Chapter 58 Solveig
Preparing Helle was her first priority. Before she began though, she took a moment to lean against the strong wall of muscle and breathed deeply. She could do this. She could return to the mortal camp.
Grooming Helle was methodical and comforting, lulling her into a deep calm until her hands were steady and her head cleared.
She bridled Helle and brought her to her tent to finish getting ready. When she entered, she pulled up short. Trella stood at the desk, riffling through the papers laid out there. Though Solveig kept nothing of importance out in the open, she bristled at the intrusion.
“What the fuck are you doing in my tent?” Solveig asked through clenched teeth.
The trollop smiled, holding a piece of paper in her hand. From what Solveig could see, it was a letter to Aelfsi expressing her concerns about Latham.
“This could be seen as treason,” Trella said softly.
Solveig smiled. “Treason implies Latham is a monarch. Did I miss his coronation?”
Trella cleared her throat and read the letter in an imitation of Solveig’s low-pitched voice.
“‘Latham is in over his head. He lacks the foresight to make decisions that will benefit Vanaheim in the long run. I’m not sure what you and Koa are scheming, but I do not recommend promoting Latham to Asgard’s general. ’”
Solveig scoffed, unbothered. “Is that supposed to be me?”
“That is the sound I hear when you speak, yes,” Trella replied. “This would devastate him,” she said, gesturing at the paper.
“As it’s addressed to one of the queens, I wasn’t planning on having anyone else read it,” Solveig said pointedly. She expected Trella to argue. When she didn’t, Solveig broke the silence. “I suggest you leave. I will not ask so nicely again.”
Trella scoffed. “There is nothing nice about you, Solveig. I never understood what he saw in you.” She placed the paper back on Solveig’s desk. “I came to ask something of you.”
“How presumptuous.”
“Stay out of our way,” Trella ordered, raising her voice. She was trying to sound commanding, but it fell flat.
Solveig laughed. “Our way? I wasn’t aware you’d been promoted. Should I start calling you General . . . What’s your surname?”
Colour rose to her cheeks. “Ebbedottir.”
“Ah yes. As I recall, your father was highborn, was he not? And tell me, how did he fare after he was caught smuggling mortal slaves to Jotunheim?”
Trella’s cheeks became splotchy and pink.
“I suggest you tread very carefully, Lady Ebbedottir, lest you meet a similar fate.”
“You dare threaten me?” She stood tall, but Solveig towered over her.
“I will end anyone who poses a threat to my people,” Solveig warned. “Now, unless you wish to tempt fate further by continuing your intrusion into my personal—”
“Your bark does not scare me,” Trella spat. As she walked away, she tried to knock into Solveig. It was the wrong move.
Solveig gripped her by the neck, spinning her around to trap the witch. Solveig held a knife to her throat from behind.
Leaning down to whisper in her ear, she hissed, “Be careful, lass. Do not think that I won’t bite.” She pressed the dagger in until Trella let out a whimper. Solveig held no pity for her. “Now empty your pockets.”
“Wh-what?” Trella trembled.
“Don’t play the fool with me. You and I both know you are smarter than you let on. Empty. Your. Pockets.” A trickle of blood leaked from where Solveig’s dagger dug into her neck.
Trella slowly lowered her hands from where they had gripped Solveig’s arm in an attempt to hold her off. She reached down and pulled a small black stone from one pocket and a letter from the other.
“Drop them,” Solveig hissed. The stone hit the ground with a hard thump and the paper gracefully followed.
“If I ever catch you skulking around again, in fact, if I find out you mean me or my people harm, you will not live to see the following morning.” Solveig released her with a shove.
Trella ran from the tent, clutching her throat to staunch the bleeding where Solveig had sliced her. The cut wasn’t deep enough to do any real damage, but it would leave a scar.
Solveig leaned down to pick up the items Trella had dropped.
The small black stone glittered faintly, and Solveig’s brows rose.
A Listening Stone. How the Hel did that twat get her hands on a Listening Stone?
Her attention flicked to the paper. It was the last page of a letter she’d received from the queens, containing only wishes of health and their two signatures. What was she up to?
There wasn’t time to dwell on it at the moment—she needed to prepare for battle.
She donned her leathers, then her armour before adding the Vanir runes. This familiar routine made her feel more like herself than she had in months. The safety behind this physical protection made her bold.
Her armour had been made for her in Svartalfheim. After Ragnarok, the Dwarven that remained had retained their ability to create magical objects, their legendary forge surviving the worst of their planet’s destruction.
The Dwarven who created her armour had asked what was most important to her in battle and she had listed the ability to move with as much agility as she did unarmoured, to be silent, and to protect herself from grave harm.
They nodded like they had heard these requests before, so they rephrased the question.
“What do you fight for?” they had asked. At the time, Solveig was young—she hadn’t yet known what it was like to watch tens, hundreds of thousands of her people die. She hadn’t known what true pain was. So she answered, “I fight for victory.” She remembered thinking how impressive that sounded.
If she were to answer today, she would have said freedom.
She and the Dwarven had travelled to Muspelheim, realm of the Fire Demons, for approval to use the spark of light that had created their new Sun.
The Sun Spark had been used to light the fire that had burned the worlds during Ragnarok. It was the first time the fire had been lit since this new world, aptly named Yggdrasil, was created.
Solveig had to prove herself worthy, and in the end, they granted her permission.
Fire Demons had bowed to Solveig, praying to their gods for their swift return of the flame, warning her that the use was for her armour and her armour alone.
Their king had left her with a message.
“Solveig, whose name means Daughter of the Sun, this spark is yours to command, but not to keep. It will vanish the moment your armour is made, for its purpose is far greater than that of mere forging. We shall see you again, when you are in need of the light once more.”
The Dwarven brought the flame back to use in their forge and created the most incredible armour she’d ever seen.
A deep grey so dark it was almost black. It did not gleam or shine but was muted and soft, almost like leather. When she donned it for the first time, it became a part of her, moving with her with such ease she barely noticed it was there.
Gerrie had stabbed her with a spear when Solveig had shown her for the first time because she hadn’t believed it was metal. Solveig barely felt the impact of the strike. It helped to be underestimated in battle—if her enemies thought she was unprotected, it would be the last mistake they ever made.
The sun was setting when she finished getting ready, signalling it was time.
Solveig left her tent, head held high and clad in her armour. She carried her winged helmet fashioned after the Valkyrie of old, swords crossing her back, shield strapped onto Helle’s saddle.
Her hair was tightly braided on both sides of her head, the large plait at the top intertwining with the smaller ones that flowed into unbraided hair cascading down her back.
She adorned her face with runes drawn in kohl. The line on her forehead was made up of the runes for strength, freedom, and home. The skin spanning across her eyes was completely darkened, her eyes glowing amidst the shadow. A mask that matched the darkness that brewed within.
The vertical line through the middle of her lips and chin took the longest to draw. It was the last mark she made before leaving her tent.
Her hands had been shaky, and she’d had to redo the line several times so it would be straight.
Even now, as she untied Helle, her body trembled. But, as always, her dear companion’s presence steadied her and she rode out into the middle of camp, a war general on display.