Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
“Why did you go speak to the seer?” I asked in order to give myself justification for not putting distance between us. That, and the fact no one carrying a torch was near us.
“Because I had questions,” he answered softly, ducking under a branch. “Decided to take advantage of the opportunity.”
“What did you ask?” My eyes stole to his face, but Bjorn was staring down the trail, expression unreadable.
He took another bite of the dried meat, chewing and remaining silent for so long that I thought he didn’t intend to answer. Which of course made me question why he wouldn’t. Then he said, “I asked whether the gods would tell me if I walked the path they wished me to. You already know how she responded.”
My horse stopped and it took me a moment to realize that I’d tugged on the reins, Bjorn slowing to look at me over his shoulder. Shaking my head sharply, I heeled the mare back into a trot, even less certain than I’d been after my conversation with Bodil. “I don’t understand…”
Before more could be said, the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. A female sob echoed down the trail and my stomach plummeted. “No.”
Digging in my heels, I cut into the trees, moving past the group and back to the path before heeling my horse into a gallop. Dimly, I heard shouts. Heard my name and orders to pause, but I ignored them and pressed onward.
This can’t be.
I made the choice to come to Halsar’s aid.
I changed fate.
Yet as I broke from the trees and was greeted with an orange glow on the dark horizon, smoke gusting over me on the wind, I knew I’d changed nothing.
Halsar had burned.
I galloped down the road, slowing only once I was at the outskirts of the ruins, the flames already dying down to embers. Nothing remained standing, not the great hall nor any of the homes. Even the docks that I’d once trained upon with Bjorn were destroyed, the pillars they’d rested upon jutting from the water like jagged teeth, blackened wrecks of fishing boats and drakkar floating beyond. And amongst the ruins, there was no mistaking the still forms of those who’d died fighting, trying to defend it all.
Bjorn’s horse slowed next to me, but he said nothing, only circled my own mount, eyes taking in the ruins of his home. Then his gaze met mine. “This is not your fault.”
I hadn’t asked for this. Had done what I could to try to prevent it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t the cause.
More horses galloped into the ruined streets, Ylva’s wailing piercing my ears. She slid off Snorri’s horse, falling to her knees in the mud and ash before the remains of the great hall, face streaked with tears. “Where is my son?” she screamed. “Where is my child?”
All around, warriors were dismounting, their faces filled with grief and fury and fear, some racing through the ruins, shouting the names of those they’d left behind. Left undefended. Cries of anguish filled the air.
Snorri alone seemed unmoved, his jaw rigid as he surveyed the ruins of his stronghold. He opened his mouth, and I tensed, ready and willing to lash out if he told these people this was another test.Yet all he said was, “Search for survivors. And answers.”
I dismounted, my shoes sinking into the mud, but before I could go further, shouts rang out.
“Oh, thank the gods!” Ylva’s cry filled the air as I circled my horse. Beyond, dozens of people walked toward us, mostly women and children, dirty and exhausted and with seemingly nothing but the clothes on their backs. But they were very much alive.
The two groups, warriors and survivors, surged toward each other and my chest hitched as I watched Ylva fling her arms around Leif, whose skin was stained with soot and blood, a scabbed gash marring his forehead. Only Bjorn and I held back as families and friends were reunited, the air filled with tears of joy, but also with cries of grief, for both groups had suffered losses.
Resting his forearms on his saddle, Bjorn watched, and I was struck with the sense that he was not quite one of them. That despite his father being jarl and Bjorn set to inherit the role someday in the future, he stood apart. I wondered if that was by choice or whether it was forced upon him by all those long years he’d spent in Nordeland. Ylva’s words to him echoed in my head: You were gone too long and are more of a Nordelander than a Skalander.
Snippets of conversation drew my attention. Explanations that scouts had seen the attack coming but not with enough time to evacuate the village. That those who were able fought back so that those who couldn’t fight were able to flee into the forest to hide. That all had been lost. But one word, one name, I heard repeated over and over.
Gnut.
The other jarl had come to finish the job he’d started the night Bjorn and I set his ships on fire, taking advantage of Snorri’s absence to strike a blow that would not be easy to overcome. Not only was every home destroyed, but all the stores and supplies and tools within them were lost to the raiders’ fire. Everything would need to be rebuilt and replaced during the months most dedicated to farming and gathering, which meant all would be in a weakened position when winter struck.
I knew this because I’d seen it before. Had lived it.
These people had survived the raid, but that might only mean a prolonged death as they suffered and starved over winter, and my hands balled into fists. Gnut had done this to strike a blow at Snorri, but it would not be Snorri who suffered.
It wasn’t fair.
Which was perhaps a childish thing to think, because nothing about life was fair, yet I was so sick of seeing those who were powerless harmed by the actions of those who were supposed to protect them.
Snorri’s warriors and the survivors began bringing the fallen to the square before the ruins of the great hall. I moved to help them, but then hesitated. They were all strangers to me, whereas those who tended to them were their friends and family. Although I was Skalander through and through, I was also an outsider in this moment. At least I was until I saw a familiar form supported by two of Snorri’s men. “Oh, Liv,” I whispered.
Of their own accord, my feet took me to the still form of the healer, her eyes glazed and unseeing, the wound in her chest so catastrophic that I knew her end had been quick. Kneeling in the mud, I closed her lids, whispering my hopes that the gods had met her with open arms and full cups.
Bjorn knelt next to the healer, every muscle in his face tight with grief. And, I realized, anger.
“Why didn’t you run?” he asked under his breath. “What the fuck were you thinking, Liv?”
I knew what she was thinking. These were the people whom she had spent nearly every day of her life healing with her gift. She was connected to every single person in Halsar, whether it had been delivering them or their child, mending wounds from accident or battle, or chasing away sickness. She’d known what losing the village would mean, and though she opposed fighting to her core, she’d picked up a weapon to fight for her people. Had earned a place with the gods.
Bodil approached on horseback, her maidens holding back, their watchful eyes on the surrounding forest. Dismounting, she went to Ylva’s side. “I’ll send word to Brekkur requesting supplies and ships and laborers.”
“You have our thanks, my friend,” Ylva said, wiping tears from her face. “We will rebuild and-“
“We will not rebuild, for that is what Gnut wants!” Snorri roared, silencing everyone even as Ylva’s face filled with dismay. “He fears me! Fears the fate the gods have in store for me! That is why he struck when our backs were turned, attacking women and children, and burning homes-because he believed it would keep us from making war upon him. That he’d be able to hide in his stronghold another season while we toiled to rebuild. Gnut believes he has struck us a grievous blow, but I say he is mistaken!” Snorri paused, then shouted, “I say that he has given us the gift that will see his destruction!”