6. SIX
SIX
Fog enshrouds the forest, thick with the smell of melting snow and the sound of dripping water. Everything is wet.
Bjarmar pulls his grey fur cloak tighter around his shoulders and directs his mount around a low hanging branch.
On either side of him, a long line of men and hounds pick their way through the bare trees and glistening underbrush in scarlet torchlight.
Occasionally the men holler Hervor’s name into the fog with raw voices and less enthusiasm than when they began the search two days ago.
He never thought he’d be so sick of hearing her name.
His own throat is so sore he can only speak in hoarse whispers.
He takes a gulp of mead to sooth his gullet, knowing that the drink will dull his wits, but welcoming the brief reprieve from the constant worry festering in his guts.
He’s hardly slept since Svafa and Frodmar told him Hervor was missing, and barely eaten—though he’s forced himself to stomach just enough to keep his strength so he can carry on the search.
He tries not to think of how much ground there is to cover. It could take weeks to scour the entire valley. And who knows if there’s even anything left to find.
“Jarl Bjarmar!”
He turns, but can’t see more than a few feet through the swirling mist, though he can hear someone crashing through the brush. They call out again.
“Jarl Bjarmar!”
“Over here!” bellows the man nearest him. His red torch hisses as he waves it back and forth. “The jarl is here!”
A young man, a thrall, stumbles out of the fog and doubles over, gasping. “Jarl Bjarmar—They’ve—”
“Catch your breath first!” says the man with the torch.
“Give him a drink of water,” Bjarmar says quietly. To speak, it feels like he’s swallowed sand.
Reluctantly, the man unshoulders his goatskin canteen and offers a mouthful of water to the panting thrall. “Now speak,” he says.
“They’ve found—” he huffs, “a body.”
His heart stops.
“But not,” he adds, as though carefully instructed not omit this second detail, “—Hervor. Asger said you’ll want to see.”
Bjarmar glances at the man with the torch then back to the thrall and clears his throat. “Show me to him.”
Some miles away, near the bank of the Sorgstr?m, a huskarl unclasps the leash from Folki’s iron slave-collar and shoves him to the ground.
Folki stares up at him in fear, curling up defensively as the huskarl steps over him and stoops down to seize his tattered shirt.
Dressed for war, the man is clad in chainmail from head to toe; only his blue eyes are visible through the slit in his helm.
His heart sinks as Frodmar appears behind him, also clad in mail, though no helm hides his dark hair and features.
Frodmar is perhaps the last man Folki would like to see.
“On your feet, slave!”
Folki staggers to find his balance as the huskarl hauls him up off the damp earth. Frodmar is staring at him, angrily, and he can see on his face he’s getting angrier the more he looks.
“Go on!” snarls the huskarl, giving him another shove.
Confused, Folki glances between the two men and the other thralls and warriors of Ofotfjord grouped around him “You are … releasing me?”
The huskarl laughs cruelly. “Yes, we’re releasing you. Now run along. And if you see the troll, make sure you scream.”
Folki swallows nervously. He was very young, but he remembers when a more youthful Jarl Bjarmar drove Svangur from the forest. He remembers too the dazed, terror-stricken look of those who’d set eyes on him; and the wailing mothers, sisters, wives as empty funeral boats were pushed out into the fjord and set ablaze with an arrow from Asger’s bow.
Svangur ate his victims living, bones and all.
He shrinks back in terror as Frodmar jabs his finger into his chest. “As much as I adore the thought of how you’d squeal as Svangur gorges on your body, if you find my daughter—my daughter,” he pauses as though what he’s about to say requires tremendous patience, “you’ll not only have your life, but your freedom. ”
Folki’s eyes go wide and new hope is kindled in his heart.
Like every other thrall, he’s spent his every spare moment carving trinkets from wood and bone to sell at the docks in hope that he can save enough flecks of silver to buy himself from the jarl before he grows too old to be useful …
and is drowned by Asger in the fjord. But now, he could be a free man this very day!
The thought chases away any fear as he tears off into the trees and fog.
Troll or not, he will find Hervor Frodmarsdottir, or by all the gods in Asgard he will die trying!
The thrall leads Bjarmar to where Asger and his men are standing around a large tree on the bank of the river.
They’re uneasy, whispering among themselves and casting glances into the fog.
The whining hounds are kept at a distance, and one of the less seasoned men steps away from the others and vomits into the brush.
“Make way,” someone says, “Make way for the jarl.”
The men step aside and Bjarmar stares up at the headless body hanging by the ankles like a side of beef from a butcher’s hook. It’s a sight he’s not seen since the days of Arngrim and his wicked sons—a man skinned and gutted like an animal.
Asger sends him a grim look. “Geiri Karlson, we think.”
“Not very easy to tell,” says Bjarmar, resisting the panic coiling in his gut, “take him down. I’ve seen enough.”
One of the men starts to climb the tree.
“I’ve sent someone to tell Bjarni Karlson his brother has gone on into the next world,” says Asger. Then he adds in a low voice, leaning in toward him, “what do you make of this? Svangur never cared for the taste of wool, but to skin a man and hang him up to age …”
Bjarmar shakes his head. “No, Asger. You and I both know this isn’t Svangur’s work.”
“What then? Seidr magic? Berserkergang? A man driven mad from the dark of winter?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, stabling his quivering hand on the hilt of his sword, “I just know I will feel a lot better when we find my granddaughter again.”
The man in the tree finally works Geiri Karlson loose and everyone takes a quick step back as the flayed cadaver smacks against the ground.
Hervor’s plan is working better than she could have hoped.
Far better. The woods are alive with shouting men and baying hounds; their bellowing voices echo all around her in the fog.
She’d hoped her grandfather would send out a search party, but she hadn’t realized what lengths he’d go to find her.
It’s too much. She thought she could just come out from hiding and say the troll got her, but that she escaped from his lair.
She didn’t know this is what she’d be setting in motion.
There must be thousands of men combing the forest, all of them armed to the teeth—her grandfather must have summoned every man from V?gar to Malangsfjord!
She’s heard the stories, she should have known how serious Svangur’s return would be.
Stupid! She’s so stupid! What is going to happen when they don’t find any sign of him?
Some of those men will be expert hunters and trackers.
How long before they’re able to read the signs of the forest to find out what really happened?
And the hounds—she’s been careful to bathe herself in the river, more than once, but what if they can still smell the blood on her hands? What if she has a guilty scent?
It’s those thoughts that have kept her running from her grandfather and his men like a hunted fugitive. But she can’t keep avoiding them. She’s caught between two groups closing in along the bank of the river. She’s got no choice but to come out of hiding.
“Hervor!” hollers a familiar voice, “Hervor!”
She takes out her knife and slashes up her dress, making sure to catch her skin and draw some blood, then she rubs leaves and dirt into her hair to make it look like she’s escaped.
She has no idea what she’s going to say.
Her heart is pounding like Sleipnir’s eight galloping hooves.
She ducks out from behind the tree and runs toward the sound of his voice.
“Here!” she cries into the fog, “I’m here!”
“Hervor? Hervor! Oh thank the gods! Don’t stop calling! I’ll find you, Hervor! You’re safe now!”
“Over here!” she cries again. She can see him now, a shadow stumbling through the swirling mist. He sees her too and scrambles towards her.
Must be some thrall that’s found her, the way he’s moving.
She soon can make out the shape of his head and sees his hair is short.
Lucky thrall. He’ll be made into a hero. He might even get his freedom.
“Frodmar! Frodmar, she’s here! I’ve found her! I’ve found the princess!”
“We’re coming!” calls Frodmar from farther off, “We’ll be right there! Hervor! It’s me! It’s Father!”
The desperation in his voice breaks her heart.
He’s been worrying about her; he’s been missing her this whole time.
He and her grandfather have been searching for her without rest. She’s been so stupid.
Frodmar loves her. He always has. Even if she was gotten by a swineherd’s seed, it’s Frodmar whose been her father. She sees now what her mother meant.
“Father!”
Then she’s struck by lightning.
That thrall, Folki, runs up to her out of the fog, his mouth working frantically.
But she can’t hear him through the buzzing in her ears.
He throws himself at her feet, laughing with joy as though he, of all those searching for her, was the most eager to see her safe.
She freezes at the sight of him, turns to ice with a startled look of horror on her face.
Then she’s doused in boiling water.
Bjarmar looks down at the pale faces of his men as a hair-raising shriek rips through the misty trees. “What was that?” he asks, tugging on the reins as his horse whimpers and stamps in a nervous circle.
“Sounded almost like a woman,” says Asger, tilting up his ear.
One of the men shakes his head. “No woman on earth could make such an evil sound.”