinning. "You will find out, in time." And then he was gone, lost through the throng of ravenous drengir hungering for battle.
Hissing a curse through grit teeth, Eivor rushed after him, finding herself once more in the sunlit field. Many grinning warriors came to greet her with bared blades; she cut them down mercilessly, tired of this place, angry of the answers denied to her. All she wanted now was to find her brother and her father. She was surrounded with corpses when she noticed Sigurd kneeling in the grass, blood pouring out of the gaping wound that had once again left him bereft of an arm.
"Sigurd…" Eivor said wearily.
He lifted his head toward her. He was attempting a grin, though the expression was more grotesque than anything. "Ha! Next time I lose this fucking arm, I'll beat a man to death with it!"
"Do you not tire of these injuries?"
Sigurd spat blood on the ground. "Never!"
"Who did this to you?"
"I did not get a good look at him, but…" Sigurd's face twisted with hatred. "An ugly wretch of a man, he was, with a great dragon tattoo covering half of his face."
"A dragon tattoo?" Eivor said, breath catching in her throat. At the same time, a familiar laughter, scraping as a rusted door hinge, sounded behind her. She turned to face that new opponent, but stopped with a scream, a burning pain flaring from her right eye.
Eivor dropped to the ground, one hand going to the arrow now protruding from her eye socket. Never had she felt such agony; all her nerves were afire and all she could do was scream. A figure hovered above her. Through an eye blurred with tears and pain, Eivor recognized that lopsided grin, that twisted scar, that great ferocious dragon inked on the side of his head. In the distance, Sigurd cried out her name.
"Just give in, Wolf-Kissed," Ivarr Ragnarsson said, his voice filled with a soft, unsettling promise of violence. "It will be easier that way."
And he swung his axe, detaching Eivor's head from her shoulders.
