Elmenham, 890

The meadhall shook from the force of the shouts roaring from within. Thegns and holds and other lords had gathered in front of the high table, where King Æthelstan was slumped in his seat, pale eyes misted over, mouth open in a daze. The old man looked half senile next to Eivor's mother, who sat very straight in the wooden throne that had been once reserved for her husband. Valdis remained silent and steadfast in the face of the fury directed at her.

Eivor watched from her vantage place, tucked into a corner of the rafters above her mother's head. None so far had shown the guts to insult her, though Eivor could tell some were angry enough to risk such a thing. A small portion of the witan seemed to agree with the woman who had once been their queen, but their appeals to reason were drowned out by the open calls for war. Eivor moved a bit to get a better look at her mother's face. The woman's sharp, stately features were smoothed over in a cold, emotionless mask. Eivor grit her teeth, heart thumping in her ears.

Her father was dead, and her mother looked like she barely gave a damn about it.

Eohric was among those demanding bloody retribution against the men of Kent and their treacherous ealdorman. Gone was the charming smile and the blue eyes brimming with good humour; Eivor's brother was all but snarling like a beast as he called for Sigehelm's head. A large number of warriors, Dane and Saxon alike, amassed behind him, shouting and thumping at their chest in agreement. But Valdis' silence remained absolute. Only once Eohric's tirade was done did she raise her hand to say, "We will not act rashly. War must be averted at all cost."

"Averted?" Eohric shouted. "They asked for war the moment they spilled East Anglian blood upon East Anglian soil. The moment they murdered a party that had been sent for a peace parlay. Why should they be given mercy when they showed none to our brethren? To our brothers and uncles, to our fathers?"

Eivor's nails dug into the wood of the beam she hugged for balance. The very air thrummed with the roars of assent given by Eohric's supporters. Eivor herself opened her mouth to scream, Death! Death to Ealdorman Sigehelm! King Æthelstan sank deeper into his seat, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the frenzy now seizing the crowd. Eivor's mother held her face with one hand, jaw set tight. It seemed to take her much effort to let out, "We will honour our treaty with King Aelfred. Peace must hold between the Danelaw and Wessex. That was the wish of my husband, your thegn, and of your king. I will not allow any incursion in Kentish territory, and that is final."

At this, Eohric scoffed and stormed out of the meadhall, followed by many of the youngest—and angriest—warriors present. Eivor's mother fell back into her chair as if her legs had given under her own weight. Wearily, she announced, "We will speak no more of the topic tonight." She ignored the pointed looks directed toward her, then motioned over for servants to guide the ailing king to his quarters for the night. Once Valdis herself decided to retire for the night, Eivor carefully made her descent, making her way through the crowd of squabbling courtiers to follow her mother.

The chambers Valdis had—not so long ago—shared with her husband were dimly lit by the dying embers of a hearthfire. Eivor's mother stopped for a moment, burying her face in her hands. Eivor stilled as well; was it her imagination, or had a sob escaped her mother's lips? No, that couldn't be. Valdis of the Boar Clan had a heart made of stone, it was well known across East Anglia. Eivor had always seen it as a mark of strength, one that she had often wished to emulate, but now…

Eivor's mouth twisted with scorn. She came forward, and Valdis gasped, turning on her heel. "Who is—Eivor?" Shock soon gave way to a disappointed frown, and Eivor's own scowl deepened in response. "What are you doing here, child? I thought I had asked you to watch over your sister."

"I don't want to," Eivor answered, not caring how petulant she sounded. Over the last week, Eadith had been beset with nightmares that often made her scream and sob upon waking. It was annoying at best—and dreadfully upsetting at worst. "Eohric's right. That ealdorman deserves to die."

Valdis pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not you as well…"

"He does," Eivor insisted. "He and his men, all of them… they're the ones who sought war, not us. Not…" The word lodged in Eivor's throat, and she could not say it. "They need to pay."

"More is at stake that you know, child. We've made our petition upon King Aelfred. We must trust that he will make—"

"Father is dead!" Eivor screamed. "He's dead, and yet here you are, dithering while the man who killed him goes free! That ealdorman needs to die! I want him dead!"

Her mother looked as if Eivor had just struck her. "Sweetling…" she said, reaching out to her.

Eivor jerked out of her embrace. In the turns of two moons, she would see her fourteenth winter. She was not a child anymore; she needed decisive action, not empty comforts. "You don't care, do you?" Eivor said, as spitefully as she could. "It's easier to stay here and spout inane bullshit than to seek justice for your own husband. Everyone says you used to be a warrior, but you can't even—"

"Eivor, stop—"

"—can't even take up your own sword to avenge Father," Eivor continued, almost glad of the hurt she could read in her mother's eyes; Gods, at least it was something. "He's dead, and you don't even care, he loved you with everything he had, and all you can do is stand there doing nothing while his killer spits on his memory—"

"I want him dead too!" Valdis snarled, and suddenly she was there in front of Eivor, hands tightly gripping her shoulders, eyes burning with an intensity that was nearly frightening. "I want him dying and begging for mercy at my feet, I want to tear out his heart as a bloody offering to the gods, I want him to spend each and every of his last moments in agony before he is whisked away to the coldness of Hel's realm! I want him dead at no hand but my own. I want, I want…"

Valdis stopped, panting hoarsely. Eivor remained frozen, not knowing what to make of that outburst. Then, quietly, so quietly, her mother said, "It doesn't matter what I want. It doesn't. Your father and I, the world we wished to build, the world we wanted for the three of you, it…"

Another long, weary sigh. Gravel settled in the back of Eivor's throat as she ground out, "What? What world?"

"It can't go on and on, this circle of war, of mutual killing. Someone had to draw the line and enforce it. Your father thought he had to be the one." Valdis looked up, and Eivor realized with a start that she was blinking away tears. "His dream was my dream. It doesn't matter what I want. It has to stop. I have to make it stop, for your father's sake, for your father's memory."

None of what she was saying made any sense. Eivor pried herself from her hold, shaking her head. "I can't believe it… my own mother, a coward. Or maybe that's what you've always been, and these stories we've been told were just that, stories."

Valdis offered nothing to counter these claims. Her eyes were dull, empty. After a while, she simply shrugged and said, "Perhaps. But your father loved me regardless. And that's what mattered."

Eivor scowled, trembling with barely constrained rage. Rather than let her mother see the tears welling up in her eyes, she turned and fled out of the room.

Walton, 902

Eivor slipped inside Walton as dusk settled over the horizon. Very little remained of the Roman fort that had been built to face the eastern coast of Britannia. Wooden palisades had been erected to reinforce the crumbling fortifications. The Order were deeply entrenched in the ruins, it seemed. Eivor's blood boiled at the thought; Walton was but a few hours' ride away from Gipeswic and other East Anglian towns. Gods, but she wished nothing more than to purge the land of these treacherous snakes.

"You must find where Hytham is being held," Aelfswith had told her, when she had first outlined her plan, "and where the grave goods of Sutton Hoo have been taken. We will divide into two teams thereafter: one to come to Hytham's rescue, and another to steal the artefact if possible. I will lead the first—" (she'd then turned to Olaf, who'd given a grim nod) "—while you will keep Sigrún safe as she searches for King Rædwald's sword."

"How will we enter the fort?" Sigrún had asked.

"That's where we will need Abbot Ealric's aid," continued Aelfswith. "We know the Order has divided into two factions, one ruled by a new great Maegester known under the title of the 'Legacy', while the other is composed of rogue elements that includes a man named the 'Pathfinder'. The first faction led the attack on Caestre, using information supplied by Abbot Ealric. The second assaulted us in Theotford Forest, abducting Hytham."

"What is it that you have in mind?" Eivor prompted.

"Abbot Ealric will contact his fellow members of the Order and reveal the location where the rogue faction is hiding. While our enemies are fighting—"

"—we will get inside the camp to save Hytham," Sigrún said. "Aelfswith, that's brilliant!"

"But highly dangerous," Aelfswith completed. "Eivor will need to do a bit of scouting first to ensure we know exactly where to strike. We will not have much time to complete our two objectives."

"I will make it count," Eivor had vowed. "We will make these dogs pay for all they have done."

Now the deepening shadows were her only allies. Guards had been posted atop the ruins of three watchtowers. Draped in a long, dark cloak, face hidden under her hood, Eivor climbed one of the fortifications. She had to stifle a curse; the stones were slippery in her hands. She hoped the wall would simply not crumble under her weight.

Thankfully, she reached the top without making a sound. Heart thumping in her ears, Eivor reached forward before the guard could notice her presence. He let out a last, choked breath as she slit his throat open; with a gentleness that almost surprised her, she guided his body in its fall, laying him on the ground. She still felt an unpleasant rush coursing through her body whenever she had to cut the thread of someone's life. Eivor pushed the feeling away, telling herself, it had to be done, it was him or me. Still, she remained uneasy.

Inhaling deeply to calm her frayed nerves, Eivor peered above the wall to look inside the camp. It was rudimentary, with only a few tents erected within the enclosure. One building remained standing, though it was in poor shape as well. A pair of armed men guarded the entrance. Farther away, near the wall overlooking the beach, stood a bigger tent. More guards gathered nearby. All in all, she counted more than a dozen men within the camp. Too much for their own meagre numbers, then. Eivor bared her teeth in a grimace. Gods, she hoped Aelfswith's plan would work.

There was an exclamation of shock coming from her right, where stood another of the watchtowers. The guardsman ran up to the edge, only to be stopped when an arrow struck him in the chest. Below, more of his comrades shouted, drawing their swords. Eivor hissed out a curse. Had the other faction of the Order already begun their assault? She scrambled for her flint, barely managing to light the tip of an arrow on fire. Raising her bow, she shot it high up in the air, signalling the rest of her allies. The time is now. Get moving.

Eivor hurried down the ladder, dropping into a scene of pure chaos. She could not stop to gawk at the carnage now surrounding her; she needed to find Sigrún's friend, and fast, in case his captors decided to make use of him. She doubted the man even drew breath anymore. Sigrún was certain the members of the Order had kept him alive to question him, but that might have been wilful thinking. Now Eivor needed to decide where she would go next—where she believed the man was being held, if he was still alive. It was a gamble either way, one that could easily cost the life of this poor man if she chose poorly.

Someone to her right let out a snarling shout, startling Eivor out of these thoughts. A man erupted into her path, his axe raised. Biting down another curse, she narrowly avoided his swing, plunging her dagger into his flank as she pushed forward. More men shouted and pointed at her. "Get out of my way!" Eivor roared, all sense of subtlety gone. One of the guards standing by the tent entrance rushed inside as he noticed her barreling forward. Eivor grit her teeth, taking up her bow to shoot one arrow, then another in quick succession. The first missed its target by a wide margin, but the second buried itself in the remaining guard's eyesocket, and his scream of pain and fear rang out in the twilight.

Eivor kept running, feeling a bright pain blossoming in her back, somewhere above her right shoulder blade. She stumbled forward, nearly falling from the force of the blow. Vision blurring, she twisted on her feet, finding herself facing two men, one with blood shining wetly on his blade. They were much too close for her to fire an arrow. In a hasty, clumsy motion, Eivor drew her dagger to parry the first man's attack, barely deflecting the trajectory of his sword. The other came upon her with a shout, and she only evaded the brunt of his assault by tripping on the ground—grown muddied under their feet by the melting snow—and falling on her rear.

She tasted fear as well as blood in her mouth. It suddenly dawned on her that she was well out of her element, a huntress finding herself fighting men as if they were prey and not predators themselves. Eivor rolled out of an incoming axe's trajectory, but could only stare in horror as his companion held his sword high in the air. Despite herself, she snapped her eyes shut—only to open them again when she heard a choked scream—and felt something warm and wet splattering across her face.

Aelfswith had planted her sword in the man's chest. Beside her, one of Eohric's warriors—the older drengr who had appointed himself the leader of their small band—had just finished chopping the head of Eivor's other attacker. With a loud grunt, Aelfswith wrenched her sword backward, and her opponent fell to the ground with a dull thud. Panting, she reached out to Eivor, who stood on shaking legs.

"Oh, Eivor!" cried a familiar voice. Sigrún was standing behind Aelfswith, hand clutching a dagger; her grip was all wrong, Eivor dimly noted. "I'm so glad you're all right! When we saw you rushing into the camp, we—"

"That was incredibly foolish of you," Aelfswith cut her off. "If we had not immediately followed…" She made an irritated noise, then shook her head. "There's no time to lose. We need to find Hytham. And the sword, if it is here."

"I'll stay with the little lady," said the old drengr. "Get going, we'll catch up to you later!"

Eivor had to lean on Aelfswith to remain on her feet. Ahead, three of their escorts were clearing a path across the camp, fighting the occasional straggler. Eivor's head was swimming from the pain, and each ringing noise of metal against metal worsened her agony. Aelfswith had to let go of her for a moment to lock blades with the man standing guard over the entrance to the tent. She was panting heavily by the time he fell at her feet, with several gashes showing over her arms. Without losing a beat, she staggered into the tent, Eivor stumbling after her.

Two men could be found within, one holding a dagger to the other's neck. The latter was the oldest of the pair, his beard and hair more grey than black. His cheeks were hollow, and his skin was pale as parchment. Upon seeing Aelfswith, his blue eyes widened slightly, and he rasped, "Lady… Lady Æthelflæd?"

"Don't move!" cried the other man, pressing the knife to his hostage's throat. "One step closer, and I give him another bloody—"

There was a flash of steel, nearly too fast for the eye to see. Eivor watched, numb from the loss of blood, as Aelfswith's blade swept across, forever silencing the man with one clean swipe. Free from his hold, his hostage—the one named Hytham, if Eivor understood correctly—toppled over, letting out a long, pained gasp. With blurred eyes, Eivor noticed—the gashes, the welts, the bruises—an array of red, yellow and purple marking the skin showing under the rags he was wearing.

Aelfswith ran up to him. "Hytham! By God, am I glad you are still alive! Can you stand?"

With her help, he staggered to his feet. "I… I must," he managed. He squinted, looking at Eivor, then at the rest of their armed escort. "I'd lost hope that someone would ever come find me. Lady Æthelflæd, have you found the Bureau in Venta Ice—"

"We have," Aelfswith—Æthelflæd?—said, curtly. "Sigrún is searching for the relic right now—"

"Sigrún?" Hytham's bone-white cheeks grew even paler, and he shook his head. "No, no, no, she can't—you have not sent her back to Ravensthorpe? Y-You've brought her with you? Here?"

"Yes." Aelfswith—Æthelflæd—whatever the hell her name was—seemed gripped with the same horror. "Why—what is it, Hytham?"

"All of this—it's a trap. They've been looking for her, because of who her father was, they need her to—" He coughed, painfully, a loud, racking noise as if he was hacking his own lungs out. The blue eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Allah's sweet mercy, I should not have—what I have done…"

"Over here, my lady!" Olaf called, guiding her down the steps. Always with the steps! Sigrún thought angrily. Once this would be over, she would gladly take a few days where she would rest her weary feet—and perhaps have someone in the village simply wait on her! But first, of course, she would have to get out of here alive. "Here, take my hand, it'll be easier…"

His son Egil and Gytha, the cheerful Saxon she-warrior, had run up ahead, and from the noises and shouts now ringing in the near gloom, they had stumbled more of their enemies. Seaxwulf remained at the rear, one arrow notched on the string of his bow. He had been the one to notice the trapdoor inside the crumbling structure in the middle of the camp.

The underground space was much bigger than Sigrún would have believed, stretching into a hallway that led to even more stairs. To her left was an old, half-rotten door. She pushed it open, heart beating madly in her chest. Sigrún found a single room bathed in torchlight, some corners still littered with cobwebs. A mouse squeaked at the sight of her, scurrying back to a hole in the stone wall. Still, Sigrún barely paid it any mind; instead she found herself staring at the heart of the room, jaw wide open.

Spread over several tables was a hoard worthy of any king—or dragon. Gold and silver pieces, bearing the names and likenesses of ancient rulers, cups inlet with gems and embossed with scenes of war, jewels gleaming in the wavering light of the candles…

They had finally found the content of King Rædwald's desecrated burial mound.

Olaf let out a hissing curse while Sigrún sprang forward to assess the mound of treasures. There were a few knives, even a large, ornate dagger—but no sword. If these were truly the grave goods once buried with King Rædwald—Bretwalda of East Anglia, direct descendant of Wiglaf Wolf King—then where was his ancestor's fabled weapon?

"Is it there, lass?" Olaf said, a worried note slipping in his voice.

In the distance, they could still hear the sounds of battle; Egil and Gytha were still out there, risking their lives to protect them from the sharp blades of the Order. And the quicker they found that thrice-cursed relic, the faster they could go to poor Hytham's aid. Sigrún could not—would not—believe he was dead. The very thought sent more chills crawling down her back.

"No, it's—" Sigrún rummaged through the hoard, letting out a whine. "I can't see it, it's not there, it's—"

Calm down, child, she almost heard, in the soothing tones of her aunt's voice. You will not help yourself by letting fear grip your senses. Sigrún closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Through the nose, and then the mouth. There. You're doing good, sweet lark. Keep going. She thought back to all she had learned. Her aunt's letter, one last gift and goodbye, precious beyond compare. Sister Wulfhilda's tales about the lineages of East Anglia, and how tightly they were woven with the founding myths of Saxon identity. Eivor's dimly remembered memories of her father's bedtime stories.

The sword must have been passed from son to son, her aunt had written. Could it have ended with one of King Wiglaf's descendants?

Sigrún and her companions had followed Eivor Wolf-Kissed's trail all the way to Sutton Hoo. Could they have been mistaken? No, Sigrún thought, almost angrily. The answer was close, she was sure of it, could almost grasp it with both hands. She only had to delve a little deeper; she had been brought here because she could learn and remember and see what others could not see, hadn't she? A little Alexandria—that's what Hytham had called her. Sigrún had to do him proud.

I love kennings, she recalled old Wulfhilda's words, how they allow one to see with words. They paint a picture within one's own mind…

The ancient tales were never quite so straightforward. Names were hidden behind titles, and deeds were made grander, weaving legendary figures out of the ordinary fabric of average men and women. King Beorn, ruler of the Geats, had become King Beowulf Dragon-Slayer. And his nephew—sorrowful Wiglaf, who had lost not one but two fathers—had grown into the Wolf King, founder of the realm of the East Angles.

What else was concealed behind fancy words and cunning metaphors?

But then disaster struck, and the king's battle-light was broken.

Battle-light. Eivor had repeated her father's words without understanding them. Sigrún bit down her lip, trying to remember what else Sister Wulfhilda had said…

The whale-roads, where beasts of the deep dwell in their halls of salt and rock. The earth-hall, where ancient kings are laid to rest with their riches and battle-prizes.

The battle-light, gleaming in the red sun that sets over heroes victorious or vanquished…

Sigrún opened her eyes with a gasp. She whirled to face a dumbfounded Olaf. "It's not here!" she cried. "The sword—it's not a sword, it's a hilt. King Beowulf's sword broke when it hit the dragon's scales! The blade is gone!"

"I have no idea what you're rambling about, sweet girl," Olaf said, putting a hand over her shoulder, "but we need to get out of here before more of these men find us sneaking around."

Sigrún bit down her lip, nodding. Then, she listened closely. Things had grown quiet… too quiet. "Egil and Gytha," she said, in a slight panic. "Are they…"

Rather than answering, Olaf shot out of the room. Sigrún could not keep up with him; by the time she had reached the end of the stairs, finding herself in a large, cavern-like space, her right leg was stiff and burning with pain. She stopped to take her breath, watching her surroundings with wide, fearful eyes. Here, the ground had been excavated, not built. Who would have spent so much effort digging such a large space hundreds of feet below ground? Across from Sigrún was another oddity: the opposite wall was impossibly flat, and made of a strange material, smooth as marble but black as onyx. At the base was carved an opening, like a hole designed for a key. Before Sigrún could wonder what it was, she was snapped back to reality by a heartrending wail.

She cried out in distress, finally noticed the bodies littering the ground. One of them, chest pierced by an arrow, was crumpled in front of the strange structure. Olaf ran up to him, screaming, "Egil! Oh, my son, my boy!"

Sigrún could not move, frozen by the sheer shock and horror. Olaf took his son's hand, sobbing, "Lad, open up your eyes, oh, Frigg have mercy, Egil, look at me…"

There was the sound of gravel crunching under a boot, and Sigrún flinched, whirling around. Gytha stood on wavering legs, blood bubbling out of her mouth. Then, she toppled forward, more red spurting from her neck.

Behind her was a man, tall, silent, ordinary-looking. On his back, Sigrún saw a bow. In his hand, a knife covered in blood.

With a booming roar to shake up the heavens, Olaf rose to his feet, taking his axes in both hands. For a moment, Sigrún did not witness the cheerful, doting grandfather-to-be, but the fierce drengr he must have been in his prime, in those days he fought for the Great Heathen Army during their conquest of East Anglia. Blinded by rage, the old warrior crossed the space separating him from his son's killer in one leaping bound. Sigrún could not stifle a scream. Olaf's opponent was tall, but he was stick-thin, in contrast to the burly drengr. And yet, with one, two steps, he had evaded the bite of Olaf's axes. Sigrún cried out his name—in vain. One moment later, the giant was falling to his knees, his throat open in a gaping wound.

Seaxwulf did not watch his final moments—how Olaf clawed at his neck, making upsetting, gurgling sounds, desperately seeking one last breath. Instead, his grey eyes remained fixed on Sigrún.

She uttered another whine, stepping backward. Seaxwulf did not move. In his hand—it was not a knife, it never had been, it was a hilt, gleaming gold and silver, the broken remnant of Naegling, the blade once wielded by Beowulf, the legendary king of the Angles' distant homeland. Sigrún sucked in another shaky breath, raising her own dagger. "W-Why…?" was all she could say. She could have asked dozens, hundreds of questions, yet her mouth could only form this simple word. "Why?"

He tilted his head, looking at her. Now that he had removed his hood, she could see that his face, plain as it was, bore more than a passing resemblance to King Eohric's own handsome features. The realization struck her numb. She could not tear her gaze away as he edged closer, coming into the light. His nose was rather prominent, his eyebrows were two thick, straight lines, and his eyes were large, framed by long lashes—but no, now that Sigrún looked more closely, she found that her first impression had been misleading. Seaxwulf had black curls falling limply over his brow where Eohric was fair-haired, his eyes were circled by deep, dark bags, purple-ish black against his pale skin, and his grey gaze held none of the king's warmth or charm.

"Why?" she could only repeat. "Why did you do this?"

"It was necessary," Seaxwulf answered with a shrug. "I took no pleasure in it, but it had to be done."

Sigrún trembled with revulsion; Jesus, but she wanted to retch. "It had to be done? All this…" She motioned to the dead bodies, stifling a sob. "You had to do it? Killing all those people… it was necessary?"

"It should be a familiar sentiment to you. Your aunt must have used the same excuse, all those years ago."

It was as if he'd slapped her across the face. "No," she muttered, "it's not… she wouldn't…"

She was startled into silence as he went to one knee, throwing the hilt toward her. It skidded to a stop near her feet. The broken remnant of the blade—giving off the dull gleam of tarnished silver and gold—was covered in Olaf and Gytha's blood. Sigrún dropped her own knife, putting a hand over her mouth. She stared back at Seaxwulf, unable to voice the horrifying thought now invading her mind.

"Take the relic," Seaxwulf said, or rather, commanded. "Wield its power and open the Vault, Sigrún Sigurdsdóttir."