4. FOUR
FOUR
HERVOR
Iwake up to cold drops splashing my face and hair.
The trees are dripping and I’m completely soaked!
Shivering wet, I stir up the coals and add some wood to get my fire going again.
It’s still early in the morning, but it’s warming up and the snow’s softening and turning slushy in places.
Not much sun though. It’s pretty foggy, and as I look up through the bare trees I can’t tell where the mountains stop and the sky begins.
I’m starving. My head is aching. My mouth stinks.
And when I stand up I feel faint and want to lie back down.
I suck on some snow again. I need to find something to eat.
A rabbit maybe, or a grouse—or perhaps I’ll come across a stream where I can catch a fish or two.
A fish would be nice roasting on this fire.
Gods! I’m so hungry I could kill a man!
I stamp out the fire, nock an arrow in my bow, and tramp through the misty trees. Soon I hear water trickling, but it’s only a tiny brook. The water is rushing because of the snowmelt, but it’s too shallow and rocky and I’m not catching any fish in there. However, if I follow it downstream …
I soon come to a gushing stream that’s maybe fifty feet from one bank to another. Pretty sure it’s the Sorgstr?m. If that’s the case, I’ve come farther than I thought.
There was a troll named Svangur who once lived along the Sorgstr?m—a monster with an insatiable appetite for human flesh.
On warm summer nights, he’d creep out of the forest down to the villages by the fjord and sneak around to houses, reaching into open windows and snatching children from their beds.
Hunters venturing inland to find game wouldn’t come home.
He was hungriest in the winter, and when the spring came and the trade started up again along the coast, more than one crew looking to barter goods with the village folk moored their ship along the quay and found whole villages deserted.
When my grandfather consulted the shamans, they urged him to make sacrifices to appease the troll, but he wouldn’t listen.
Instead, he mustered his warriors and led them into the forest to drive Svangur away.
Asger’s told me stories about how he fought him and slashed his belly across the middle—but that his skin sealed up again before his eyes.
He couldn’t be killed with weapons of steel, so they set the woods on fire and sent him shrieking up into the mountains.
But that was years before I was born. There’s been no sight of him ever since.
There’s movement in the trees across the stream, and I drop low, my bow already drawn back to the corner of my mouth. Loki’s children! It’s a reindeer, a lone bull coming down to the stream to drink. I can’t even believe my luck!
It’s warm enough I’d have thought the herds would have migrated out of the forests into the wide-open grounds for calving season.
I suppose it’s still pretty early though.
He’s an old bull; he’s already shed his antlers.
There’s some scarring along his side too, probably from competing for the females during the rut.
I doubt he got to mate by the looks of him.
He’s a straggler. The herd’s probably moved on without him.
He’ll be better off keeping me warm and filling my stomach.
I whisper a prayer of thanks to Skadi, the hunting goddess and creep up for a better shot.
Luckily, he’s about two hundred yards upwind and he hasn’t smelled me.
The Sorgstr?m helps put off my scent, and the rushing current masks the sound of my movements.
I wish I didn’t have to shoot him across the water though.
That’ll be a pain. It’ll be at least waist-high—if it isn’t over my head—and freezing.
I slip behind a pine tree. Hidden behind the green boughs, I’ve still got a clear line of sight.
But I don’t have a shot at his vitals; he’s facing me straight on with his head down, drinking from the stream.
An arrow to the head probably won’t kill him clean.
He’ll dart off and I’ll be tracking him down for days.
I’ll die of hunger before I find him. No, once he’s had his drink he’ll turn around as he trots away from the stream, and that’s when I’ll take him down.
I draw my bow and steady it against a branch, breathing in short wisps as I wait for my prey to expose his heart.
My bow has a sixty-pound weight at a twenty-six-inch draw, and I can hold that for about four minutes before I start to shake.
My father made—Frodmar made me show him I could hold my bow drawn for that long before he’d take me hunting with him.
He also made sure I could toss a sheep’s bladder over my head, spin around and put an arrow through it before it landed, in case a bear ever rushed me.
I exhale slowly and think of one of those big reindeer flanks turning on a spit over the fire, the fat all popping and sizzling as it drips into the flame.
Charred black on the outside, but pink and oozing in the middle, the savoury juices flooding my mouth as I tear the meat from the steaming bone.
Gods I’m starving. I’m hungrier than Fenrir.
I need to keep a cool head. I can’t be too eager to make the shot or I’ll get excited and miss for sure. Just keep focused and wait for him to turn.
His ears twitch and he looks up from the stream over his shoulder. He’s heard something. I glance along the trees behind him. Probably just nothing. Bird or a squirrel maybe. He looks ahead, straight at me, then lowers his head back down to drink.
A twig snaps and he whips his head up. He’s about to bolt. My heart is racing, but I keep my eye trained on where his vitals are about to be.
Movement. Colour. A yellow tunic. A man crouching behind a tree, nocking an arrow to his bow.
Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare shoot my reindeer. He’s mine!
Thwack!
My reindeer drops to his side, hooves flying up into the air as he rolls off the bank into the stream. He springs up but splashes down again, kicks twice, thrashing in the water. Then he’s stiff, and a red cloud seeps into the stream. There’s a white-feathered arrow in his heart.
The feathers on my arrows are black.
The man in the yellow tunic comes down to the stream and prods my reindeer with the butt of his bow. He grins, muttering to himself, and breathes a cloud of white as he climbs carefully down into the gushing current. He doesn’t know I’m here.
I’m still holding my bow in full draw.
He takes my reindeer by the legs and starts dragging him out of the water, grunting and turning red in the face. That beast is probably twice his weight, but he manages to pull him up on the bank. Then out comes his knife. He’s about to gut and skin my reindeer. My reindeer.
Thwack!
The man in the yellow tunic jerks upright like someone’s dumped cold water over his head, his hands flying up to clutch the black-feathered shaft in his throat.
It isn’t real at first, and there’s a moment where I feel nothing, like I’ve just shot a rabbit or a fox. Then the realization sets in. Black walls rise up out of the snow, trapping me inside the inescapable reality that I have just done a terrible, terrible thing.
The bow slips from my shaking hands and I claw my hair.
I want to go back. I want to go back to the second before—the second right before I let my bowstring roll off my fingers.
I could have called him out and asked him to share the reindeer with me.
I could have challenged him to fight me for it.
I could have even shot him the arm, or in the leg!
But the throat? I’ve killed him! Oh gods …
He’s still standing, barely, hugging a tree to stay on his feet.
He sees me now too. He’s staring at me from across the stream, his eyes full of fear and pain, and anger.
His wheezing breaths come out as long, sucking gasps and high-pitched whistles like a broken flute.
His face is whiter than the snow. He makes a gurgling snort and blood comes streaming out his nose and gushes from his blue lips.
How long can he live like that?
My heart stops as he lets go of the tree and takes an unsteady step toward me. He stumbles, dropping to one knee, but he grips the arrow in his rattling hands. He’s going to snap it off and pull it out. No. He can’t. He can’t do that. His hands flop to his sides. He doesn’t have the nerve.
Instead, he leans forward and sweeps out his arm and scoops his knife out of the snow. He wheezes harshly like he's trying to speak, gesturing for me go over to him.
He wants me to finish what I started.
I shake my head and shrink further back into the shadows; but he keeps wheezing and waving me over, and I know I can’t refuse.
Terrified, I emerge from my hiding place and step down into the freezing stream. The current takes my breath away. I wade out into the middle, gasping from the cold. I lose my footing on the slippery stones and nearly roll my ankle. I throw out my arms to steady myself.
His face flinches with contempt as he watches me cross the stream, judging me—disappointed in himself for being killed by a stupid bastard-girl.
My throat is dry as flour. I fumble for the axe in my belt. But I don’t think I can do it, not like that. Very slowly I reach down into the freezing water and pick up a rock in my trembling hand.
Shivering, I crawl up onto the bank. I’m standing over him now and he’s staring up at me and wheezing through his throat. I raise my hand above my head.
He lowers his eyes and his lips start moving. He’s preparing for the next world.
Then his knife hand shoots from his side.
I twist away, but he still gets me, and even with the adrenaline surging through my body I feel the burning gash seeping through my dress above my hip.
Hot rage floods my gut, like molten iron spilling into a blacksmith’s mould.
A wild shriek escapes my throat and I fling down my arm with all my might.
There’s a dull crack and he goes limp, but I go down with him, screaming my lungs out, my arm rising and falling, the forest spinning above and around me in a scarlet blur. I can’t stop. Again, I swing my club of river-stone. Again! And again!
Finally, the rock slips from my hand. I stagger back and sit down in the stream with a splash, staring as I reach a trembling hand up to my face and dab the warm, sticky globs sliding down my cheek. My stomach flips and I heave my guts, choking and gagging and spitting in the stream.
I stand up from the cold water, weak and lightheaded, wondering what I should do.
He’ll be missed, I’m certain of that. It’s who’ll be missing him that worries me.
He’ll be someone’s son, brother, husband.
Someone’s father. Oh Hel, I’ve killed someone’s father!
There’ll be children waiting for him to come back home, but he never will! Oh gods!
Well, at least he wasn’t a swineherd, not with that yellow tunic.
That wool’s a good strong weave, and dyed yarn like that isn’t cheap.
That’s a fine leather belt on him too. Not that it does much to ease my regret, but I doubt his family will be left lacking.
From the looks of him, he might even be one of Grandfather’s sworn men.
That would be bad. That would be very, very bad.
His honour would need to be avenged. This is how feuds are started!
I need to tell someone about this. I need to go back right now and tell my grandfather everything that happened and how sorry I am, cry in front of him maybe—definitely.
There’ll be a great commotion, and the man’s family will come down to Ofotfjord to demand retribution.
My grandfather will either pay them off with a basket of silver or the determined head of livestock, or, if they can’t come to an agreement, he’ll send Asger out to face their champion where three roads meet, and everything will be just fine because no one can beat Asger Asmundson in combat!
But it won’t be fine.
My grandfather is very fond of me, I know that, but if that the man's family finds out he was murdered by a swineherd’s bastard daughter, they’ll be asking for my head; and no amount of treasure or livestock or duels will give them peace.
No, no one can find out about this. No one can know that I’m the one who killed him.
I sit down on the bank, rubbing my fingertips into my temples, and try to catch my breath. “It’ll be okay,” I whimper, “I can do this. I can figure this out.”
My stomach growls, reminding me I have another matter to attend to. I need to hurry up and gut that reindeer if I don’t want his meat to spoil.
I take a moment to breathe, then take out my sax knife.
I sink the blade into his rump and start cutting around the anus; then I slit him open at the pelvis and stand on his legs to prop them apart as I cut through the pelvic bone.
I unseam his belly up to the gullet, peel apart the skin and fur to expose his innards, and—carefully checking with my fingers so I don’t puncture his guts and bowels—cut through the layer of muscle, grunting as I work the blade through his ribs.
Then I reach into his chest cavity to slice away the slimy tissue and free up his guts.
Finally, I grasp his windpipe, sever it from his head with three forceful strokes, and tug it up from his carcass, dragging with it the grey balloon stomach and shiny green entrails.
I dump the reindeer guts into the stream and stare into the flowing water.
I still need to skin him and hang him up to drain out the blood and let the meat dry and cool off.
But there’s no way I’m lifting him off the ground; and it’s not as if I’ve got a rope with me to hoist him up either.
He’ll be lighter once I skin him though.
Maybe if I cut him in two, I can hang him from a branch.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll have to quarter him.
And Loki, what am I going to do about the man?
Then it comes to me, and my stomach sinks. I know what I have to do. But I don’t like it, not at all.
I sniff, wiping my nose on my messy sleeve and start getting him out of his clothes.
I slash up his yellow tunic and dip it in the reindeer’s blood, then toss it in the stream and watch the current take it.
If I’m lucky, it’ll make its way down to some village—Gods!
I don’t think I can do it! I turn away and start to sob.
But I have to. I have to do it if I don’t want anyone to know.
I hold my breath. My heart is pounding. And just as with the reindeer, I kneel down and prop his legs apart.