The moment she was out of the oblivion of sleep, Eivor rolled from her bed and retched.
The bile burned her throat, bringing tears that stung her eyes. The pattern of the vomit-covered carpet bed blurred, becoming a garish mishmash of colours. Her head felt like it was about to split apart—and she could just not stop shaking. Sigurd's scream continued to echo in her ears. The last thing she could remember was—
Just give in, Wolf-Kissed. It will be easier that way.
Eivor wiped her mouth, fury surging within her, replacing that touch of fear she'd felt at the memory of yesterday's battle. That snake. That honourless cur. Eivor felt as if the very air she was breathing was tainted by his presence. She had lived with honour, had held on to her oaths, had always fought with courage—only to have this piece of filth defile her golden paradise?
Part of her wished to never see that twisted face again—and part of her wanted to find him, to drive her axe into that foul grin, to make a red ruin out of his skull. Those two conflicting desires raged within Eivor's soul, battling for dominance.
With a snarl, she kicked the doors open. Axe in hand, Eivor prowled through the gilded hall of the Einherjar, ignoring the warriors cheerfully hailing her. How she loathed them, suddenly, how she loathed their empty smiles, their empty eyes, their empty words. She ignored them and pressed on, searching for Ivarr, for Sigurd, for Varin—but just why was Eivor looking for her father, exactly? What did she hope to find at the sight of his warm, open face?
Why would she seek the cowardly excuses of a man who had died on his knees?
Just give in, Wolf-Kissed. It will be easier that way.
Eivor stopped short, hand tightening around her axe. That voice had not come from her memories; it did not belong to the craven murderer who had killed her just yesterday. Someone else had whispered these words at her ears. Cold sweat dripped from the back of her neck as she felt on her the fixed stares of hundreds—no, thousands of eyes, belonging to a thousand years' worth of warriors. In the distance, the great golden gates seemed to edge further and further away—yet her two feet remained rooted to the ground. Now a raspy laugh was echoing in her ears.
Just give in. Just give in.
It will be easier that way.
"Eivor—" someone called from behind.
Her terror fanning the flames of fury, Eivor whirled on her feet with a scream of rage, swinging her axe. The blade stopped barely an inch away from the neck of her interlocutor. It was a fair-haired man, with a baffled smile. Eivor panted, unable to steady her breath. Hjorr continued to smile despite the axe at his throat; the blade had made a small nick, and Eivor saw a bead of blood forming on her friend's neck.
"Hjorr," she said, "I am sorry, I…"
At this moment, a realization suddenly struck her like a blow to the guts, and her anger evaporated, replaced by horror; Hjorr was in Valhalla with her. Hjorr was dead. One of her oldest friends had died—and she did not even remember it.
"Peace, Eivor," Hjorr said with a chuckle. "I will not fault a warrior for being ready for battle in Valhalla of all places."
"You are here," Eivor whispered, retracting her blade. "Why? Why are you here, Hjorr? How have you died?"
"I have died in battle. And so have you. Why does this trouble you so? This is the best end anyone can hope for."
Eivor looked at the near endless rows of tables, at the warriors drinking and eating and singing in never-ending revelry, how nothing else seem to occupy their minds. She thought of Brothir, of Hemming, of Ubba—or rather, the twisted versions this world had made of them, empty husks depleted of their hugr. Would Hjorr be afflicted with that strange apathy as well?
"You've left precious things behind," Eivor said, carefully. "The woman you love, for one, and the sons she's bore you as well."
"Soon, Ljufvina will join us," Hjorr responded, "and everything will be as it should."
It's the same, Eivor thought, her heart sinking. "Soon? Wouldn't you rather that she experienced a bit of Midgard's delights before joining us?"
"Midgard's delights? What could there be that is better than the glories of Valhalla?" Hjorr shook his head, motioning to the hall and its wonders. "Here, there is mead aplenty to quench our thirst and everlasting glory through battle! What more could my darling want?"
"What indeed," Eivor said, faking a concession. She could not believe that Hjorr had changed so much, would not believe it. "Still, the two of you worked hard to carve a place for yourselves back in Midgard, to fulfill the rightful position of power that Harald Finehair had stolen from you when he claimed his crown. You had become a respected figure in Jorvik. Here, you are simply…"
One warrior amongst many, she completed in her mind. A soldier in the Allfather's army, with nary a thing to distinguish you from the others. In Midgard, Hjorr had been a prince, a scion of one of Norway's most ancient and noble bloodlines. And now she was supposed to believe he was glad to have his ambitions cut short?
"In time, you will come to see as I do," Hjorr replied. "In time, you will gain the Havi's wisdom." He looked over Eivor's shoulder, and his eerie smile grew slightly wider. "Why… here is someone who might convince you of the truth of my words."
"What are you—" Eivor asked, turning to look behind her. Her heart lodged itself in her throat. "No. Not you, not—you… you cannot…"
"Well met, Wolf-Kissed!" Soma Jarlskona said, clapping Eivor on the shoulder. "You seem surprised to see me."
"You should not be dead," Eivor rasped. Her head was spinning; gods, she wanted to retch again. "You should not be dead!" she exclaimed, the words painfully scraping at her throat.
And then the dam burst, and she remembered. The failed negotiations at Werham with Aelfred's forces. The rages of Guthrum and his men as they burned down the village. The chaos of the nightly battle at Cippanhamm. Eivor remembered it all.
Hjorr had been killed at the outset of the battle. And Soma had called for Valhalla when that Saxon soldier had stabbed her from behind. Eivor could still recall the shock that had rippled on Soma's face in that moment, and the fear, the sense of utter powerlessness that had seized her own body at the sight of that expression. It was the same feeling that had inhabited her small, broken body when she had laid on that ice that fateful night, sensing the wolf's jaw closing around her throat.
"We all fought the West Saxons at Cippanhamm," Eivor said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. "Did I die in battle alongside you?"
"What does it matter?" Soma said. "We've won the battle, and Aelfred Rex has fled like the coward he is. It's all behind us, now."
No, it isn't! Eivor wanted to scream. "What about Grantesbridge, Soma?"
Soma smiled. "Earthly tethers, Eivor. You'll be glad of it when yours are severed as well."
Eivor was suddenly struck with the memory of Birna's wail, the soul-wrenching sound she'd let out when she had learned her beloved jarlskona had fallen in battle. "Soma," she said, temper flaring, "they were your people."
"They were," Soma said. "I've offered them everything, Eivor. The whole of my being. You know how it is. You did the same for Ravensthorpe."
Ravensthorpe, Eivor thought, feeling a jolt of panic. She had forgotten about Ravensthorpe. "They still have need of you." They still have need of me.
Soma shook her head, a smile teasing her lips. "I've earned the right to be a little selfish. And so have you, I think."
Selfish, she said, and yet all Eivor could think about were faces and names, Gunnar, Eydis, Bragi, Hytham, Tekla, Randvi, Randvi, Randvi—Randvi waiting on the docks, Randvi waiting for news, any news, Randvi waiting back at Ravensthorpe without hope for their return. Eivor felt as if she'd been submerged in ice-cold water, gods, she could not breathe. And yet Soma was still smiling, a strangely twisted expression that filled Eivor's guts with dread.
"I will not choose the wellbeing of a few mortal souls over the Allfather's design," she told Eivor, indifferent to the dismay she could clearly see on the latter's face. "He has no need for short-sighted soldiers."
In the distance sounded the horn calling the warriors to battle. With a snarl, Eivor tossed her axe aside, breaking into a run. Sigurd. She had to find Sigurd. She had to find him, had to find a way for them to escape this place. The newly-recovered memory of Randvi's face spurred her forward; her red hair, freed from that braid and kissed by the sun, her mouth, forming a soft smile meant for Eivor's eyes alone, her blue eyes, crinkled in fond playfulness. How could Eivor have left her behind? How could Eivor have left all of them behind?
"Sigurd!" she called the moment her feet touched the grassy field beyond the gates. "SIGURD! Where are you, brother?"
In the chaos of the battle, her voice could barely be heard. Eivor pushed her way through, bashing her many opponents with her shield, still shouting her brother's name. She had not seen him in this cycle; where could he be? Eivor was battered and bloodied when she finally heard him calling her name.
"Eivor!" Sigurd was saying, rushing toward her. "How could you leave your weapon behind, sister?"
"Sigurd…" Eivor managed, eyes falling on the weapon he carried. Varin's axe. It had been strange not to feel its familiar weight in her hand. "Where did you…?"
"Your own father gave it to me," Sigurd replied. "You were right, Eivor! Varin is indeed here! Isn't it grand?"
My father. A part of Eivor longed to see the man, to hear his voice, to feel his calming touch, but—
It took all of Eivor's willpower to steer her brother aside, far from the other fighters. "Sigurd, we must leave."
"Leave?" He let out a laugh of disbelief. "Eivor, this is Valhalla. What madness has seized you, sister?"
"The people of Ravensthorpe needs us, Sigurd! We cannot leave them behind, not while…"
She fell silent, abruptly. They had won the battle in Cippanhamm, that much she was sure. But…
Though this battle you may win, this war you will not. Your foe will be your master, your hope will be your grief. This is fate. Our fate.
Valka had given Eivor that warning before she had ridden off to war, hadn't she? They had won the battle against Aelfred of Wessex… but his threat loomed still over Ravensthorpe and the promise of a Norse-led England, Eivor was certain of it.
"Sigurd, I will not stay here," Eivor declared. "I will find a way to return to Midgard. And you should as well."
Sigurd's face twisted in fury. "And leave behind everything I've worked to achieve? Everything that has been owed to me? So I can return to inhabiting a body unworthy of my divine essence? So I can return to being a cripple?"
"You are a blind fool, brother," Eivor snarled. "Is the oath we've sworn to the Raven clan less important than your childish dreams for glory? Does your word mean nothing?"
Before Sigurd could retort, Eivor caught a flash of something hurtling toward her at great speed. The arrow lodged itself into her right eye; she stumbled back with a scream, but she did not fall to her knees as she had done the previous day. She was dimly aware that Sigurd was hollering in pain as well. Gritting her teeth, Eivor yanked the arrow out of her eye socket. Next to her, Sigurd was kneeling on the ground, beside the corpse of the drengr he'd been fighting. He was cradling his bloodied stump once more.
"Always with the FUCKING arm!" he snarled, shaking and panting. Eivor's breath caught in her throat as she noticed the tears of pain clinging to his eyelashes.
"Sigurd…"
Her soft utterance of his name was drowned out by the sound of the horn. Across the horizon, the sun was setting, bathing the scene of the carnage in an eerily gentle glow. The surviving drengir roared with savage delight, crying the Allfather's name. Eivor did not join their merriment.
She would find her way out of this wretched place, and she would take Sigurd along with her.
But how?
