Sigurd fellow was going to hand me over to King Gizur I would have chosen to die back on the beach. And yet, here I am, Gizur’s slave-girl to do with as he pleases. Fortunately, he won’t let anyone touch me. But that’s all going to change when we reach Lake Storsjön: I know what happens to a thrall-woman before she’s sacrificed.
My every thought is of escape. Each time we stop for the night, each time the Swedes unchain me from the stringer, I’m watching for an opportunity. So far, my best chance is when they’re making camp. At dusk, Gizur’s ships will moor along the riverbank and one of his huskarls will bring me ashore and chain me to a tree until morning. This happens consistently, in the same way, every night, and I’ve been waiting for the perfect chance.
There are only a few seconds where the man is vulnerable—when he’s holding my wrist in one hand and reaching for the chain around the tree. The light is dim, and with any luck, he’ll have had some mead. That’s when I’ll strike. I’ll tear suddenly from his grasp, twirl around the tree trunk and smash his head in with my shackles. Then I’ll get his sword, dart off into the woods and make my way to Samsø Island. Or, if they cut off my escape and surround me, I’ll meet my death on a heap of Swedish corpses.
Tonight I’m going to do it. Escape or die.
The river is becoming a golden serpent, and as the men dip their oars into the blazing waters, my heart is pounding. Any moment now, Gizur will have his skipper take us ashore for the night. Very soon, my chance will come.
I shut my eyes as I prepare.
Gullveig, Mother, accept the blood I am about to spill as an oblation—
At the prow of the ship, someone blows a horn—the signal for the other ships to pull ashore. I open my eyes, my heart throbbing the way it did as we’d row into battle with the Finns. I gaze coolly at my Swedish captors. Which one of them will it be? I fill my lungs with a deep breath and slowly sigh it out again.
I’m ready.
But the skipper doesn’t take us in; the men are still rowing strong. Then the man at the prow sounds his horn a second time.
I’ve waited too long—I thought we’d have another day at least.
But as we round a bend in the river, the Indalsälven widens, opening up like a serpent’s jaws to engulf a prey much larger than itself. The gold-streaked watercourse branches off, diverting around a black shore: Frey’s Island, I hear one of the Swedes say, and my heart sinks into my stomach as I see the vast lake spreading out behind it.
We’ve arrived at Lake Storsjön. There’ll be no escaping for me now.
Squinting in the twilight, I can see docks along the shore of the island and along the mainland where ships and boats are berthed; and upon the island through the trees, I can see high-peaked rooftops and tendrils of smoke rising from chimneys. There’s a strong ring-fort built on the high ground above the village. There are guard towers too, overlooking the lake, watching over the skiffs and fishing boats out on the pink water.
The surface is still and tranquil, and I can see the ripples where fish are snapping at the flies. There’s a glint of silver as a line is cast in the setting sun.
The man at the prow sounds his horn again. This time he’s answered by a horn blast from the shore. Gizur stands up from where he’s been sitting wrapped in a blanket and joins him at the prow.
People are coming out of the hall and from houses, smiths and barns, gathering on the dock to see who’s come. They part to let their chieftain through—a grey-bearded man, richly clad in dyed wool cloth and a cloak of fur. With him comes a woman, and the sight of her causes me to shudder.
Her cloak is the bluish-black of a raven’s wings, set with glass beads and many stones. She has a lambskin shawl around her shoulders from which nine cat tails dangle. In her hand she holds a staff, which, like her cloak, is set with stones. Her blonde hair is streaked with silver. Her cold eyes are glossy and far-gazing. She is a volva witch, a seeress. It is she who performs the village sacrifices, and in the morning it will be she who reddens the altar with my blood.
With a smile, Gizur raises his hand in greeting as we pull up along the quay. “People of Frey’s Island, I am Gizur Yngvison, your king. What say the gods?”
“The gods are wondering what brings the King of Sweden out to the forsaken wilderness of Lake Storsjön,” says the chieftain. He grins as Gizur steps up onto the dock and the two men clasp hands. “Welcome, King.”
The chieftain shouts over his shoulder for a meal to be prepared for Gizur and his men.
But as the other ships find moorings, the seeress hisses like an angry cat, her eyes flaring wide as she points with her long-nailed finger at the Frankish longship drifting into an empty berth. “What is this! Gizur! No! No, my king!”
Sigurd halts in mid-movement with one foot on the quay, glancing awkwardly between Gizur and the chieftain. The seeress advances towards him, hissing and waving him back with broad strokes of her arm.
“You!” she cries, “I know why you have come, Sigurd Sigmundson!”
“Um—You do?” says Sigurd.
“I can see into your heart! You mean to slay the serpent!”
There are some groans from the gathered crowd. Men shake their head in objection. Women cover their mouths and pull their children close. The chieftain looks at Gizur, aghast. “Is this true?”
Gizur hangs his head and fidgets nervously with the laces of his tunic. “It is true, yes,” he says quietly, “We have come to liberate you from the … evil which oppresses you.”
“Oh, is that right? And just how do you intend to accomplish this? Hmm? It is impossible. Thor himself could not strike the creature down.”
“You blaspheme the gods,” Gizur says faintly, still not looking up.
“You have not seen what I have seen.”
Sigurd steps onto the dock with his big sword, and I have to crane my neck to look at him as he addresses the chieftain and the people. He looks like he’s about to vomit. His knees are wobbling like a new-born foal. “I can see that all of you are afraid,” he says, “You have lived too long under Fafnir’s shadow. But your king and I do not come bringing terror, but hope.”
I’ve heard him rehearsing it over and over again at the prow of the ship and in the camp. Frankly, it was more convincing hearing him whisper it anxiously to himself.
Then he does something I haven’t seen him practice before. He slips his giant sword from its sheepskin sheath. Black hate coils in my guts as I look on the blade which cut down my crewmates. He holds it up in the setting sun. He’s mustered a bit more confidence now, but his voice is still shaking.
“Behold! Balmung, the sword of the gods! It is so sharp it can cut through anything on earth! Steel! Stone! Even Fafnir’s impenetrable scales! I tell you, with this sword, I will unseam the serpent’s belly and gut him like a fish!”
“You see!” cries the seeress, turning to the crowd, “People of Frey! How many of your sons and daughters have died screaming under my knife to stay the fount of wrath this foreign prince means to set upon you! Will you allow these men to incite the anger of your god? Will you pay with your children for their ignorance! Rise up and seize these—”
“Astrid,” says the chieftain, silencing her with an outstretched hand, “There’s no need for that.”
Gizur scowls at the seeress in disgust. Sigurd looks like he’s going to snap her neck. I hope he does. I don’t like this Astrid woman and I’m sick to my stomach at the thought of dying at her hands.
The chieftain turns to Gizur. “I know you to be a reasonable man, my king. You know that Fafnir dwells in a poisoned valley filled with a noxious vapour. What use is a sword, even a giant sword that might cut the serpent’s flesh, if your lungs will bubble up and burst before you get within two miles of his lair? And if, somehow, you did manage to confront the creature—if he breathes on you directly, your flesh will be fizzled from your bones. So, tell me, Gizur, what has this fellow said that could possibly lead you to have faith in his triumph?”
“The princess he’s betrothed to—she’s a sort of mystic, and has dreamed of our victory in a vision from the gods.”
It’s pretty clear it sounds as ridiculous to Gizur as it does to everyone else.
The chieftain chuckles and pats Gizur on the back, nodding at the seeress.
“I do not know what gods your princess prays to,” Astrid says, reaching into her cloak and loosening the pouch from her belt, “but I will show you what fate the Norns have written.”
She scatters her talismans on the dock, mumbling to herself as she looks over the rune-burned wood chips, flipping over the odd piece that’s fallen on its side.
“Death!” she cries, startling us all. “Do you see, my king? Do you see what the runes say? Your quest will end in death!”
I have a little snicker to myself because I’ve seen this sort of trick before. A travelling volva witch came to Ofotfjord and did a reading for my grandfather. She told him he would fall upon hard times, and that within the next year his treasury would be empty. When he asked her what he must do to prevent this fate, the woman showed him a wooden idol she’d whittled. She said she’d imbued it with seidr magic, that it would bring him luck, and if he hid it in his treasury it would never be empty. In return, she asked for a Bride’s Price in silver. My grandfather agreed, for the witch had fooled him.
However, when my mother heard, she was furious and stormed up to my grandfather’s hall. She explained that if he hid the idol in his treasury, of course it would never be empty; the idol would be in it! She had tricked him into giving her three months' wages for a worthless stick carving!
The woman had already left, but Asger went out with the hounds to track her down. By sunset, he dragged her back before my grandfather, who tore out her tongue and had her hanged as a liar and a thief. He told me to always be wary of volva women who are eager to read runes and speak in prophecies.
This Astrid woman’s playing the same kind of game.
Of course Sigurd’s quest will end in death. Any idiot could speak that kind prophesy. But whether it will Sigurd and Gizur who meet their deaths or the serpent Fafnir, only the Norns can tell. However, she has everyone deceived. Even the Frankish crew looks unsettled by what’s written in the runes.
Gizur gnaws on his finger, staring at the seeress and her talismans. Then he looks at Sigurd and shakes his head. Sigurd is crestfallen.
I, however, am deeply relieved they’ll no longer be making a sacrifice to bless their mission. With any luck, they’ll take me back to Uppsala, and I’ll have more opportunities to escape.
“Come,” says the chieftain, “we are preparing a feast for you and your men. Let us eat and drink and think about other things.”
“Not so fast,” says Astrid, holding up a crooked finger. “You’ve come in force, far out into the wild with these foreign men. That shows me that you truly were intending to face the creature. King Gizur, your heart is too easily swayed by brave and foolish talk! One of your number must die, that you might know the cost of your ignorance!”
Gizur nods and Sigurd turns away, swearing and throwing up his hands in disbelief.
“I come bringing a sacrifice,” Gizur says. He and all of Frey’s Island look in my direction.
“She’ll do,” says Astrid.
Hel and Loki!
Rough hands seize me and lift me from the ship, and as Sigurd and Gizur go up to the hall with the chieftain, a pair of Swedes drag me along behind them. They chain me up to a wooden post outside the hall, but on the way, we pass a great stone overlooking the lake. It’s round and smooth, and there’s a wide space around it for many people to gather. It’s covered in rune carvings and it’s blotched with dark stains the rain couldn’t wash.
It is the altar to the god Frey.