Ravensthorpe, 899


Sigrún heard voices coming out of the war room when she entered the longhouse that morning.

That was strange. Both Randvi and Eivor were occupied elsewhere, the first at the docks with Yanli and her son Eoghan, the latter seeking Valka's counsel at her hut. Sigrún frowned, approaching the Jarlskona's throne with hesitant steps. The voices coming from behind the open doors were high-pitched, and one of the intruders even giggled. Sigrún smiled, a bit more bemusedly, before entering the room.

She recognized the four children all too easily. Their ringleader, Bardr. Curly-haired Njall and his little sister, Gytha. And Ansgar, Knud's son. The latter was mute from an injury sustained in early childhood; his eyes widened at the sight of Sigrún. He tugged at Bardr's sleeve, motioning over to the doorway where she stood.

"Not now, Ansgar," Bardr said. He was the youngest of Hungerda's four half-brothers. At eleven, he was the self-proclaimed leader of the village's children—and a known mischief-maker. "Let's see…" He reached for a sword hanging from the wall. "What about this one?"

"Bardr!" Njall called out. His sister had the decency to greet Sigrún with a timid, "H-Hello, Sigrún…"

Bardr yelped, whirling on his feet. The sword fell behind him in a clatter of metal. He winced at the noise.

"Hello, Sigrún," he said, with a grimace. "Erm… it's a nice day out, isn't it?"

"Then why aren't you spending it outside?" said Sigrún.

"Well, I… I wanted—I thought—"

Sigrún turned to his companions, hands over her hips. "Njall, I would have thought better of you," she told Arth and Sylvi's oldest child. "What would your parents say if they knew you were looking through our Jarlskona's possessions like a common thief? And dragging your little sister in that mess as well! What were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry," said Njall. Gytha added a muttered, "'m sorry too."

"And Ansgar! Weren't you supposed to help your father by cleaning the pens today?"

The boy looked pointedly at his feet, offering an awkward shrug as an apology.

"What about, Bardr? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I just wanted to look at the Jarlskona's weapon collection. And, erm…" He gave Sigrún a sheepish smile. "All right, I wanted to see if I was strong enough to lift them too! Uhtric keeps boasting about the new sword Gunnar's been forging for his wedding, and…"

"You're jealous of your brother for getting a new sword?" Sigrún said, with one raised eyebrow.

"It's unfair!" Bardr whined. "Father won't ever let me touch a live blade. Says I have to keep practising with a wooden one first."

"Tarben is wise," Sigrún countered. "He worries for your safety. Once you're ready, I'm sure he'll let you use a real sword." She wagged her finger at him, stifling a laugh all the while. She could never stay angry at these little rascals for long. "Until then, you must listen to him. Do you understand, Bardr?"

"I do, Sigrún," he said, with honest remorse.

"Now, go," she told him and his companions. "I won't say a word of this to Eivor if you all promise to be good. Understood?"

The children all gave their assent, Bardr and Njall with contrite mutters, Gytha and Ansgar with determined nods. Then, they scampered out of the war room. Sigrún sighed as she watched them go. She put the fallen sword on a table, turning to leave as well. But then…

But then she saw the chest in a corner of the room, half hidden by a wolf pelt. It was simply made, innocuous-looking; she'd seen its likes everywhere in the village. Sigrún stopped and stared. Something ringed in her ears. She felt… a pull coming from the wooden chest. The ringing got louder as she approached. Sigrún barely noticed it. Her body seemed to be moving out of its own accord; even the pain in her leg was forgotten. Something was calling to her, a voice that did not speak. Her spine straightened, bolstered by newfound confidence. She let go of her cane; it was no longer needed. Words that were not words echoed in her brain. Take it. Be complete. Be who you are meant to be. With slow, almost reverent motions, Sigrún moved to open the chest.

A snarl came from behind—the low growl of a beast who had just spied an intruder in its lair. Sigrún did not have the time to turn; she was tackled to the ground, her head hitting one corner of the table as she fell. White-hot pain flared at her temple, and the world blurred in front of her eyes. A figure was hovering above her, thick furs wrapped around broad shoulders, eyes blazing like blue flames, teeth bared in a show of feral fury. Sigrún screamed, trying to shield her face with shaking hands.

"They. Are. MINE!" the figure hollered, voice hoarse as if they had swallowed shards of ice. "Thief! Betrayer!"

"Eivor!" Sigrún sobbed. "Eivor, stop, stop, you're scaring me!"

Something warm was trickling from Sigrún's brow. The steel-blue eyes burned with hatred—then Eivor blinked, rather suddenly. Sigrún peered at her from between spread fingers. She did not dare to move, did not dare offer an explanation or an excuse. It was no use, and she was all too aware of it. In the span of a heartbeat, Sigrún had devolved to a state she knew all too well, her natural, pitiful, pathetic state. It had taken Eivor and Randvi moons, seasons, years, to break her out of this shell, to make her understand that it was not normal, that it was not right, for a parent to let their words of love be followed by a flurry of fists…

"Eivor," she begged, "Eivor, please…"

Eivor backed away. Her eyes were wide—guileless. Eventually, the hue of her irises cleared, returning to its usual sky blue. Gingerly, she reached for the wound on Sigrún's head. The latter winced at the touch, letting out a little whine.

"No," Eivor rasped. She retreated—one step backward, then another. "No, no, no, no…"

With trembling hands, Sigrún reached for the surface of the table. Falteringly, she stood back to her feet, her gaze never leaving Eivor's form. Fear and pity mingled within her at the sight of the horror written upon her aunt's face, the two emotions fighting for dominance. Mercy eventually won over. "It's… it's all right, Aunt Eivor, it's me, it's Sigrún, you know me…"

Each word seemed a dagger sent to pierce Eivor's heart. She staggered toward the door—nearly backing away into Randvi, who was rushing into the room.

"Eivor!" Randvi cried, holding her wife's face. "I heard a commotion, what is—" She had looked toward the still trembling form of Sigrún, had seen the blood dripping down her brow. Randvi's face grew white as bone. "Oh, gods. Eivor, what has happened?"

"I didn't mean—I did not want to—" Eivor stammered. She withdrew from Randvi's touch, as if her beloved's hands burned her skin. Without another word, the Jarlskona turned and fled from the war room.

Immediately, Randvi was at Sigrún's side. "Oh, child," she murmured. "Oh, my dear girl…"

Sigrún was ten years too old to be called a child. Still, she threw herself into her aunt's readied embrace, the suppressed sobs finally breaking out of her throat like a spring torrent bursting through an ice dam.


Caestre, 902


The screams were coming from the north, over at the village. Eivor ran up ahead while Aelfswith was stuck helping Sigrún up the stairs. The huntress had already made it to the church grounds when Sigrún reached the surface, panting and wincing at the pain.

By then, the commotion had died down. Sigrún and Aelfswith carefully made their way to join up with Eivor by the corner of the church. The huntress was hidden behind the trunk of a tree, watching what was happening in the village. A group of armed men were corralling people, mainly women and children, into the heart of town. One of them wore a sword at his hip and a leather armour over his dirty tunic; he must have been their leader. He was dragging an elderly man in the mud, to the great horrors of two women—his wife and daughter, most likely—who kept screaming and screaming.

"I'll ask again," the leader drawled. "The ruins. Where are they?"

"I told you, there aren't any ruins!" the old man shouted; a bruise was already forming on his cheek, and blood trickled out of his mouth. "I'm not lying! Please, by Christ! Have a little mercy!"

The bandit cursed loudly, aiming a vicious kick at the old man's head. The younger woman wailed as her father collapsed to the ground, now limp as a child's doll.

"This is horrible!" whispered Sigrún. "We have to do something!"

Eivor grunted in response. Aelfswith shook her head and said, "There are eight of them."

"You can't possibly think of leaving these villagers to fend for themselves?" said Sigrún. "There are children over there!"

"I can take out those in the back quietly," Eivor said, grimly. "But we'd need a diversion to get rid of the others."

"I can take a horse and have some of them chase me," murmured Aelfswith.

"Good." Eivor turned to Sigrún. "You, don't move. Stay out of sight."

It was evident from her tone that what she'd meant to say was, 'don't get in the way'. Sigrún grit her teeth as the two women went their separate ways, Aelswith toward their horses, Eivor sneaking behind the bandits guarding the villagers. Eivor was right, of course. In a fight, Sigrún was more of a burden than anything. And yet it stung to know that she was so useless, even as innocent people needed her help.

Sigrún swallowed that bitter taste in her mouth, keeping a close eye on the events unfolding in the village. The bandit leader had questioned—that is, beaten—many of the townsfolk, and their inconclusive answers were obviously testing his temper. He treated each of his new victims with more brutality than the last. A few were moaning at his feet, holding their heads or their bellies. Sigrún trembled at the sight. God Almighty, she prayed, let Eivor and Aelswith save them from this brute. She'd never seen such senseless violence; she'd witnessed cruelty, had tasted it, even, but never to that extent.

Sigrún stifled a scream with her hand as she spied Eivor's form, creeping from behind one of the armed men. The huntress lay in wait, eyes fixed on him. She seemed less a woman than a wolf waiting for a sign from one of its pack mates. Sigrún held her breath, her other hand drawn painfully tight around her cane. Eivor was so close to the man; if he even turned his head a little, he would surely -

Then, another man hollered, pointing at the other end of the village. Aelfswith, riding her horse Cisten, stood on the path leading out of Caestre. As two of the men gave chase, Eivor acted, springing forward to cut her quarry's throat open. She gently guided his fall, then snuck behind another unsuspecting victim. Eivor muffled his mouth with her hand so he would not scream; still, a gurgle escaped his lips as the knife sank into the soft flesh of his neck.

That made one of his fellow bandits turn around. Eivor did not seem to notice; she was already making her way toward the leader of the group. Sigrún was struck by horror. Eivor would never see him in time! God, what could Sigrún do? She only had a knife, which she barely knew how to use. She could cry out in warning, but that would only give Eivor's position away to the rest of the group. Sigrún was out of ideas—and out of options.

Again, she was useless, utterly useless.

Still, a certain madness seized her, borne out of desperation. With a feeble cry, Sigrún grabbed a rock on the ground, throwing toward Eivor's would-be attacker. The stone hit his brow, stunning him for the merest of moments—but it was enough for Eivor to turn and see the threat he posed.

The situation quickly degenerated afterwards.

With another curse, the bandit leader lunged at Eivor, raising his axe to strike at her. Meanwhile, his companion held a hand at the wound on his head, touching the blood as if he didn't understand how it had gotten there. His face twisted in hatred as he finally noticed Sigrún. With a growl, he stomped toward her, making Sigrún stumble back. She cried in pain as her leg twisted under her, and she fell on her rear. The man towered above her, screaming curses—but then, something swept at his head, and he went down like a stone. Two women now stood before Sigrún, faces red and damp with perspiration, eyes filled by tears of fury. One still held the bloodied rake she had used to strike the man with shaking hands.

In the village, more women wielded farming tools to fight back against their captors. A heavyset mother hit the bandit leader in the face with a shovel, causing him to collapse on the ground. Even as he remained unmoving in the mud, she struck and struck, roaring in rage. Two young women and a frail-looking old man rushed to Eivor's aid, grabbing her attacker before he could bury his axe in her skull. The four of them struggled for a moment, and the bandit struck the elderly man with the back of his hand, sending him to the ground, to one of the women's great distress. Eivor lunged forward, only managing to graze his chest with the point of her knife. Then, she made a second, cleaner sweep. His eyes bulged out of their sockets for the span of a heartbeat. Blood spurted out of the gaping wound on his throat, and finally he struggled no more. Eivor panted, taking a step backward. Her face and hands were covered in red, the hue painfully bright in contrast to the muted, earthy colours of her garb.

Sigrún stood on wavering legs, stumbling toward her. "Aelfswith!" she cried to Eivor. "We need to find her, she has two men chasing after her!"

Eivor did not need to be told twice; in a fluid motion, she twisted on her heel and took off toward where they had last seen Aelfswith. Again, Sigrún was left to limp after her. Around her, the people of the village sobbed and screamed, rushing to tend to their loved ones, paying her no mind. Sigrún did her best to ignore their wails as she followed the sounds of shouting, heart hammering in her chest.

She found her two companions by the edge of the village. One of the men already lay dead on the ground. Aelfswith had climbed down from her horse, pointing her blood-stained sword toward the other brigand as he kneeled before her, hands over his head. Eivor stood behind him to cut off any possible escape.

Sigrún let out a sigh of relief. "Oh! Oh, thank God, I'm so glad you're both all right…"

All she got from Eivor was a disdainful glance. "What were you thinking?" the huntress barked. "I told you to stay behind. You could have been killed."

Sigrún's newly found confidence nearly dissipated like mist in the sun. She barely heard Aelfswith as the latter said, "This is not the time, Eivor. We have other priorities."

Eivor's cold eyes fixed the man at her feet. "That we do," she said, in a voice that sent chills down Sigrún's spine. The huntress put her foot on his back, shoving him forward so he had his face in the mud. When she released him, the man coughed, spitting globs of it at the ground. "The lady asked a question," she said. "Speak. We don't have all day."

"Fuck you," was his answer.

"God," Aelfswith said with a sigh, "I had hoped it would not come to this… Eivor, if you please?"

"Gladly," said the huntress, moving to strike the man across the face. Sigrún startled, letting out a yelp. "Now, that's your nose broken and a few of your teeth gone. What else are you willing to lose? A finger? Two fingers?"

Even with his broken mouth, the man managed to snarl, "Go to Hell!"

"Two fingers it is," growled Eivor, reaching to grab his hand. A flash of fear showed in the brigand's eyes, and he cried out, nearly choking on the blood filling his mouth.

This was too much to bear for Sigrún. "Stop!" she screamed. "You can't, this isn't…"

"What?" Eivor said, bluntly. "Why should I stop?"

Sigrún swallowed nervously. Her hands were hot with sweat, but she felt cold, dreadfully cold. "It… it would be against the teachings of the Lord to harm him…"

Eivor stared at her. Then, she laughed—a cold, joyless sound. "Against the teachings of the Lord? Do you think this so-called Christian would even give us the same courtesy if our roles were reversed?"

"We're people, not beasts, Eivor!"

"This is not a man," said Eivor. "This is a mad dog that should be put down."

"Let me speak to him," Sigrún said. Eivor held her gaze, not budging an inch. "Please?"

The huntress scowled. Then, thankfully, she stepped back. Sigrún stifled a sigh of relief. With some difficulty, she crouched to meet their prisoner's gaze. She did not miss how scornfully he eyed her cane and trembling leg. "What should we call you?"

The man gave an ugly grin, more blood than teeth. "Why is that necessary to know?"

"I would speak to you, one person to another."

He grimaced, staying silent for a while. Then, he muttered, "Godwine."

"Godwine," Sigrún repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. Friend of God. "Would you like to hear my proposition, Godwine?"

He leered. "What are you suggesting, my blue-eyed dove?"

I am a Raven, not a dove, Sigrún wished she could say. But this would have been a lie. He was right; she was a dove, soft, helpless, easily preyed upon. That she had been raised by ravens did not change her true nature. Sigrún buried her unease deep before she continued to speak.

"Your life is forfeit either way," she told him, as gently as she could. "You've attacked innocents. Caused them pain, brought death to their home. Under the king's laws, you must pay for this crime." She looked into his eyes, and he flinched at the intensity of her gaze. "But which death would you prefer? Would you like to be put down like a wild animal, as my companion is suggesting? Or would you rather keep your dignity and die as a man, like our Lord intended for us? He taught us that no one is beyond redemption. Before you breathe your last, you can accomplish one final good deed by telling us what we need to know. There are lives at stake, and we would use that information to save them. Why refuse that opportunity?"

She would have expected him to laugh. To spit at her face, to scorn her pity. Instead, he looked at the ground, thick black brows furrowing.

"We were hired," he spoke, "by a man to find some nearby ruins."

"Ruins? For what reason?"

"Probably the usual." Godwine said with a shrug. "To find treasure in some ancient king's barrow, I suppose. Why else would anyone search for old ruins?"

Aelfswith's breath hitched. An old king's treasure, Sigrún mused. It could mean anything—but it could also be proof that Aelfswith's bizarre tale about a shadowy cult could be true. Sigrún's heart sped up at the thought.

"Who was he?" Eivor said. "The man who hired you?"

"I didn't meet him—"

Eivor grabbed him by the collar. The man's face drained of blood at her expression of cold fury. "Speak. I am losing my patience."

"Eivor!" Sigrún exclaimed. To her relief, the huntress released him. "I'm sorry," she told Godwine, as he heaved out a shaky breath. "Is there something, at least, that you can tell us about him?"

Were her eyes playing tricks on her or had his face briefly softened in gratitude? "We never knew his name. They called him 'the Legacy'. A bizarre affair, I tell you… from the beginning, I was against it, said the whole venture smelled like rotten fish. But the pay was good, that I can tell you."

Aelfswith lowered her sword. She seemed troubled by these words. "The Legacy. Are you sure?"

"Do I look like I could come up with something as stupid as this?" the man scoffed. "Secret names and whatnot… this all sounds like a tale a child could have cooked up."

Sigrún took a deep breath. She did not want her voice to shake as she spoke her next words. "A few days ago, we were attacked in Theotford Forest, and a friend of mine was captured. Do you know… do you know where he might have been taken?"

"The hell you're talking about?"

Sigrún exchanged a look of surprise with Aelfswith. "That… that wasn't you?"

"You think I'd remember assaulting people leagues away from here!" Godwine spat a gob of blood—and a tooth, most likely—at the ground. "No, that wasn't us, lady."

What could this mean? Sigrún wondered. Who could have abducted Hytham, then? Could Aelfswith have been wrong? Had the men who had attacked them in Theotford acted separately from that nebulous Order? God, Sigrún's head spun from all of these mysteries…

"Why were you searching Caestre of all places?" asked Aelfswith. "Who told you there were ruins to be found here?"

"I have no idea!" Godwine shouted with some irritation. "I don't know what you're talking about! It's that shitty priest who said that—"

His words died in a gurgle, blood trickling out of his mouth. It took a moment for Sigrún's mind to finally process what her eyes were seeing: the haft of an arrow, protruding from his throat. Godwine toppled over without another sound, eyes staring sightlessly ahead.

"Get back!" Eivor screamed, jumping in front of Sigrún. In the span of a heartbeat, she had her bow raised, one arrow nocked on the string. Aelfswith rushed to take Sigrún aside, hiding them both behind the broken wall of a barn. From the edge of the forest, Sigrún saw a rustle in the trees, a blurred motion that could have come from a woodland beast—or an archer lying in wait for another opportunity. Eivor kept her keen eyes fixed on the woods, still as a statue. Even so, Sigrún could see that the hand holding back the arrow was trembling slightly.

After a while, a pale-faced Aelfswith said, "Eivor, I think they're gone…"

She moved to touch the huntress, who flinched, whirling toward Aelfswith as she meant to strike her. Her green eyes were wide—fearful.

"I didn't see anything," the words tumbled out of Eivor's mouth, "they could have shot any of us, and I wasn't—"

"But they didn't," Aelfswith said, voice firm, but reassuring. She looked sadly at the corpse of Godwine, his face frozen forever in an expression of shocked terror. "Instead, they silenced him."

"Because they feared what he would say to us," whispered Sigrún.

"Cowards," Eivor grumbled.

Aelfswith sighed, bending down to wipe her blade on the grass. "Let's go back," she said, putting it back in its scabbard. "We should check on the villagers."

"All right," murmured Sigrún. She frowned slightly as she added, "Godwine talked about a priest. Who could he have meant?"

"We must find out," answered Aelfswith. "Whoever he is, that priest might be the only link we have to the one they call 'the Legacy'."

"And then? What should we do if we find this man?"

"Aelfswith already told us what your aunt did with the members of that Order," Eivor answered, as blunt as ever. "She killed them."