Page 104 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
“You want me to go with you?” Thirka asked.
“You’re very kind.” I sighed. “But the ritual has to be conducted alone—and there are other elements to it.” I thought on my feet, making up the details quickly. The plan wouldn’t work at all if Thirka wanted to accompany me.
“There are words to be said, and I’ll be addressing my old god, as well as those we all revere here in Skálavík.”
“Oh!” Thirka was taken aback, suddenly uncomfortable. “And what does the jarl say?”
“It’s for this that I need your help.” I looked about. No one seemed to be paying attention to us. “He’s very protective, and with the frost so hard, he won’t want me to go.”
“He’ll try to stop you.”
“Exactly.” I inclined my head. “Carrying out the ritual is important to me, so I’m going to leave the longhouse early in morning and make my way to the river. When Eldberg wakes, he’ll wonder where I am.”
“You want me to tell him where you’ve gone?” Thirka chewed at her lip. No doubt, the thought of saying anything to the jarl filled her with apprehension.
“Yes. Tell him, Thirka—just as I’ve explained to you. Let him know that I wouldn’t let you come with me. Tell him I didn’t want him to worry.” I swallowed, hating myself for what I was about to say. “That I’ll return later, when the ritual is complete.”
It would give me more time, I hoped, before Eldberg came looking for me. By the time he did, I’d be well on my way.
19
Elswyth
December 2nd, 960AD
The longhouse was warm, and few wished to venture outside. At last, our guests fell asleep, lying upon the benches. Eldberg swept me to our bed with amorous intention but had drunk too much to be capable; I’d seen to that. He slept soundly, his snores as loud as any in the hall. The fire had died to glowing embers.
I cracked open the door, listening for the guards. They walked the perimeter of the homestead.
The moon shifted between passing clouds and the ground glowed white, reflecting what light there was. It wasn’t long before I heard voices and stamping feet. They were complaining of how cold it was. They approached, then drifted away, and I stepped outside.
I’d thought myself well-clad, wrapping my hands and head—even my face—but the rawness of the night struck me. Snow was falling, though lightly. I’d have to keep moving.
I made for the forest’s edge. There, I’d be hidden from view. If I kept to the shadow of the trees, I could make my way down the slope of the hill. From there, I’d use the river as my guide, but not along its banks. Instead, I’d climb upward to where the forest hugged the crags, keeping the water in sight.
At some point, I’d need to descend, to follow the river again, but that would be another day’s walk. How long would it take to reach Svolvaen? By boat, the journey had taken most of the night and the morning hours. On foot, I guessed three days.
Eldberg would seek me out, I’d little doubt, but he’d be some hours behind, and there would be no tracks. The snow would see to that.
I’d promised not to flee, but what did such a promise mean between my enemy and I? Hearing Eldberg speak so full of hatred still, his intent for vengeance remorseless, how could I remain?
I just needed to keep walking. All would be simple—as long as I avoided falling into the chasm, or freezing to death, or running into wolves.
Even if I were torn to pieces by some creature filled with winter hunger and met my end tonight, I would know that I’d tried. For too long I’d accepted my fate, thinking that Eirik was dead. Now, I had a reason to attempt the path back to Svolvaen.
Concealed within the trees, I reached the water, then headed upward, through the forested slopes. Keeping the sound of the river to my left, I pushed on, my cloak wrapped tight to avoid the snagging brambles.
In autumn, the forest had been full of sound. Now, it was snow-deadened, but for the wind moving far above through creaking branches and the distant rush of the river, travelling through the chasm below. The canopy gave some protection, but the flakes still fell, coming to rest on my eyelashes and nose.
One step and then another, I told myself—each footfall a soft crunch.
Drawing down the wrap from my face, I focused on my breathing—in, then out, watching the plume of white leave my mouth.
I kept moving but stopped seeing my feet, stopped listening. Tripping over a tree root, I sank to my knees, hands planted in white. Jolted to awareness, I realised that I couldn’t hear water any more. I’d let myself wander blindly. And for how long?
It was too early for the sky to lighten; it would do so for only a short time in the middle of the day. How then, would I know in which direction to walk? I might only take myself farther into the forest.
I’d rest for a little while—not to sleep, but to regain strength. As soon as the sky lightened, wouldn’t I be able to see more clearly where the trees gave way to the chasm?
