Kill them.
Why do you hesitate?
It would be so easy...
They are right there...
Just do it...
Helge held her face to the sun for another moment, reveling in its glowing warmth, then looked back to the wooden idol she stood over. Its face had been finished earlier that day, carved from pale ash wood found in the workyard. Sharp angles formed the beard around the mouth, and one single eye stared blankly up toward the sky while the other remained a hollow socket. The face of the Allfather stared back at her, hard and lifeless, and she wondered if there really was a one-eyed god who lorded over her people and was worthy of their worship.
We thirst.
So terribly, we thirst...
"Another hot one today," Ragnar said from further down the idol's length, drawing Helge's attention away from her thoughts.
She looked up at him as he was still carving the feet of the Æsir god, bare torso glistening with the day's heat. Old scars and new covered every inch of him, and if Helge concentrated, she could still recall how strongly he had smelled of blood and sweat after the fight where she had almost lost him.
He caught her eye and gave her a teasing grin, a flash of teeth in his braided beard. "Working in this heat feels like a battle. It feels good."
Spill his blood.
Bite him! Rip him! Use your teeth!
For us. Do it for us...
Helge nodded and kept her smile tight so that her lips wouldn't tremble, then remembered the bowl of red paint in her hands and tried to focus again on her task. Dipping a finger already coated red to the knuckle, she continued to write the runes across the idol's surface, listing the many names of Óðinn to draw his power into the wood and make the carving more than what it was, to make it a vessel for the great god of wisdom and frenzy to inhabit. It was a crude, hastily made thing, only about the size of an average man, but she had heard tales of the temple at Gamla Uppsala, in Gronstad, where the carved idols of the gods stood as tall as giants, and ritual sacrifices of humans and all manner of beasts were made every nine years to honor them.
She would like to see those gods at the ancient temple sometime and learn whether or not they actually were the embodiment of the Æsir like she had been told. If not, she would finally know if she was truly alone with the dark nightmares that lurked far beyond the fetters of their mortal realm.
Do not ignore us.
"This is hardly warrior's work," grumbled Ragna as she worked on her portion of the idol.
She stood between Helge and Ragnar, carving away at the middle of the log. Beneath her dauntless attack of chisel, gouge, and axe, Ragna had worked the shape of the god's hands, and in it, his magnificent spear, Gungnir, forged for him by the dwarves. "We've been stuck in this city for days, but now our high and mighty king wants to celebrate as if the vault was open and the treasure already in our sea chests to sail home with. Who does he think he's fooling? We've won the battle, but the gods will not take kindly to us celebrating before we've finished what we've come here to do, mark my words."
"Don't be such a grump," Ragnar grinned as he returned to his work. "Tell her, Helge. It's never too soon to gift a little blood to the gods, and maybe they'll even open that troll-cursed vault door for us in thanks. Go on, tell her."
They are fools...
They do not know us.
Helge looked at Ragna and gave her a reassuring smile. "The gods will be pleased, my love. Just wait and see."
Liar.
Ragna scowled and shrugged, then got back to work. The sound of their carving filled the air of the little yard they occupied, and Helge watched them for a moment longer as they labored, making sure they did not work themselves into a frenzy that might take them into the frightening trance of berserkergang. A frightening prospect, but magnificent to behold. No one else in all of Miðgarðr possessed a fury like her Ragnar and Ragna.
That was why she loved them both so much and wanted to be with them always. Unfortunately, she was not the only one.
We want them too...
Helge did her best to ignore the voices echoing in the depths of her mind, sounds and words that didn't belong to her. Through all her years of enduring their screams, their whispers, their promises and threats, she had learned to tune them out when it mattered most, but things had gotten worse since the battle. It was as if the war had increased their lust for blood, and where once they might have shared with her dark secrets and sacred visions for their amusement, now they only demanded of her one thing. They always wanted more and more of her, especially of things she was not willing to give.
In return for the offerings of her hatchet and knife, they gave her power, such incredible power. Power beyond the influence of jarls and kings, even greater than that of the gods. Glimpses into the past, the future, into people's broken minds and the truth of their wretched souls. But it was not her place to ask questions, just to speak. She was a vessel for the Voices; their will was her purpose. Not everyone cared for what they had to say or cared to pay the steep price owed when seeking their dark wisdom. But if there was one thing she had come to realize about the Voices ever since they had made themselves known to her as a child, it was that they always got what they wanted in the end.
The sounds of hammer and chisel going at the wood filled the carpenter's work yard they had commandeered, along with all the needed materials and tools. Besides the three of them, other warriors worked on carving other idols to represent the gods, filling the air with the smell of fresh wood shavings and sweat. Nearby, a dark-haired woman named Brynhild, a Shaman of the Headhunter clan, was overseeing the making of Thor and his mighty hammer from another wooden block by her kinsmen. The king's own Shaman, Thyra, was already singing a soft galdr song over the idol of Týr. Soon, they would have a proper assembly of the Æsir, and would give them offerings in thanks for their success in war.
Come nightfall, the blood would begin to flow, and the gods would be pleased. The Voices along with them, Helge hoped, and then finally she might enjoy some peace with those she cared for the most.
Foolish girl.
No peace. Never any peace.
Helge shivered despite the heat of the day and dipped her finger back into the paint to continue writing the runes across the Allfather's brow. Just when she began to calm down and lose herself in her task, Ragnar set down his tools, walked behind her to a water barrel, and delivered a quick swat to her rear as he passed by. Her eyes flashed wide as she whirled around and hurled the bowl of paint at him, splattering his back and half an arm with red.
"Get away!" she shrieked at him, her teeth bared like an animal backed into a corner as Ragnar flinched away in surprise.
Kill him!
Finally...
Your dagger is at your hip.
Do it! Do it! Give him to us now!
Helge grimaced, her eyes shut tight, and clutched at her head as the Voices all spoke at once. They were the crash of tidal waves against broken cliffs and the softness of a whisper that wracked her body with chills. They were always there, driving her mad and always, they were demanding of her what she didn't want to give.
"No... No! Not now! Never now!" she gasped, clawing her nails at the shaved stubble of her scalp. "Shut up!"
"Helge!" Ragnar cried, paint dripping down his shoulder and arm as he grabbed for her and tried to shake her back to reality. "Helge, calm down! You're fine... Forgive me. I wasn't thinking..."
"As usual," Ragna growled as she quickly moved around the idol to slip her hand across Helge's back and gently took her by the chin. "Look at me..." she said when Helge tried to twist away. When she finally opened her eyes again Ragna stared down at her, all stern determination, but not without care. Her touch was gentle and comforting, her thumb rubbing against Helge's skin. "What do they say to you?"
Helge hissed through her teeth and tried to turn away again, but Ragna's fingers pinched at her chin and held her firm. "Foul things," she whispered.
You are foul.
Weak...
We make you strong.
With a small smile, Ragna cupped Helge's face and leaned in to press her lips against her sweaty brow. "No more seiðr work for you today. We will finish up here, and you can go rest."
"I'm fine. Just a hot day is all," Helge grumbled.
She frowned and tried to show her displeasure against the comforting touch of Ragna's hands cupping her cheeks, but the addition of Ragnar rubbing at her shoulders made it near impossible to remain grumpy, and she slumped between them like an angry cat made calm again from a few scratches behind the ears. She wanted to stay angry and drive them and their love as far away from her as possible, but it was an impossible endeavor. All she wanted to do was rage against her cursed life, but deep down, she knew that if it were not for their persistence in the face of her looming insanity, she would have ceased to exist long ago.
To some, it might have seemed strange that someone like her would seek solace in the arms of two Óðinn-touched Berserkers, but the simple truth of the matter was they understood her as no one else did. Their mastery of berserkergang upon the battlefield was but a glimpse of the terrible power that dwelled in the dark edges of her mind, and through that godly power, they knew no such thing as the burden of pain, the bite of fire, or even the fear of death itself. Ragnar and Ragna were the strongest warriors she had ever known, and so their love for each other was strong too, and she would do anything to protect it.
All at once, the anger left her, and she clung hard to Ragna while Ragnar squeezed her from behind, pinning her between them in a crushing hug. Ragna chuckled, and Helge groaned in utter bliss as she was squished between them until she felt as if she might have to claw her way free from the heat suffocating her.
Ragna patted Helge's cheek and kissed her lips, finally releasing her from their embrace.
"Drink some water," Ragna said, pointing over to the barrel and then glaring at her brother. "And you! Keep your hands to yourself."
"What?" Ragnar laughed defensively. He stood opposite Helge at the water barrel to wash the paint off his skin. "You had her last night. I'm just excited for my turn," and he winked at Helge, an act which, coupled with his smooth grin, still made her blush despite her outburst.
When she had drunk her fill and was feeling a bit better, Helge took her leave of the yard, making sure to give Ragnar an affectionate scratch under his bearded chin as she went. Maybe they would have that fun together later, but for now, some rest sounded good. Whatever rest she would be allowed to have, of course.
We will have them.
One day, girl. One day...
It was only as she was walking out of the yard that Helge realized her outburst had not gone without notice. Apart from the warriors who stared at her openly with their tools forgotten and slack in their hands, Brynhild glared at her in naked contempt; her lip curled at the weakness that had clearly been shown. That was something Helge could ignore, for she did not know the woman that well and so did not give two goat shits for her approval, but it was Thyra's smirking face that made her flush with embarrassment over what she had done.
Did Thyra also suffer at the whims of the Voices, she wondered? If she did, she hid it well. Thyra was the King's Shaman and seemed to relish lording her station above all others as chief envoy to the gods. Wrapped in her colorful garments and fine fox fur, her entire being exuded power and control, and from the knowing smile that graced her lips as she looked down her nose at Helge, the woman knew it too.
"Do not worry, little mouse," Thyra said, the painted symbols adorning her face bending and twisting with her wicked grin, "I will write the names of great Óðinn that you failed to finish. Go and take your rest. The young and inexperienced always tire so easily."
Helge hissed at her as she walked by but said nothing more. If her poor mood were to return, she would not give Thyra the satisfaction of knowing she had helped cause it. Instead, she stalked out of the yard and into the city street beyond, letting herself be carried away by the crowd without looking back.
What parts of the city that had survived the attack un-burned were now choked full of ambling Northmen and desperate Southerners alike.
The Vikings who felt entitled to the conquered city had turned out the cultists from their homes rather than set up their tents within the walls, leaving the Ashfeld folk to wander the streets among the heathens who had slaughtered their soldiers. Entire families now huddled together on street corners and within burned-out buildings to try and live among the ash and broken beams, clinging onto the few possessions they had been allowed to keep. Some cried with their children, others remained deathly silent, while all around them, Vikings laughed and celebrated their taking of the city without a care, even while the treasure remained out of their reach.
Helge made her way through the press of bodies and navigated the winding streets that were so different from the open wilderness of the north. Warriors from all three clans nudged or bumped into her as she went, not caring who she was or where she was going as they towered above her. She would shove back, snap her teeth or snarl a warning at them in return, not wanting to care but finding every face she met impossible to ignore.
Such tasty morsels...
We shall have a feast.
A Raider she knew from Brosmegard passed her on the street, giving her the first friendly greeting since she had left the yard.
"Good day, Helge," he said with a kind smile and a pat on the shoulder, to which she shuddered and slipped away from his touch.
Everyone is your enemy...
Passing by a tavern, a drunken Highlander stood up from a table and held his tankard in the air. "More ale! More ale for King Golden-Shield's conquering heroes!" he shouted to cheers of approval and raised cups.
They drown themselves in obscurity.
You all deserve to die...
At yet another tavern, for the Northmen had surely occupied them all, a woman cowered over a fallen tray of scattered mugs and spilled ale as a group of Headhunter warriors loomed angrily around her.
"Please... I'll get more! I'll get you more! Just please don't hurt me!"
She is already dead.
It will happen soon...
Near the district markets, the Valkyrie, Skuld, passed by without a word. Helge said nothing to her as she went on her way. The Voices said nothing as well.
The longer she searched for the building that she, Ragna, and Ragnar had set up to bed in, the more her eye began to twitch with frustration. A quick look around an unfamiliar square told her she was far from where she wanted to be. As if her mood couldn't get any worse, she could hear the Voices laughing at her from every corner of the city, every shadow, each crack in every stone. She bared her teeth and hissed at everyone around her and at no one at the same time. The walls of the buildings rose up around her like a shield wall, looming and oppressive, but the heat was worse. She thought she might go mad screaming or fall dead without a sound if she could not find any peace, and it was impossible to decide which of the two seemed like the better option. Then, as if she could not grow any more furious with the world, someone had the audacity to start calling out her name.
"Now what?" she snarled to herself, but then she was surprised to see Marcelo coming toward her with his, hand raised in greeting.
On any other day, Helge might have been happy to see him, but as it stood, she could barely keep her eyes focused on him without the heat, the whispers, and the incessant whispers in her head, making her vision swim and leaving her in no mood for company. "What do you want?"
The golden one...
The innocent one.
The brave lion.
Marcelo smiled at her politely as he approached, but there was a heaviness to his fine features that spoke of ill tidings, which only made her sneer at him in return.
"Helge, I would beg your help if you can offer it," he said, then pointed back the way he had come. "I am trying to provide care for the prisoners taken after the battle, but Erik's damn watchdog hinders me at every turn."
"And dare I ask why you want to give away your own food to people who would have likely killed you for not worshiping the same fire rock as them?"
"Because I know it to be the right thing to do," he said, and then added a bit sadly, "And because it is the only thing I can do for them now."
"How is any of this my problem?"
"The guards stop me because I am a Knight and claim that I might be trying to help the prisoners escape. I need someone to speak on my behalf, Northman to Northman…" he paused as she narrowed her eyes at him to the sharpness of a knife's edge, "Or, Northwoman... Look, I know which side they chose in all of this, but they are still my people, and I wish to see that they are cared for. Will you help me, please?"
The weakling.
The ignorant fool.
The desperate man...
Helge hissed at the air, and the Voices laughed. Marcelo furrowed his brows in confusion, but she ignored him. Her head was pounding from the echo of the world around her and more from the world beyond. She just wanted to go on her way and find a quiet spot to sit, but for the glint of hope shining in Marcelo's eyes, her resolve soon broke. Foolish as it might be, there was a certain charm to his misguided innocence that she found alluring, and she did not have the heart to try and cut it out of him as some of her people might. Besides, there was a better chance that he might succeed in uniting Viking and Knight together with his unending optimism than her finding a moment's peace in this city anyway.
"Fine," she sighed. "You owe me, though. Pray that your body can handle what I will demand of it."
"Demand of it...?" Marcelo squeaked, but rather than answer, she grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him back the way he had come.
They only walked a few streets over before arriving at a large market, one geared toward the corralling and selling of livestock from all the pens that filled the space between the buildings. At least it should have been. Under normal circumstances, the market would have been a riotous storm of bestial bellows and whines as people shouted deals over their herds like battle cries.
None of that was present now, though, and the animals that had been kept here to feed the city population through the siege had already been rounded up and butchered to fill the bellies of the Vikings and replenish their provisions for the journey home. Now, only silence remained, the same deathly silence that seemed to hang over half the burned city since the Vikings took control, and along with it, an overbearing stench of human misery that was impossible to ignore.
Kept within the pens, usually reserved for cows, hogs, sheep, and goats, were instead people.
Helge could not be sure how many there were, for she had never learned to count so high; however many they believed could fit in their ships and be taken back to Valkenheim. It probably would have been more for how densely the city had been populated before the siege, but they had yet to account for the treasure waiting for them within the vault, and that was the far more important prize to fill their longships with. That left these human wares – soldiers who had survived the battle and were fit for hard labor, men and women skilled in weaving, farming, metal-working, or woodcraft, and those pretty enough to catch some Northman's eye – to be kept here under guard until it was finally time to leave, however long that might be.
The air stank of shit and piss without the added scent of animal musk to mask it. These people, these thralls bound to be sold all across the north, wallowed together in their shared anguish. Misfortune hung over them like the shadow of the volcano they had all once worshiped, just as the iron collars they wore around their necks hung with all the sorrowful weight of their misguided faith.
Apart from the human chattel, the market was also occupied by the Sea Eagle warriors who watched over the slaves, and a small group of Lion Flame soldiers keeping their distance beside a few carts carrying some portion of the provisions allotted to their legion. Helge spotted torn loaves of old bread, a small portion of dried fish, and salted meat, and there looked to be a water barrel that they were dipping jugs into to be passed around. A Lawbringer and another Warden, along with a few soldiers clad in red and white gambeson, nodded at Marcelo, who returned the silent greeting.
Helge walked right past them, her red-veined eyes fixed on the one person among all the guards who she knew was keeping Marcelo from feeling like the hero he wanted to be. "Old Dog!"
Old Wolf turned from the warrior he had been speaking to and raised one gray eyebrow at Helge's shout, but his agitation soon turned into an amused grin when he saw Marcelo following at her heels. "Ah, has the wee lamb come for another try at play'n a saint for the weak an downtrodden?"
"It hardly takes a saint to see that what is being done here is wrong, but I will do what I can to help ease their tragic circumstances." Marcelo shot back. Helge turned and swatted Marcelo in the chest to silence him, and had to hide the pain of striking his armor with her bare knuckles.
"Have they been fed today?" she asked the King's champion, knowing that the slaves would not be allowed to starve before being taken north and sold.
Old Wolf gave a sniff so that the hairs of his mustache twitched, and his steely gaze slowly took in the crowded pens before them. "Aye, they be fed. Only enough as whats good for 'em. Anyth'n more an they'll start believe'n they deserve it."
"Well, their White Christ has conjured up one of their precious miracles," Helge said, flashing the old Highlander her most insincere and impatient smile. "Now be a good dog and step aside so that these men can deliver it."
Old Wolf's own smile was no more sincere as he placed one hand over his chest in feigned sympathy. "I wish it could be so, lass, truly I do. I know your wee tin friend an his fellows there just want to do a good thing an pretend they never sacked a city full'o their own people alongside us heathens. It breaks me ol'heart, but I can'nay have a gobshite like this one put'n his nose in affairs that matter not to his ilk. I have a strong feel'n the king won't like it."
He thinks he is big.
He thinks he is mighty.
Show him he is wrong...
Gnashing her teeth, Helge snatched Old Wolf by the collar of his leather cuirass and pulled him down so that they faced each other eye to eye, his hateful scowl to her crazed and vindictive smile. "Listen, you walking sack of leather and bones... Let the pretty one go about his business, and I won't curse you so that your cock falls off the next time you lift your skirt to piss."
"Not much of a loss for a man of his years," smirked Marcelo.
Old Wolf's agitated glare shot up to Marcelo in an instant. "Care to compare pig-stickers to claymores, laddie? I'll still be swing'n mine o'round long after I put you in the ground."
Helge snapped her fingers for Old Wolf's attention. "It is not a good day to try my patience, dog. We don't have to waste time on a curse when my knife can do the trick right now..."
Tricks and curses...
You deny us.
We will not forget.
"Alright, alright," Old Wolf gruffed, slapping away Helge's hand. "If you'll be have'n somethin from me, I'll be have'n the same of you. Tell that sun-crowned Valkyrie o'yours to quit creeping on my shadow an to keep her distance."
Helge raised one eyebrow as she frowned and thought about the quiet corpse maiden she had passed out on the street nearby. "Skuld? What is she to you?"
"More than I would wish, an not in the ways that make a man fond of a fair maid's attention, I can tell you that. I feel her eyes on me like the cold touch of a spirit. She be overreacting to my fondness when I came to fetch you lot out on the march, an I'll have no more of it."
"An overreaction? I can't imagine why," Helge sneered. "But, if that is the price you ask, then I shall help you. When I see the Valkyrie again, I shall tell her to stay away and leave your weary mind in peace." She had no intention of telling Skuld anything regarding this white-haired oaf, not that they talked much to each other, to begin with.
Old Wolf seemed satisfied, however, and he gave her a curt nod. "Go on then, an be quick about it," he said, fixing Marcelo with a sharp look as he tapped one finger against the side of his nose. "Only enough as what's good for 'em."
Helge flashed a smile in thanks that was gone before she even turned her back on the old Highlander and nodded for Marcelo and the other Knights to follow. Together they brought the carts among the pens full of slaves and divided up the food and water between them to be passed out. The guards around the market watched with bored disinterest while the slaves looked at the meager portions with an insatiable need.
"Helge, take that sack of bread and start handing it out," ordered Marcelo, taking charge of the situation now that negotiations with the King's champion had finished. "We will circle around to make sure we feed as many as possible with what's here."
Helge only gave a single grunt of acknowledgment and snatched the sack from the hand of a soldier as he offered it to her, then began tossing out bread to the people crowding in around her from the other side of the pens. Keeping her distance as they reached out with desperate hands, she threw the chunks of bread to them as if she were feeding hungry ducks at a pond, all while remaining cold and indifferent to their pleas. Her eyes stayed unfocused, not wanting to look at any of them as she slowly made her way through the market. There were already too many voices shouting at her within her head for her to handle anymore.
"Eat... Eat... Eat..." she said, her tone was distant and ineffectual as she went.
A man reached out and tried to snatch the bread from her hand before throwing it, but she drew it back and raised her fist as if to strike him for the attempt. More than a few dirty-faced men and women shrank back from her in fright, and only then did she give them the bread to be ripped apart by their clawing hands.
"Please...?" came a voice from the crowd, pitiful and weak, but the little tremble rang in Helge's ears like a great bell.
She looked to see a young woman no older than she was, desperately trying to fight against the larger people around her for a chance to grab a piece of food before it was all gone. It should not have mattered to her if the bread she held went to the girl or anyone else, but she double-backed and held out the bit of stale food for the girl to take.
Eat! Eat! Eat!
Their cries exploded in her head as if her skull was about to split. She fell to her knees with a sharp gasp, dropping the sack and spilling bred across the ground. Instantly, the people dropped with her, reaching out and shoving against each other like vermin for a chance to grab the food. Helge could barely see them mere inches before her as her vision swam. Her head pounded like a drum, making the world shake around her, and she clawed at her forehead to make it stop, but the Voices were not yet done with their demands.
Feed us! Feed us!
Eat them! Bite them! Rip them all!
Feed us, you sniveling bitch!
Her hands scrambled for a familiar comfort, something to cling to as an anchor, and she found a blade pommel at her hip. In the blindness of her torment, she drew her knife and slashed it through the air. "Be silent!"
There was a flash of red as something hot splashed across her knuckles. A shrill scream followed after.
Helge blinked and pounded her open palm against her head until her vision finally cleared. The young woman whom she had been trying to feed was there kneeling before her on the other side of the pen, white-faced and staring in shocked horror at her bloody hand where three of her fingers had been cut away. She took a deep breath and screamed again before falling back among the other thralls, leaving behind the severed fingers scattered around the piece of bread she had been reaching for.
Blood dripped slowly from the tip of her knife to stain the dirt, and Helge thought she might retch as a wave of nausea hit her like a floundering drakkar in a stormy sea. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears to block out the roar of the world, but that only made things worse.
Give us what we want.
We will give you gifts...
We will give you everything.
Just obey...
"Be quiet..." Helge hissed, spittle dribbling over her bottom lip as she struggled to regain control of her mind. Her red-rimmed eyes turned toward the thralls staring back at her in fear and wonder, and she hated them for merely existing. She sprang to her feet with her knife raised, its deadly edge blazing silver and crimson in the light. "Shut up! All of you, shut up!"
The Voices laughed at her screams, at the screams of the bloody woman, and the screams of the thralls as they fed the dark powers with their fear. The guards began to shout as they took notice of the commotion. There was more shouting from the pens. Shouting in front of her, behind her, from all around. She might have been shouting, too. It was so much noise, too much for her body, too much for her to bear. It all had to be silenced.
Feed us...
"Give us the damn food!" came a harsh voice from somewhere behind her.
"Wait your turn!" snapped Marcelo, sounding like he was in the middle of a wrestling match against whoever he was arguing with. "There is only so much! I'm trying to help, but it is not my fault you are in this situation to begin with!"
"Yes, it is! This is all your fault! You and every other heathen-loving traitor!"
Helge looked over her shoulder to see Marcelo fighting with a man in a thrall's collar over a sack of food. They shoved at each other, yanking the sack back and forth between them, nearly ripping it apart and spilling its contents into the dirt. Lion Flame soldiers were trying to help Marcelo, but more thralls were now joining the first, their metal collars clinking along with their grunts of violent effort as they punched, pushed, and pulled at the Knights, the whole thing threatening to dissolve into an all-out brawl between the captured Ashfeld people and those who were still free.
Feed us...
Feed on our power.
Feed us, and we will feed you.
Helge felt trembling lips curl back to show her teeth, and she let slip a low snarl, bestial and fierce. Maybe she would have a little taste after all. Better these nameless vermin than those she cared about. A small bite, just a taste to keep the Voices pleased and fed. It was just as Old Wolf had said – only enough as what was good for her.
Finally…
She pulled her hatchet from her belt and moved with purpose across the market to where Marcelo was struggling to return order to the market. One of the thralls spotted her and opened his mouth to shout, but no words were said as Helge silently lifted her axe and slammed it into the man's skull with a sharp crack. Hot blood gushed from the wound as she yanked the weapon free, letting the man drop dead with a weak groan. The instinct of a herd under attack by a predator took control of the gathered thralls, but it was far too late for them to run. They were like sheep trapped in their little pen, and she was the wolf come to feast.
Springing into the enclosure, Helge lifted her bloody weapons to the sky and let loose a primal scream of joy. To everyone else, it might have sounded like a maddening scream of hate and terror as she threw herself into the frightened thralls with blades swinging, but deep down, she knew it was joy. She knew because the Voices were laughing with her now, just as they always did when the red began to flow.
Dark gore splattered over her hands and face as she hacked, slashed, stabbed, and tore with her teeth. Her body hummed with energy, with power. All of her anxiety and hesitation evaporated with this sweet release, and the weak thralls fell before her like wheat for the harvest. Hands flew up to push her away, begging her to stop, screaming for mercy that did not exist. She only offered them her hatchet and her knife, and if they fell, she pounced upon them to rip out their throats and mangle their faces with her biting teeth. The Voices clamored to receive them in a shower of fresh blood, and their laughter echoed in her burning mind. They laughed and laughed and demanded more.
More hands grabbed her from behind, clutched at her tight, hauling her up and back out of the pen to drag her away. She laughed out loud at the rush of it all, the excitement, and the Voices laughed with her.
The world was moving around her in a colorful blur, more vibrant, more alive than ever, buzzing with incredible power, but she did not know where in its great expanse she existed. Not that it mattered, so long as the blood tingled over her skin, dripped from her blades, coated her lips. Her tongue slid across her teeth, tasting metal, and her feet tumbled beneath her as she was pulled forward by someone she could not fully see.
Did the Voices want this person too, she wondered? This person who ran with her, or ran from her, their fear radiating from them like heat from the sun. She should give chase and cut them down as the wolf runs down the hare. But no, the Voices were already gorging themselves. Now she could at last run free.
Someone was shouting in a strange accent, something about the king's property. More shouts from just in front of her face, hitting her like a foul wind, but she could not understand them. There was sun above her, then shadow, and the hot press of bodies all around. Sun, then shadow. Brightness, and then nightfall.
Then came the wall at her back and a hard slap across her cheek to make her entire world shudder and ring.
"Huh!?" she sputtered, her face stinging from the hit. Her legs were weak, her entire body shaking with a thrill that threatened to make her sick. Hands were grasping at her shoulders, shaking her, and a blurry face hovered before her until it finally focused into the frightened gaze of Marcelo.
"Damn you, Helge! Are you listening to me!?" he shouted, raising his hand to strike her cheek again.
"I'm awake!" Her hand came up to block him, still holding the bloody hatchet in her fist, which caused Marcelo to jump back as if to defend himself. She did not blame him. Even without seeing what had happened, she already knew. Her gore-spattered arms and face were enough to know everything. "I'm awake! I'm... I'm here…"
Marcelo searched her eyes for a moment without speaking, his breath ragged as if he had just run a great distance. She was panting too, but whether it was from running or her moment of madness in the market, she did not know. His usually handsome looks were marred with fear and worry, and where once he had looked upon her with a somewhat shameful interest she found amusing, now he could only stare in grief-stricken horror at what she had become.
"What... what was that back there?" he asked her, his heavy voice shaking. "Why did you do that to all those people?"
She did not answer him right away. The world was still returning to her bit by bit, all of its glaring faults and terrible shortcomings returning with a painful clarity matched only by the aches now spreading through her body. Resting her head back against the wall, she realized that Marcelo had brought her into some side alley, somewhere far away from the market and Erik's guards if they were lucky. A few people milling about nearby in the street watched them with curious eyes but kept to their own business otherwise. Everything was so quiet now; she did not know if that made her want to cry with relief or scream in fury that such a small moment of peace should cost so much of her. Then, even that quiet reprieve was shattered as Marcelo grabbed her by the arm and shook her again.
"Helge!? Why!? Why did you kill all those people? We were trying to help them... We were... I don't understand. You just went crazy and we had to run... Just tell me why!?"
"Because of Them!" she shouted back, showing a glimpse of that animal she had become. Marcelo stepped back in fright, and she saw at once that he did not understand her meaning in the slightest. That made her laugh. A dull, mirthless, broken laugh. "Because the Voices in my head told me to do it..."
"Voices...?" Marcelo repeated quietly, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of what she had said. "What... what Voices? Like, God? Or... your gods? I do not understand."
"No," Helge sighed, turning her head to look back out the alley again and watch the world go about its business as if she were not a blood-red stain on its splendid image. "No God. No gods... Only Them."
"And these Voices... Do you hear them now?"
She closed her eyes and shook her head. "No. They're gone. They are feasting on what I have offered them. But they will be back. They always come back for more."
"So you just give yourself over to them without thought? To the madness? The... the needless bloodletting?"
It hurt to hear him speak so low of her, to think it was all so simple that he believed she did not fight tooth and nail every day to resist. Not that she showed him. She would not give him the satisfaction of absolving her with pity. "It is better this way, believe me. What are a few thralls compared to the people who actually matter to me?"
"Oh, God in Heaven," Marcelo whispered, signing the cross over his forehead and shoulders. He stumbled backward to the opposite wall to slide down and squat on his heels, putting his hands to his face and running them through his golden hair. "You Vikings... You damn, heathen Vikings. What have I gotten myself into?"
Helge laughed again, although it hardly sounded more genuine than the last. "I'm sorry your good deed didn't turn out how you wanted."
"My good deed!?" he exclaimed, his eyes brimming wet with tears now. "Helge, I was trying to help those people! It was not much, but it was all I could do! Your people put slave collars around the necks of mine, and I helped-!"
His voice cut away, and the tears began to roll down his cheeks just as he tried to stop them. He took a moment to press the heel of his palms against his eyes before continuing. "The Pyre needed to be stopped. I know this to be an absolute truth, but this pain... Oh merciful Lord, this pain is eating away at me for what I have done here, and I don't know how much longer I can stand it..."
Helge remained silent and just let him cry. He needed to get it out, she knew. Holding it all inside would only make things worse once it all finally broke free into the light. Looking down at her weapons, the blood-smeared knife and hatchet still clutched in her hands, she examined the bits of bone and meat stuck to the blades. It would have been nice to clean them, but she did not think there was a bit of cloth on her that was not already soiled with blood.
"Good," she said at last. "I would be worried for you if it did not hurt at least a little bit." With one last sigh, she threw down her weapons and slowly lowered herself to sit before him. He looked up at her with a start, his tear-stained face a mask of confusion and self-loathing. "Pain is just the little sacrifices we make of ourselves so that we can keep moving. Only the dead feel nothing for this world anymore, and we are most certainly not counted among them."
Marcelo sniffed and wiped at his eyes, then added his own broken laugh into the mix. "So we are meant to linger like sinners passed over in the rapture, is that it?"
Helge pouted and turned one foot in so that it almost touched him. The void left by those dark whispers grew wider within her, and she felt so desperate for someone to reach out and rescue her before she inevitably fell in. It may have been selfish, but it was the truth.
"I would linger with you," she said softly, nudging the toe of his boot with her foot. "Will you not linger with me too?"
"Linger with you in sin?"
He looked her up and down, breathing slowly now that he had started to compose himself. She nodded at him, but he stared at the ground for a long moment before he answered her. "If I'm being honest, you make me fear for my immortal soul. Lingering with you might just be the end of me."
"And what an end it would be," she said defiantly, her face going hot to think he might refuse her. "I've never killed an immortal soul before. I wonder how it tastes?"
He looked at her warily and shuffled back against the wall. She pretended not to notice and looked away toward the street to watch the people pass by. They said nothing more after that, which Helge was fine with.
The sun was beginning to set, and the shadows stretched like dark hands reaching out to claim the city. Sitting there in the shade of the alley, finally able to breathe and let herself relax, she felt as though she could slumber for days. If only it could always be so, she might wake up curled between Ragna and Ragnar, their bodies pressed warmly around her, a dream that could linger forever. Her eyelids grew heavy. Finally, it was so quiet.
A commotion rose out on the street, rousing her in an instant. The flash of silver spears in the light made her think that the guards from the market had found them, but then she realized that an armed procession was parting the crowd as it moved past. Shuffling along in its midst was a line of haggard old men chained together about their necks and their wrists bound before them. Their naked bodies were covered in filth and rotten vegetables thrown from the watching crowd, and all appeared bruised and beaten as the guards kept them moving with hard shoves of their spear shafts.
Marcelo looked up from where he sat, his eyes red and puffy as he watched the men make their sad march past the alley. "Who are they?"
"Priests," Helge said softly. "All that is left of the Divine Pyre's false holy men."
"Why couldn't you have killed them instead?" he scoffed.
"They serve a greater purpose than satisfying my own demons. It will happen tonight."
Marcelo blinked, his eyes full of silent dread. "What happens tonight?"
She lifted her eyes to the sky, watching as the golden sun slipped further beneath the dark silhouettes of the buildings around them, and wondered how much blood it would take to keep the Voices away and silent for just a little while longer. She wondered if there could ever really be enough.
"You will see."
There were nine priests in total, tied to nine stakes in the square before the vault tower.
Nine for all the realms that made up the universe, both seen and unseen around them. Nine for each of the rings of Draupnir, the magical gift to the Æsir from the dwarves. Nine for each step mighty Thor would take after receiving his death wound in his final battle against the World Serpent. Nine for all the nights great Óðinn hung from the trunk of Yggdrasill, a sacrifice of himself to himself, seeking the knowledge of runes.
Nine Shaman, Helge, Brynhild, and Thyra counted among them, sang their galdr songs and worked on the priests with their knives as the men screamed their anguish.
Torches lined the crowded square, lighting up the night and casting dark shadows over the faces of onlookers from all three clans. Upon the platform that had been built to display the ceremonial blood-letting, the idols of Óðinn, Thor, and Týr watched in silent approval as the backs of each priest were carefully flayed and sliced open so that the ribs could be chopped away from the spine. Drums beat the steady rhythm of their work, their hands painted red with the priest's lifeblood for the god's pleasure.
At the top of the steps leading to the vault, King Erik Golden-Shield sat in grim attendance to the display of human sacrifice. At his right sat Jarl Ivar, languid and aloof in his chair, and on the king's left, Jarl Herleif brooded at the gruesome sight and slowly stroked his beard. They spoke not a word to each other or to the crowd, but even so, the king sent a clear message of authority to all in attendance as he sat with one boot planted atop the severed head of Osric Ead. Its gray flesh was gaunt around the skull, a swollen tongue lolling between its teeth, and dead white eyes stared sightlessly where there had once been cunning ruthlessness and greed.
Osric's loyal priests would soon join him in death, but not for a while yet. Theirs would be a slow death, a living death, as their bodies were slowly opened up and their lungs pulled out to rest upon their shoulders like wings.
Nine eagles of death to honor the gods for their victory, their blood collected in bowls at their feet. When they were full and the priests lingered on the threshold of Hell for the long night ahead, the Shaman picked up the bowls and approached the wooden idols.
Helge stared up at the stoic face of the High One, his one eye staring out into space as lifeless as the head beneath Erik's foot. She heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Nothing in her head and nothing from the crowd. All was silent as she dipped her hand into the bowl of warm blood and slowly pressed her fingers to the wood, offering the sacrifice to the father of all the gods.
She looked up at the names written across the idol's brow, wiped blood across the Allfather's spear, and felt nothing.
Turning her back on the gods, she ascended the steps alongside Brynhild and Thyra, approaching the king and his jarls. They stopped before those who held their oaths: her before Herleif, Brynhild before Ivar, and Thyra standing proudly before her king. Each of the Warlords rose from their seat, and Herleif looked at Helge as if he could sense something was off but remained silent as the ceremony demanded. Helge could also feel a slight tremor in how her hands moved or how hot she felt even though the sun had set hours ago. Dipping her hand into the blood again, she lifted her coated fingers and drew a line of dark red across Herleif's brow. The other women did the same, honoring their Warlords before all the rest, and then with a slight nod from Herleif, Helge turned and went back down the stairs.
Now the crowd of warriors closed in around her, much like the thralls had earlier that day. The drums still beat like her own pounding heart, and she tried not to let her growing discomfort show on her face. With each face that drew near, she touched a dripping finger to their brow, marking them with the sacrifice made to the gods. They smiled and nodded to her in thanks, but she could feel the blood going cold in the bowl with each step. It sloshed and spilled over her clothing as she made her way through the press, wasted drops splattering over her feet to stain the ground, losing all power and meaning.
With each red touch, she felt as if she was giving another piece of herself to the void, for she felt no life in the blood and no life in the ceremony. No life in any of it. The world was silent in the torch-lit square, and she did not know how long she would last until she was finally empty.
The Voices were quiet now, but she knew they were still near, lurking in the darkness of the void. She could feel them watching.
She came before Gunnar in the crowd, proud and large as a mighty bear, and marked him just as she had done his brother. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. She went through the gathering of her Bilrost kin, drawing a line of dark blood across the forehead of every person she met as other Shaman did the same. They were all so eager to seek the gods' favor. So many hopeful faces that she wished to hide from, but her work was not yet done. The blood that had been shed now needed to be shared with all, and she went longingly into the night, searching for the only people who could help her stay the course.
Finally, she found them. They came out of the crowd together, their warm smiles giving her the strength she so greatly needed to carry on.
Ragna and Ragnar stood shoulder to shoulder before her, and Ragnar cupped her face and rubbed his thumb against her cheek when she came to them. If there was anyone who could breathe life back into her failing courage, it was them. Though she did not say it, Ragnar's touch and Ragna's smile meant more to her at that moment than all the treasures of the vault and gods combined.
Ragna's brows drew in as she looked at her, wordlessly knowing that something was wrong. Helge smiled back, and although it was sad at first, she could find enough comfort in their presence to put her fearsome lover at ease.
The twins each lowered their heads to her in obedient reverence, and Helge honored them with the sacrificial blood, drawing a red thumb across each of their heads. There was warmth in her touch this time, and she drew the blood again from their lips and down against their chins.
She kissed them both eagerly after that, first Ragna and then Ragnar. Their lips were soft, and Ragnar's beard tickled as always. Eyes watched them from all around, but she was too used to such a feeling to care and did not hold back in her affection.
She could finally smile honestly again, and did not fear that her hope for happiness was made in vain.
Her tongue licked at the blood on her lips after the last kiss, and she thought she might finally be done, but another figure came out of the crowd. Ragnar and Ragna parted to let him through, and Helge's eyes widened at Marcelo standing alone among the horde of Vikings.
Marcelo looked just as surprised to be there as she was to see him, and more than a little scared by the look of his set jaw and tense shoulders, but then Ragnar put his arm around the young Knight and gave him a confident clap on the back to put him at ease. This seemed to bolster Marcelo's courage, to which Helge felt much the same, and he shared a hesitant smile with the three of them when he could finally relax in the midst of so many heathens.
Stepping forward, Helge dipped her hand into the bowl and brought her dripping fingers up to Marcelo's face. He flinched away, the fear and uncertainty returning clear upon his features, but Ragnar's comforting hand kept him steady. For a brief moment, Helge wondered if what she was doing might be wrong, that she might overstep some unspoken line of just how far he was willing to test the bounds of his faith. Marcelo stared at her blood-covered fingers just like he had stared at her back in the alley and they had spoken of dark things he did not understand. He looked at her fearfully, but he did not run away. Together they lingered in that moment of sacred blasphemy, and finally, she gently touched her wet fingertip to him and drew his sinful desire across his brow for all to see.
He shuddered at her touch, and his eyes fluttered closed. His breathing drew deep, and his lips parted when she drew another line from his mouth and down his chin. He flinched again when she kissed him, but he lingered with her still and soon drew comfort from her embrace.
Drums slowly beat the rhythm of her heart, and somehow she could feel Marcelo's beating in time with her own. It did not matter which god they served then, so long as they were together. Her hand slipped away from his cheek when she drew back, his taste lingering on her lips mixed with the metallic bite of blood, and his eyes remained closed for a moment, but when they finally opened again and looked at her, she knew that everything was going to be fine.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Ragnar again touched his hand to Marcelo's shoulder, and they shared a look of mutual respect and understanding between them and, perhaps for a quick moment, something more. Ragna nudged him with her shoulder, which was about as kind a gesture he would receive, and they both gave a quiet laugh.
Viking and Knight stood together, supporting each other, and suddenly a difference in faith and gods did not seem such a terrible gap that might keep them from ever knowing each other free of what history demanded. Somehow, they were beyond all that now.
Helge looked at them, her familiar lovers and the man who would not let the darkness scare him away. Nothing was certain, but it warmed her heart to know that whatever fate was in store for them here in the Walled City or at home in Valkenheim, they would face it together. Her heart was whole.
But alas, her heart was not her own.
We want them, too.
We will have them, too.
One day, girl. One day...