Niflheim
The logs in the firepit burnt down to nothing and the heat faded.
The night was as cold as a grave in the ice-world Niflheim, and the hut was the only place Ylva had seen in days. It was possible that the three-fingered man might return for warmth and shelter. Ylva couldn’t waste any more time; she had to make sure they were safe.
Survival always comes first.
‘Stay here.’ She placed fresh wood on the fire, and Geri watched her go to the door. After rattling it several times to be certain it was secure, Ylva crossed the room, avoiding looking in Mother’s direction. She got down on her knees to search the trader but found nothing useful. Behind the counter, though, she saw something lying on the floor in the damp dust.
She picked up the bow and turned it this way and that. There was strength and power in the wood, and though it was made for an adult, her small hand fit well in the grip. The weapon gave her mixed feelings of comfort and fear. It was an instrument of survival, and an instrument of death. An instrument of revenge. It was no coincidence to find it there.
‘The gods put it here for me,’ she told Geri. ‘Maybe even Thor himself left it here as a sign.’ As if to confirm that thought, there was a quiver full of arrows leaning in the corner, each one tipped with a sharp iron point. Arrows like that would pierce anything. Even a coat of mail.
One. Two. Three. Four . . . Her fingers brushed across the feathered fletchings as she counted the arrows over and over until she was sure how many there were. One. Two. Three. Four. Five . . .
Nine arrows. Nine sharp iron tips.
She rubbed the place where her collar chafed her neck as she looked across at the shape that was Mother beneath the blanket. Geri sat patiently by the table.
‘I know what I have to do with these,’ Ylva said.
Ylva placed the bow and the quiver of arrows on the counter and ignored Geri’s questioning looks as she continued to search the hut, checking every corner and scanning every shelf. Anything useful and small enough to carry went in a line on the counter. Among other things, there was a bone-handled knife, and a clay pot containing charcloth and flint. There was salted fish, dried meat, and a small pouch of henbane seeds. She counted and checked everything twice – then once again, just to be sure – and stuffed it into the leather satchel she had taken from the body of a dead man several days ago. He had been one of many lying in the crimson surf beside the smouldering skeleton of a longship.
Soon, the satchel contained enough food and provisions to last a week, maybe two. The pouch of seeds was fastened for safekeeping beside the water bag on her belt, and the knife was tucked in beside it where it would always be in reach.
She rolled a blanket into a tight bundle, tied it with twine found on a shelf, and left it by the door along with her satchel. It would be easy to grab if she needed to make a quick escape. But for now, she wasn’t going anywhere; it was warmer and safer in the trader’s hut than it would be out in the forest, and there was the small comfort of hot soup bubbling over the fire.
The soup smelt bad, and the knots of gristle floating among the potatoes and carrots looked disgusting, but Ylva didn’t know when her next meal might be, so she filled a clay bowl and sat by the fire with hot soup and a chunk of dry bread.
The powerful bow lay on the table in front of her, one arrow ready beside it, the others in the quiver close by.
Ylva didn’t feel like eating, but she had to keep warm and strong, so she slurped the soup and watched Geri lying at her feet. He looked up at her, eyebrows twitching, and let out a quiet whine.
What do we do now? Where do we go?
‘There’s only one thing for us to do,’ she told him. ‘At first light, I’ll bury Mother in the forest behind the hut.’
The ground will be hard. Cremation is a better way to send her to the gods.
‘But if I build a pyre, the smoke will attract attention,’ Ylva said. ‘So I’ll break the ground and bury her. And when she’s buried, we’ll track the three-fingered man. When we find him, I’ll kill him.’
Geri put his chin on his paws. He licked his lips and sighed. Why?
‘Because that’s the way things work. It’s what the gods expect.’