Chapter Text
Eivor stood, unmoving, pinned down under that cold stare. Odin stayed still as well, though Eivor could see how tightly his hand was wrapped his staff—around Gungnir. Then, the anger dissipated from that ancient face, and his features became a smooth mask of indifference.
“Walk with me, Eivor,” said the Allfather, turning from her.
Eivor looked at the emptiness surrounding her, seeing no other way of escape. She clenched her jaw, following the old man.
“I am humbled to walk with you, Eivor,” Odin said, in a soft, almost paternal voice. “Your reputation is a song warriors will sing forever.”
Eivor remained silent as the Allfather pointed to their right. A soft blue light flared, and two figured shimmered into view. A wolf, jaws gaping wide. And a child, screaming, trying to crawl away from it.
Eivor’s hand went to the mark on her neck, fingers lingering on the thick knot of scar tissue. The phantom pain flared for a mere heartbeat, more piercing than the bite of any blade.
“You are the Wolf-Kissed one, who lingered at the edge of death, yet fought back,” the Allfather narrated, walking away from this tableau. Another illusion sprang forth; Eivor, young and hungry still, burying her axe into an enemy’s chest. “You spilled the raven-wine of battle to paint whole kingdoms red.”
Eivor looked into her younger self’s face. That grin, brought about by the thrill of battle… it was as familiar as her own name, yet she could not recognize herself in it. How could someone live as if torn in two, feeling pulled in opposite directions? Eivor doubted she would find the answer here.
Two other images of light came into being. Ceolwulf, putting on his predecessor’s crown with grim gravitas. And Oswald kneeling before Finnr, a proud smile showing on his plain, pleasant face.
“You have killed kings and crowned them as you desired,” Odin continued, “bowing to none.”
Eivor remembered how Odin had enjoined her to ignore Oswald’s orders and kill Rued, how little he had seemed to regard her friend’s honour. She recalled how he’d praised Ivarr for murdering an ally in cold blood, yet scorned Dag for fighting for what he thought right. Anger and disgust swept over her, but she grit her teeth, unwilling to give that foul sorcerer the satisfaction of seeing her rage.
Two other figures had appeared. Eivor felt a dull pang as she recognized them. Sigurd on his knees, empty-eyed, head bowed. Eivor crouching beside him, trying to pull him to his feet.
“You stood tall where your brother stumbled,” Odin declared, solemnly, “yet you still came to his aid.”
How dare you speak of my brother? Eivor wanted to scream. Perhaps, not so long ago she would have exploded in her fury, grabbing her axe to ruin forever the old man’s self-satisfied, paternalistic expression. But no; Sigurd was nowhere to be found, and Eivor had yet to find a way to escape this place with him. She would bide her time for the perfect opportunity. She had to, for her brother’s sake.
“Oh, yes,” the Allfather said, “You have felled many great foes in your brief time.”
Briefly, the image of a battlefield showed behind him. Corpses lying in a broken heap, felled by axe, blade or spear. Crows and ravens coming to feast on their flesh. And then the familiar stench of flesh burning as the bodies were piled into a pyre. Still, Eivor did not tear her eyes away. That would have been disrespectful to the lives she’d taken. Eivor was not one to be wracked with remorse—she felt no need to adopt the self-flagellating tendencies of her Christian allies—but the men and women who had died under her blade deserved to be honoured still.
Odin continued to advance, toward a great arch of stone. Then, he turned to face her. “You have earned your place here, Eivor. Seize it!”
The familiar rage flared inside Eivor once more. “Stand aside!” she snarled. “My people need me!”
“I have given you everything you wanted,” Odin retorted, a hint of anger distorting his soft voice. “Everything you needed!”
“You gave me nothing!” Oh, how sweet were these words, how Eivor had longed to say them! Why had she taken so long to acknowledge this truth? “It was all me!”
Odin motioned around with Gungnir. “I cleared your path! I guided your axe!”
“You were a fly, buzzing in my ear!”
“How dare you deny me!” the Allfather roared.
He slammed the tail end of Gungnir into the ground, and shots of lightning erupted from that point. The air crackled with the sheer power of it, heavy and potent as a gathering thunderstorm. The hair on the back of Eivor’s neck stood on end, and she stepped backward despite herself.
“Everything you believe in stirs before you!” Odin boomed, single eye gleaming in the darkness of his hood. “Yet you question all! You question the very gods!”
I should be frightened, Eivor thought. Yet peace suffused in her. For the first time in so many years, she felt clear-headed. Without a word, Eivor took her father’s axe in hand.
In response, Odin howled in fury, sweeping Gungnir toward her. Eivor raised her axe, just in time to catch the blade with the handle of Varin’s weapon. Lightning rushed from the spear, burning a path through her arm. As Eivor writhed and screamed in pain, Odin swung Gungnir, and the blunted end snapped across her face. Eivor fell to her knees, blinded with agony; meanwhile, the Allfather laughed and laughed, the empty space magnifying the sound until it rippled in dozens of maddening echoes.
Biting down a curse, Eivor leaped to her feet to silence that laughter with her axe. Her attack connected with nothing; with a crackle of lightning, the Allfather had disappeared from view, only to reappear further away. Eivor struggled to reach him, attempting another assault. Again, he moved away from her axe with magic, though this time he sent a bolt of lightning crashing in Eivor’s spot. She thrashed in agony, all muscles afire. When the tears of pain cleared from her eyes, she was shaking like a newborn.
“Fight me!” Odin goaded her. “Do not diminish yourself!”
Once more, Eivor stood on shaking legs. Her axe was so heavy in her hand. Still, Eivor raised it, willing to fight until her last breath. “Your corpse hall is nothing but a dream!” she bellowed, with all of the strength left in her body.
“Nothing but a dream?” Odin retorted. “A dream is as real as anything in this world! Do dreams not inspire? Do dreams not make us fearful? Do they not push men to their greatest glories?”
Eivor spat to the ground, showing him what she thought of these empty words. “Then I am done with dreaming!”
Then, in the distance, she saw it: great doors wrought of gold, shimmering faintly in the darkness. Before them was a single figure, one hand outstretched.
“Eivor!” Sigurd cried. “Come, quickly!”
Eivor did not need to be told twice; she ran toward her brother, heedless of Odin’s screams of rage. She was a mere few feet from Sigurd when she was yanked backward by an unknown force. Sigurd shouted her name again.
Eivor fell at Odin’s feet, the wind knocked out of her lungs.
“Your place is here!” the Allfather hissed. “With me! You are mine! Do not turn away!”
Eivor gave another bellow as she rose to her feet, swinging her axe toward him. He easily blocked the attack with Gungnir, then pushed at her with superhuman strength. Eivor’s head hit the ground painfully as she toppled backward. Her ears were ringing, her muscles were searing, and her vision was blurred with pain.
“Eivor!” Sigurd’s voice was weak, as if coming from far away. “There’s not much time. Hurry!”
Eivor stood to run, but once more she was pulled toward the Allfather. He struck her face with a disdainful backhand, sending her flying.
“You are nothing,” the old man sneered. “You only exist for my benefit, my design.”
That’s all we all are, Eivor realized. Soldiers, not warriors. Sacks of meat. Corpses to fill an army for a weak old man frightened of his own fate.
She tried to push herself off the ground, but her aching muscles would not listen to her command. The Allfather was approaching with slow, sure steps. Why would he have hurried? Only a fool would dare to think they could win against a god.
Odin lifted Gungnir to deliver the killing blow. Eivor raised her head, snarling like a beast to show all of her hatred, unwilling to die meekly.
Then, something lunged at the Allfather, shoving him away from Eivor.
She remained on her knees, struck numb by this turn of event. A figure, hazy as if seen through thick mist, was now facing Odin, axe and shield raised.
“So this is it?” the drengr shouted. Eivor noted his cocky stance, the fiery colour of his beard, and she felt the breath catching in her throat. “This is the one we warriors worship at the altar of battle? Piss and blood! I’ve half a mind to cut your traitorous tongue and shove it up your wrinkly arse!”
Odin could only stare at him, gaping like a man who’d just taken a blow to the head. Now, Eivor could see the shades of two other drengir coming close: a dark-haired warrior wielding a battleaxe almost as tall as Eivor herself, and a thinner, regal-looking man with pale hair.
Odin reeled at the sight of them. “What is… what is the meaning of this? Who is…?”
The Allfather could not finish his sentence; with a great cry of, “FOR EIVOR!” the red-haired drengr charged, followed by his two companions. Odin evaded their first attack, but faltered as the great axe came rushing toward him; the Allfather was forced to use his sorcery to escape the reach of its steel bite.
“We did not die for you!” the dark-haired warrior snarled, voice booming in the emptiness. “Our glories are ours and ours alone. You will rage forever in that prison of flesh and bones, while Eivor’s name will echo through generations!”
“How can one call himself the All-seeing,” his fair-haired companion continued, “while being so blind to anything but the fruits of his vanity? Shame should dog your every step, sorcerer. Eivor has all of the courage and guilefulness attributed to you, and none of your failings!”
“Eivor!” Sigurd was once again beckoning to her. “Come while he is distracted!”
And Eivor ran. Her legs burned with every step—and then the axe in her hand seemed to grow heavier still, and she was thrown to the ground, pinned down by its weight. The gates were ever so close; Eivor could see that two people were struggling to open it. She screamed in rage and pain, trying to crawl forward, to no avail.
“You shall not have her!” a woman’s voice snarled from behind Eivor. Another ghost had appeared to challenge Odin, a dark-haired shieldmaiden with a noble bearing. “You foul her glory with your presence, traitor! Begone!”
“I will not let you lay a filthy finger on that child’s head!” a man added. The shade of an older warrior—tall and proud as an oak tree—stood beside her. “You will never fill her mind with your poison again, never! I won’t allow it!”
At the same time, two smaller figures were running toward Eivor; they crouched by her side, helping her to her feet.
“You don’t need that weapon, Eivor,” the first one said. A boy’s voice, soft and kind. “Let us be your strength. As you were ours, not so long ago.”
“Come now, Wolf-Kissed!” said the second one. Eivor could almost picture the infuriating twinkle in his eyes. “We’ll take it up from here, let us be your ferocious defenders!”
“I’m sorry,” Eivor could only say. “I’m sorry.” She could not leave them behind, not again, not while full knowing that she was the reason why they had both met such cruel, early ends.
“Let it go, Eivor, let it go.” The first one was gently unclasping her fingers from the handle of her axe. “Your hour has not come. For our sakes, live, Eivor, live.”
And Eivor let go of her axe, stumbling forward once more. The two boys took up their swords as soon as she was gone from their sides, her discarded weapon by their feet.
Odin screamed in rage from behind, and thunder flared above Eivor’s head. She ran, dogged by fear, the same fear that had pursued her as a child when she had heard the wolves howling behind her.
“What are you doing?” Odin cried. “Take up your axe! Wield it like a true warrior!”
The axe. Varin’s shame, Varinsdóttir’s burden. A weapon-shaped shackle that had weighed her down for so long. That was how he trapped the soldiers in his great army, twisting their desires for glory for his own gain. But Eivor was not a soldier.
Eivor was a warrior.
Eivor stumbled, but someone was at her side at once, helping her stay upright. Sigurd. Together, they continued to run. Now she could see the man and woman who were trying to open the gate. Eivor suppressed a sob at the sight of the pair. Varin. And Rosta. They were here as well, fighting with all of their strength to keep their child from Odin’s clutches. How could she have ever doubted their love?
With their free arms, Eivor’s parents reached for her. She readily accepted their embrace. Varin kissed her on the forehead. Rosta stroked her back. Eivor drew on their strength, feeling her mind clear with purpose.
Our warrior, they said, our cunning little raven, our sweet girl…
From beyond, a dozen people were beckoning to Eivor. Randvi, Valka, Gunnar, and so many others. Her crew, her village, her clan. They were calling her name, some with desperate intensity, some with calm assurance. There were others as well, people whose paths had crossed with hers, people with whom she laughed and fought and cried. All had their hands outstretched.
From behind, Odin let out a shriek of fury. Eivor turned to glance at him.
“Cowards of cowards!” the Allfather raged, slamming his spear into the ground. In a flash of lightning, Eivor’s ghostly allies scattered, leaving only the panting, snarling old man behind. “Beggar’s bastard! Stand and face me, you feeble-armed thrall!”
Eivor did not answer. What a pathetic answer for a god he was, felled by words and ghosts. She could not believe she had dedicated so much of her life to him.
“Leave me now and you are nothing!” Odin screamed. Above him the thunder raged, and bolts of lightning crashed everywhere. “With me you have wisdom! Glory! Power! What more do you need!”
Eivor looked at Sigurd, at her parents, at those awaiting her beyond the gate. She turned to Odin, the Wise One who understood nothing, the Lord of War who let others fight in his stead, the Wanderer who feared death instead of greeting it like an old friend. “Everything else.”
And the two siblings went inside the gate, leaving Odin screaming in inept rage behind.
Eivor barely said a word on the long journey home to Norway.
The first few weeks in sea, she had been barely conscious, still recovering from the wound Basim had inflicted on her. Basim. Here was one piece of the puzzle Eivor could not quite place. Why had he followed them to Norway? How had he found that cave full of strange artefacts and ruins, that place where Sigurd said the gods once dwelled?
And why had he been so consumed with hatred for Eivor?
My son, Eivor, this is about my son! Basim had raved, as if those words had been supposed to mean anything to her. She and Sigurd had only defeated the man by trapping him in the fake world where Odin had tried to ensnare them. Since then, Eivor had dwelled on the encounter, finding no sense in it. It only added to the weight on her shoulders, to have seen the end of yet another ally.
There was so much Eivor did not quite understand. Basim’s ravings, his betrayal, the knife he’d driven between her ribs. Sigurd’s quiet assurance that all was well, his sudden and inexplicable serenity. The grim news they’d received as the longship arrived in England, the revelation that Guthrum and Aelfred of Wessex had once again met in battle, an event that had ended in an ultimate victory for the Elf King.
What did this all mean for Eivor, for Ravensthorpe, for the Danes and Norses of England? Strange rumours were about; it was said that Guthrum and Aelfred would divide the Isle of Britannia between themselves, one half for each lord. Worse still, some whispered that the king of the West Saxons had required of his enemy that he converts to the faith of Christ.
Ubba, Hjorr, Soma, Eivor thought sadly as she had listened to these news. Hunwald, oh, Hunwald… Pointless deaths for a wasted cause. They would not find glory in this world—or the next. Eivor could only find one consolation; the certainty that the fire of their souls would not be taken by Odin’s greedy hands. Wherever her friends had gone, they were far out of reach of the Allfather.
The sky over Ravensthorpe was grey and weepy, mirroring Eivor’s state. The villagers stared and whispered among themselves as Sigurd guider his sister toward the longhouse. Tove waited for them at the end of the path, along with many others.
“Eivor…” she said, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. “And Sigurd… we thought… we believed…”
“All is well, Tove,” Sigurd assured her. “Your Jarl has returned.”
Tove gave a slight nod. She did not seem convinced by his words. “Welcome back.”
Inside the longhouse, the torches still burned brightly. Food and drinks were scattered on the table, seemingly forgotten in the chaos of the longship’s return. The villagers gaped at Sigurd and Eivor, some gasping, others uttering soft curses.
“We missed a great feast, it seems,” Eivor said, with some wistfulness.
“Eivor,” said Sigurd, bringing her to his throne. She looked at him, mouth agape, when he motioned at it. “Sit a moment… and rest.”
“Sigurd—”
“For me,” he insisted.
The people of Ravensthorpe gathered in front of Eivor as she sat in the Jarl’s seat. Then, Randvi erupted from the war room.
“Gifts of the gods,” she exclaimed, “you are back!”
Oh, how Eivor drank in the sight of her—those sun-kissed locks, those blue eyes, so full of worry and relief, those lips, perfectly made for kissing. Eivor wanted nothing more than to jump to her feet and embrace Randvi, to smell her sweet-smelling hair and feel her solid presence in her arms—but fatigue and shame pinned her into place. Instead, she simply looked at the other woman, hoping her eyes would convey all the depth of her emotion.
“Yes, we are back,” Sigurd said, “safe and standing tall.”
“Did you,” Randvi began, “did you find what you were looking for?”
“We did, we did. But it was not for us.”
Randvi frowned. A laugh nearly escaped Eivor’s mouth; it was clear Randvi was not accepting that sorry excuse for an explanation. Then she looked at Eivor, still sitting in Sigurd’s seat. “What is this?”
Eivor felt even more uneasy under her stare. “It suits you,” Randvi had once said, the first time Eivor had sat upon that throne. Those simply words had been a self-fulfilling prophecy—the first turn of fate that had seen Eivor careening toward the betrayal Valka had foreseen before they had even left Fornburg.
Now Eivor slumped in that seat, weary beyond belief, feeling unworthy of such a position. Randvi—ever loyal, ever perceptive Randvi—seemed to sense the storm of emotions raging within her; she laid a hand, so warm, so comforting, on Eivor’s shoulder. Randvi was smiling at her with open pride, standing straight-backed and steady, like a mast that refused to break in the face of Thor’s fury. Eivor had never loved her more than she did in this moment.
“Eivor? Randvi?” said Gudmund. “What is this? Is everything all right?”
“Our jarlskona has returned to lead us forward into an uncertain future,” Randvi answered. “Will you speak to your people, Eivor?”
Eivor nodded, standing with great difficulty. “For love and joy, words can jade. Our souls must sound in a heartful song. And when… no, no…”
She was pointedly aware that the whole of Ravensthorpe was now facing her. Dozens of faces, weary and hopeful, worried and curious, looked upon Eivor. She licked dry lips; she would do right by them, vowing on—what exactly? The gods were a sham, and their words were as empty as the fake Valhalla she’d glimpsed. I vow on my mother and father’s names, Eivor thought finally. Varin and Rosta had acted with more honour in their short lives than the Allfather had in millenia of existence.
“You are less mine than I am yours,” Eivor declared, throat tightening. “And I ask of you only this: to keep me honest in the times to come.”
Gunnar nodded at these words. Valka was smiling—and was it a trick of the light or were those tears shining in her eyes? Hytham looked so tired—with a pang, Eivor realized she would soon have to announce to him the dire fate of his master.
Many others approached: Swanburrow, one hand placed over the bump of her belly, Runa with her arms around her son and daughter, Tekla whispering at Eydis’s ear. The village children perked up, intrigued and ever so trusting.
Then Bragi came forward. “Hearken well, in hall of kings,” he sang, his voice ringing deep in the meadhall, “on ocean-steed my words gain wings.”
Soon, one by one the villagers began to take up the words, beating on their chests with the slow and steady rhythm of a drum. “Odin's mead, I forth will bring, for noble deeds, thine honour sing.”
“We beat and blazed our trail of red,” Eivor heard Randvi’s clear voice join the chant, “till Odin gazed upon the dead.”
“Then horns resound the mighty hall,” sang the whole of Ravensthorpe. “For those who fight, for those who fall.”
“For those who fight and those who fall!” Sigurd stood to Eivor’s left, and Randvi to the right. “Then horns resound the mighty hall!”
“For we who fight,” Eivor sang quietly, secure in the knowledge that she had finally found her place. Friends and family were watching her with pride and love—in this world and the next. For she knew that the bonds that united the dead and the living were as strong as the Bifröst itself. “For we who fall.”
An uncertain future loomed in front of Eivor and her people—but she would meet that fate gladly, unafraid of what was to come. She had hanged on the branches of Yggdrasil, sacrificing her innocence and her faith to gain that knowledge. She would not make the same mistakes as the Allfather; the threads of her life made a rich tapestry, and she was all the better for it.
“FOR WE WHO FIGHT, FOR WE WHO FALL!” sang the Raven clan, loud enough to shake the stars.