Chapter 4

  Sigrid was thirteen years old when the Berserkir’s blood ignited. Nary more than a child when her world flipped upside down and the love in her mother’s eye turned to scorn. While it wasn’t uncommon for one Berserkir to give birth to the next, it was never a guarantee. When her height grew, and with it her strength, the people of Timberfell celebrated her inheritance. Her mother had made certain she found little to celebrate.

  Aya was her name. As both the prior jarl of Timberfell and Berserkir, Aya had wrested the title herself at the age of eighteen through the sacred rite of Holmgang. Aya proved a far greater Berserkir than a mother. With her father passing when she was but a babe, Sigrid had instead been raised by the old godi, Astrid.

  Astrid had educated her, cared for her, and stood close at hand for all the trials that came. Indeed, it was the old woman had been present when her own mother would not grant her even a passing moment.

  It was made all the worse when it became clear Sigrid was next in line for the throne. Vacancy turned to hostility and before long Aya had ceased speaking with Sigrid entirely, only sending her off on various excursions to test her strength. For as spiteful as she was, Aya was nonetheless honor bound to see that Sigrid was prepared for their inevitable transference of power. At one point Sigrid began to suspect that Aya was trying to have her killed, so harrowing were the ordeals and so little guidance offered, yet she returned time after time.

  No thanks to Aya.

  The texture of her life changed again when Astrid unexpectedly accepted an apprentice: A wiry, clumsy boy from the frozen Thrahygg.

  Ivar..

  The morning he first arrived, Astrid dragged him to Hatimbradr for introductions. Sigrid was there, standing off to the side and far away from Aya upon the throne.

  He was a scrawny thing, loosely wrapped in the emaciated shawl of a Volhaust’s robes. He clutched onto a wooden staff as he approached Aya, bowing sheepishly, and the hood fell from his shoulders. Back then, Ivar had a bald face and flowing red locks, his skin clear and baby smooth. A scrawny thing, and soft, but there was a tenderness, even then, that stood out to her. A naivety that was as endearing as it was perplexing. How had he come so far, so soft?

  When she was seventeen years old a vagrant band had taken to harassing the foothills. This wasn’t uncommon for Yvaheim was a large country with many inhabitants and not all sought to earn an honest living. This time was different though. These bandits had a Voljar.

  Strangers, the Voljar. Magi, shamans, and warlocks living outside of the Academy, feared and reviled. Leaving nothing to chance, Aya sent Ivar alongside Sigrid and her men to deal with the bandits.

  Sigrid was not particularly thrilled with the idea.

  The arrogance of youth, such as it was, had her convinced that she wouldn’t need Ivar’s help, and that the bookish young man would only slow her down.

  “It will be a good experience for him as well.” Astrid said, “One day he will serve as godi. You would not have him shy from conflict then, would you?”

  Sigrid shrugged. “As you wish. Though I cannot guarantee his safety.”

  Astrid dismissed her concerns with a wave, “You need not worry about him. He has a way with…things, a shifty nature. There’s more to him than it looks.”

  Sigrid grunted, but said no more.

  The next day they left Timberfell together in pursuit of their quarry. Sigrid, Ivar and half a dozen of Timberfell’s soldiers left on horseback. Sigrid was too large to ride a horse, however, and instead rode in an open carriage pulled by a pair of the beats. Sat across from her, inside of the same cart, was Ivar.

  Two years since has passed since they had first met. While still wiry, the boy’s form had begun to fill out. Inscribed upon his blossoming musculature were the roots of a tattoo network etched in a soft blue ink. His hair was just as long, though his face was beginning to develop a rough and scruffy beard.

  “You look different.” She said as she climbed into the carriage.

  “I could say the same about you.” Ivar replied. “Taller.”

  She looked about. “Don’t you have a horse?”

  “I…er-I do not really…”

  Sigrid waived the thought away. “I suppose Astrid’s had you too busy. Well, little godi, I hope you’re ready for a fight. I’ve not a mind to babysit you.”

  “I think I am, don’t worry.” He said with a half smile, doubt rimming his lips.

  The journey lasted a day and a half. The first night Ivar lit a comfortable fire for the crew, as well as sculpting local brush and wood into suitable shelter with but a wave of his hand.

  Setting out the next morning they felt it prudent to begin by checking in with a local trading post, Olstead. The trail proved unnecessary, all they needed to do was follow the blackened pillar of smoke on winking on the horizon.

  They caught their quarry in the act. Two dozen men, a wild and motley crew, with their weapons drawn and torches lit as the people of Olstead fled their burning homes.

  Throwing herself out of the cart and onto the arid dirt, Sigrid screamed, a bellow of such might that it flooded down the hill like an avalanche.

  The cry broke the bandits’ battle trance, ceasing the violence and snuffing out the flames of their torches. Silence filled the air as the two groups eyed on another from afar. Among the enemy, a pair stood out.

  One was a large man clad in thick leather and chainmail with a greasy, brown beard that hung to his swollen belly. In his arms was a spiked club dripping with fresh blood. Distinct as he was due to his frame, she recognized the outlaw: Varre.

  Varre had been a high ranking member of Gletschberg’s city guards. Throughout his tenure, however, he had established a network of clients hungry for cheap labor. Before long prisoners within the city had a tendency disappear from their cells only to be found under the yolk of hidden sweatshops and brutal mines. Varre was trafficking them.

  Not one to be made a victim of his own system, he violently carved his way out of the city before he could be arrested for his offenses. Ever since he had appeared sporadically across the Yvan countryside, pillaging communities and enslaving the survivors.

  At Varre’s side was a bald man in a weathered purple robe. His skin was gray and ashen, his cheeks sunken and his eyes nearly hollow and they were fixated on Ivar who stood beside her.

  “That’s the Voljar.” She barked. “Keep him busy while we rout the rest.”

  “At once.” Ivar said.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  His wrists glowed with pale blue circles etched with runes. Bringing his hands close, but not touching, he squatted with his knees broadly bent. Ivar’s eyes flashed white as he thrust his hands outward, the wind around them coiling strong and spiraling forward in a shockwave.

  Barreling down,the blast aimed to meet the Voljar head on. But just before it met its mark, it careened to the side, deflected by the Voljar’s own magics.

  Not keen to sit idle as the Vol dueled one another, Sigrid unsheathed her weapons, a pair of large axes. Thick and crude, unwieldy to any unpossessing of the Berserkir’s strength, she raised them high and crossed as she unleashed another battle cry. Her men raised their voices with hers, descending down the hill in a wild charge.

  Sigrid did not charge, however, she flew. With one great slam of her leg she launched herself high into the air and with all the force of a meteor she struck the earth, leaving a pair of bandits mangled helplessly underneath her feet. As her men engaged the main host, she locked eyes with Varre.

  He stood not far from his Voljar, his beard thrashing about as the magics of the Vol clashed nearby.

  “Yer a big bitch, aint’cha?” He sputtered as he spat a wad of soggy, blackened tobacco onto the ground, its juices mixing with the blood dripping from his club.

  “I was going to say the same thing.” She said, “You’ve got bigger tits than me!.”

  Varre gave only a guttural roar as he charged forward with reckless abandon. Sigrid dodged to the side, launching an axe with a flicker of her wrist.

  In her confidence she did not even bothered to watch the ax as it flew. Expecting to fell Varre in a single blow, she was surprised when her ax bounced off of some mysterious material, falling limp to the dirt.

  Varre charged again. Sigrid, now intent on demolishing the man, met his challenge. Sigrid swung her ax but collided with a faint, opalescent barrier that appeared around her foe. Varre’s club crashed into her flank, piercing the flesh just under her rib cage. Sigrid, crying out, kicked the barrier around Varre, pushing him away.

  She grabbed at her side. It was wet, the slow, creeping warmth of blood seeping into her clothes. Inexperienced panic crept up her spine and she scanned the battlefield. All around them her men were outnumbered and fighting for their lives.

  Ivar? Where is Ivar?

  Varre snarled, readying his mace again.

  “Ivar!” Sigrid cried desperately, her voice piercing through the raucous of combat and echoing off the barren landscape.

  “I am here!” High above them all, gently drifting on a puffy cloud of ice and snow, he floated along with a broad grin. “Give it a moment!”

  As Ivar finished speaking another voice was heard. The slow intensification of a man fast approaching.

  The Voljar was falling.

  With a sickening smack and an explosive red mist, the cloaked figure slammed into the ground and disappeared into a dark pulp.

  As the Voljar died so too did the barrier around Varre. The death of his ally, however, did not phase him. Varre charged again. Sigrid guarded with her ax before her to receive the blow. He hit the handle hard, but not hard enough. As he reared his shoulders back to deliver another strike Sigrid was already moving. Before he knew it, Varre was on his back with Sigrid’s ax buried in his stomach. He had no time to scream, however, as she tore free the weapon and buried it again, this time in his skull, warping steel and crushing bone.

  Without the powers of his Voljar, Varre died like a dog.

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  There was no mercy for slavers in Yvaheim. The rest of the bandit troupe was slain without exception and their corpses burned upon a pyre just outside of Olstead. The people of the settlement suffered heavy casualties, the air somber and numbing.

  Saddling back into the carriage, Sigrid peeled away the many layers of furs and chainmail that formed her cuirass. Stripping herself of her shirt, she sat on the cart topless as she plucked at her wound. As the rest of her men averted their eyes, it was Ivar alone who approached her.

  “You are hurt.” He said softly, gazing up at her.

  She grunted indignantly as she placed her fingers back on her wound.

  “Do not touch it.”

  She prodded the wound with greater force.

  “Are you listening to me-stop playing with it!” He shouted as he mounted the cart and slapped her finger away. “You are just going to make it worse!”

  He reached into a pouch around his hip and pulled out a living twig with a leaf hanging from one sprouting end. He bit the tip of the branch, tearing away some of the bark and bleeding a clear sap. Using the sap, Ivar circled the wound. The twig glowed a faint green briefly, before crumbling to dust.

  Sigrid was surprised that the flaring heat of the wound had ceased. Branches, twigs and roots had sprouted from the skin around the torn flesh, coiling across it in a protective covering. She attempted to touch the wound again but her fingers were cast aside by the lashing of small vines.

  “Wow.” She whispered, now playing with the plants. “I’m sorry, about your twig I mean. I’m not used to getting…hurt? How did you-where did you find that branch?”

  “A friend.” Ivar answered. “From Oireighn. A graduation gift.”

  “Oireighn?” Sigrid mused. “You know Dom too?”

  “I might.” He said, still monitoring Sigrid’s wound. “You tend to meet strange folk while riding Astrid’s coattails.”

  Sigrid snorted. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Well,” Ivar sighed as he stood, dusting off his pants. “We should get ready to head back. Your mother must be getting worried.”

  Sigrid laughed, an abrupt involuntary chortle. “Ha! That’s a good one!”

  Ivar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Sigrid's humor died as quickly as it came. “Why should she worry about something she resents? She send me out here, each day hoping I’ll die off and leave her be.” She brought her hands to her face. “You know, forget what I just said. You’re right, let's go.”

  He sat down, leaning closer. “It bothers you, then, the way she looks at you? Astrid noticed, hell even I have noticed.”

  Sigrid twisted her neck uncomfortably. “Astrid, that old busybody.” She sighed loudly, turning into a frustrated snarl. “Aya hasn’t an ounce of love for me, ever since my father passed. It only got worse once it became obvious that I was going to be the next Berserkir.”

  Ivar cocked his head, his innocence sparkling in his eyes.

  Sigrid rolled her eyes and turned away from him. “I don’t really know. I think it's because we’re destined to fight and kill each other. With my dad dead, realizing what needed to be done just sort of broke her.”

  Sigrid’s voice lingered for a moment as she gazed at the burned buildings of Olstead.

  “You know,” Ivar said softly, “I never had any parents of my own. They abandoned me before I could think, and now I don’t even have a face left to hate. I cannot claim to know what it is like to lose a mother, but I do know what it is like not to have one. We’re alike in that sense, Sigird. At this point, I guess Astrid comes closest, her or another woman back at the Academy; an old teacher of mine. She took me under her wing and raised me in that sordid place. I suppose owe her my life.”

  “Then why do you sound so unsure about her?Sigrid cocked her head, “Then why the confusion?”

  Ivar’s voice grew hoarse and distant. “I watched her do terrible things, time and time again. She had her reason, I suppose. She could keep me up all night trying to convince me she had the right of way. Man, woman, child, it made no difference to the Head Mistress. She said that it was for the greater good, but I watched as the bodies piled up and never came close to understanding her. Even still, she never had anything but kindness for me. I was her favorite, and they all hated me for it.”

  “The other students? Is that why you left?”

  He shook his head, “That favoritism is the only reason I’m still alive. No, Seida is too complicated. WithAstrid there is an uncomplicated comfort that I can trust in.”

  Sigrid smiled. “She’s a good woman. Try not to trouble her too much, alright?”

  He scoffed. “Spare me. You know, just as I, that she is the troublemaker.”

  “I’ve had heavy thoughts as of late, Ivar.” The smile faded from her face. “If I ever become a mother, I’ll be one like Astrid: kind, patient and protective. Not like Aya. I’ll never be like her. I watch the world itself burned to the ground before I ever let anyone lay so much as a finger on any child of mine.”

  And, in the flicker behind her eyes, Ivar knew she spoke the truth and he was afraid.

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  Sigrid awoke in her empty bed, her hands pawing mindlessly at the vacant space where Ivar slept. She rose from the bed and wandered to her twin children asleep in their cradles.

  “Never,” she repeated. “And I would light the fire.”