Excerpt

Einer's breaths were heavy. His left eye was swollen and beaten; most of him was. Blood trickled down his forearms, over his hands, ran the length of his two swords and dripped onto the snow. His northern wrath had left him.

A thick blanket of fresh snow covered the streets, stained red from blood where dead warriors lay beneath. There were too many corpses for Einer to count. Shields he knew, and shields he did not. Friends and foes, all dead at his hands. He must have raged through the whole of the southern city. His own sword was firm in his right grip, and his father's Ulfberht in his left.

He had not wanted to survive, but through his rage, he had.

The battle was over now, although he did not remember it; only remembered that she had died. Her body lain on top of her shield, at the back of the battle. The smile on her lips.

Black winged birds cawed above. The gods were watching. Odin's ravens called for him, applauding his rage.

There was no one left to fight. Perhaps that was why the rage had left him. Einer sheathed his own bloody sword, and then the Ulfberht. His arms were sore and his body was worn like he imagined an old man's might be after a night of rowing.

His eyes caught the helmet of a familiar shield from Frey's-fiord. He had killed everyone—anyone who had come near—without mercy or thought, and he did not regret it, even as he looked at Sigismund's kinsman lying there. Those who were worthy would feast in Valhalla with their families tonight. Hilda's proud bench-mates. He wished he could have been among them.

The ravens squawked at Einer. The town, however, was quiet as the dead. Up the street, Einer spotted movement through the falling snowflakes. Southerners, still alive; they watched him from a distance, bows and spears in hand, as if readying to kill a great white bear.

The gold bracteate hammered hot against Einer's chest, melting the snow off his shoulders so it trickled against his back. It washed blood off his skin and stung against his wounds. Arrows stuck from his lower back and the fronts of his thighs. He saw them, but his body hurt all over. He did not know one wound from another. His chest felt hot as Winter Night embers.

Einer struggled to move his injured legs. The southerners had gathered at the top of the road to watch him from afar. Behind him was the way to the gates. Not a single southerner stood in his way. The gates were wide open.

He forced himself to move down the road. The pain of the bracteate on his chest blurred his vision and he staggered. An arrow in his calf snapped in half. The wound stung, but nothing like the bracteate did. The heat of it tore the breath from him.

Einer dragged his feet through the snow. He stumbled over bodies, catching himself on all fours. Suddenly he understood that white bear from so long ago.

Ravens swished over his head, through the falling snow. The gods urged him along, and from their high houses, the southerners watched him. No one came to block his way or challenge him. No one bothered to shoot arrows. They cowered away from him. They wanted him to leave, and tried to guide him towards the gates, as one might herd reindeer.

Crawling, Einer emerged from Magadoborg. The gates creaked shut behind him.

His skin was red and blood flowed from all of his open wounds; more wounds than he knew to count, more than could be bound, and yet, if he had been meant to die there, he would have died already.

Einer pushed himself up. He wobbled towards the riverside, where the ships had been. He knew they had left—Sigismund would have given the order—but perhaps they were not far away, and he could catch up. Perhaps his crew had waited behind to fetch him. He was their chieftain, after all.

Something shone from down by the river and Einer sped up, ignoring the pain in his limbs.

'I'm here,' he yelled, or perhaps he only thought it. His head pounded like Thor's hammer strokes. 'I'm here…'

He limped closer.

It was still there: a dim light on the river. A ship drifted in the middle of the current. The fires that had raged onboard had long burned out. Einer recognised the ship instantly: it was his own. The Northern Wrath had smouldered to little more than floating embers, scattered among the corpses of old friends. The river was black with its ashes. As he watched the last remains of his ship and its corpses, all Einer could think about was that Hilda's corpse was among them.

Fate had always been kind to Einer, but it had not spun a long enough destiny for Hilda. He knew he had no say or choice, but he refused to believe in a destiny that did not include Hilda. If fate had claimed her, it should have claimed him too.

There were no more remains of her in Midgard. No traces of her life; her corpse had been consumed by fire, as had Ash-hill, with everything she had owned and known. All he had of her was his memories.

Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he forced a smile as he thought of her, because at least, in the end, Hilda had finally been happy.

In Valhalla, she would be waiting. Saving him a seat at Odin's high table.

Ravens cawed in agreement, but Einer could not accept it. The gods had claimed her, and with all the strength and anger left within him, he roared for the gods to give her back.