14. FOURTEEN
FOURTEEN
HERVOR
The Vyg River, Ladoga
The sea god Njord has been kind to us, and as we steer out of his realm into the mouth of the Vyg River, we sing hymns of thanksgiving for bringing us safely to Ladoga. We’re in Finnish territory now, and as we strike the sail and fit the oars, I’m shivering with excitement.
Ladoga is a dark, green land smothered in mist and mosquitoes.
Dense forests crowd the banks of the river, creeping out over the water.
It’s an uneasy place. There are no mountains jutting up in the sky to help you keep your bearings; only endless woodland, an impenetrable wilderness full of slurping bogs and evil spirits.
I stare into the groaning trees as I dip my oar into the water. I’m always listening to their hushing whispers, watching for a twitch or some sudden movement in the green depths. Any moment the Finns could be on us, whooping and snapping arrows from the shadows.
Have they seen us? Are they watching too?
There’s a serpent coiling in my stomach, twisting into knots.
I have trouble sleeping, even though I’m spent each day from rowing.
It doesn’t help that the mosquitoes are buzzing in my ears all night, despite the fungus wood we’re burning.
I’ve even smeared crushed herbs and bear grease underneath my dress; but I’m still up cursing and slapping my face and neck—and gods in Asgard, I hate the way that smoking fungus smells.
It makes my head swim if I sleep too close to the fire.
Loki. And now I have to piss.
I get up and step carefully between the sleeping men.
A green luminance shifts across the trees as the high fire casts its shimmering glow over the forest. Someone stirs, and I go very still so I don’t wake him further.
He rolls over and starts to snore, and I creep away from the camp, tramping out far enough that no one will be able to see me squatting down and pulling up my dress.
I don’t need to take somebody else’s head off.
Ugh. I’m exhausted. And it’s my watch in three hours too. If I don’t get to sleep by then I’ll be a wreck for tomorrow. And all that rowing. I’m so sore and tired. I shut my burning eyes and rest my face in my hands.
Then a twig snaps. Someone else is in the woods.
His dark form moves through the trees and in the flickering green light, I strain to make out who it is. But a shifting cloud drapes a shadow over him before I get a glimpse at his face. He’s meeting with someone else, and their droning voices drift towards me through the trees.
One of them is Skipper Dwerg. I know what this meeting means.
Our scouts have made contact with the Finns.
They’ve found a town or village and we’re going to attack them tomorrow—and the Gellir will be the first ship to land.
That’s why they’re meeting in the middle of the night, to keep the crew from overhearing, so terror doesn’t set in.
A cold tingle spills into my hands and fingers. I sit at the very front of the ship. I’ll be shot up full of arrows before we even strike the shore! I wish had a shirt of mail.
I take a shivering breath and try to calm my hammering heart and the snake squirming in my guts. I can do this. I’m the daughter of Angantyr Arngrimsson, and I can do this. I draw in another deep breath but it comes as a sharp gasp. The voices stop.
“Hello? Is there somebody there?”
I clap my trembling hand over my mouth. Get it together. Just get it together. Breathe.
“I said who’s there!”
It’s Dwerg. There’s a tension in his voice that betrays his uneasiness, and I know from the movement of their shadows the two of them are reaching for their swords.
“It’s Hervor,” I pant between breaths.
One of them mutters an oath and I hear the two of them snickering.
“What are you doing, Hervor?”
“Having a piss. You?”
“Why are you out of breath?”
“I’m not.”
Silence, then more low mumbling.
“Hervor, can you come over here?” asks Dwerg.
“Just a minute.”
I breathe in deep and slow, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes and focusing on the black pool of darkness until I get control of myself. Then I stand up and resituate my dress. But as I stumble towards them through the trees, my fingertips are still prickling with icy numbness.
The man Dwerg is speaking with is older, about my grandfather’s age, and as I get closer, I see it’s Torvald Tarrison: Borg’s chieftain and the leader of the raid.
I’ve met him before a number of times, and when I turned sixteen this last Yule he’s the one who brought Trumdi up to Ofotfjord.
He smiles wide through his silver beard when he sees me—an eerie thing in the green, shifting light.
“If it isn’t Bjarmar’s troublesome granddaughter,” he says. “I won’t ask what you’re doing on the Gellir. It’s not my business. I suspect though, that it may have something to do with your father. Dwerg just told me.”
Dwerg watches me with a grim silence, long shadows pawing his face.
“Yes, I know who my father was.”
“It is a relief to hear,” says Torvald, “All these secrets and deception—it seemed to me to be unmanly. It was my opinion, once I heard your mother planned to keep you, that she should have told you who your father was from the beginning and raised you with that knowledge. I once mentioned this to your grandfather, but he was not of the same mind as me.”
“Did you know my father then?”
Torvald snorts. “Yes, I knew him. He was a rude and nasty savage, and I was glad when Hjalmar killed him. Everybody was. Not least of all because your father took Tyrfing to Hel with him.” He spits as though the sword’s very name is slick with poison.
“Midgard is a kinder place without either of them in it.”
My voice drops to a snarl. “Then it will be less kind.”
The old chieftain glances at Dwerg and shrugs against the chill of the night. “You mean to claim it then.” He shakes his head. “Your great-grandfather must be wailing in his tomb. That sword destroyed your family. Why would you want to go unearth a thing like that?”
I roll my eyes. I should have just kept my mouth shut.
“Perhaps you haven't heard of Tyrfing's power. I’m not afraid of the curse. I’ll use it to win many duels and battles and make a great name for myself. Then I’ll pass it on to my sons so they can do the same.”
“Stupid girl,” he says, “that's what all your forefathers thought. But I know you. You’re a stubborn woman and it's pointless trying to convince you otherwise. May the gods be with you if you live long enough to make it to Sams? Island.”
“Is that it? You wanted me to come over just to call me stupid and disrespect my family's legacy?”
“Careful Hervor,” Dwerg warns.
“No,” says Torvald, his smile fading, “I just wanted to know where you stand in regards to Tyrfing.
You see it as some sort of inheritance and intend to go and get it.
That's fine, you can do whatever you want. It'll be a long time from now—if it ever happens. But I’m telling you, Hervor, you better keep quiet about Tyrfing when we get to Gardariki.”
“Why?”
Torvald folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe you didn’t know this, but your great-grandfather was King of the Rus.
Now, that might bring you fame in other parts, but it won’t in Gardariki.
Sigrilami was the first to wield Tyrfing, and the Rus remember what those days were like.
If you go around bragging about how you’re Sigrilami’s great-granddaughter, and that you’re going to fetch Tyrfing from your father’s tomb, it won’t be safe for any of us to walk the streets of Holmgard.
If you want to boast about how your mother is Svafa Bjarmarsdottir and that you’re the Princess of Lofoten, that’s fine: Bjarmar’s well liked and has been a good ally to the Rus.
But one word about Tyrfing, or Sigrilami, or your grandmother Eyfura, or any of her sons—and you can swim to Sams? Island. Is that clear?”
I draw in my breath and manage a quick nod.
“Good,” says Torvald, his smile returning, “then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“What about the Finns?”
“What about them?” asks Dwerg.
“Did the scouts find anything?”
Dwerg glances at Torvald, and the chieftain nods.
“There’s a village some miles south,” says Dwerg. “On the lake. We attack at sunrise.”
My heart thumps into my throat.
“But you keep that to yourself until morning.”
I nod quietly, the cold tingle trickling down into my fingers again.
“Well we all better get some sleep,” says Torvald, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow. May the Norns let us see the end of it.”
But as I stumble back to my bed of furs I know there’ll be no sleep for me.
There’s a war-drum booming in my ears; and as I lie down and stare unblinking up at the green, shifting sky, an invisible giantess presses her foot down on my chest. She’s squeezing the air out of my lungs, squishing me slowly into the ground.