Chapter 73
Now for the hard part. I would rather put my hand in the mouth of a starving wolf than try convincing Thyra to help me.
As Eidunn said. The woman fucking hates me.
Everything is still. The wind has stopped. It’s way too quiet for daytime. I dry my sweaty palm on my robe and raise my hand to knock. But I lower it again. What the fuck am I even going to say?
Oh, hello mortal rival. I was hoping you would help me. I need your brother to stop abusing my friend. Maybe you could buy her from him?
Fucking ridiculous.
It feels like I’m sticking my entire head into the mouth of a wolf, not my hand. Thyra will definitely go to Sigurd with this. Unless she agrees. I have to believe it, it’s all I’ve got. She’s a woman of influence, of noble stock, even. I have to try. For Eidunn. For all I put her through.
If it doesn’t work, I fear the worst. Over for me. Pray it goes fast.
A crow shrieks above, startling me. Crazy bastard. It just sits there, on the roof, staring at me. I hold its eyes, but it doesn’t budge. A bad fucking omen.
Should I turn? Head for Ylvin’s camp myself? Eidunn would stab me with that knife of hers. One way or the other, seems I’m headed for an early grave.
My stomach acts up again. I’m too fucking nervous. A shaking mess. I raise my hand.
Three knocks. Careful. Non-invasive. I don’t want to offend her before she even sees my face. I reek of my own sweat. I can tell. Thyra will smell me. Wrinkle her nose at a lowly slave asking for world-shifting favors. Fuck.
No answer. I knock again. Slightly harder this time. If she’s in a foul mood, I can pretend I have some errand other than the bartering of the most beautiful slave in the valley. That could work.
Waiting. Still nothing.
I look at the door handle. No fucking way. I can’t believe my eyes. Inscriptions right above it. Tiny, barely readable. But I know what they are already. Three symbols. No surprise.
Triple Thurisaz.
The curse. A curse on this house.
An impulse takes hold of me. I grab the handle and open the door.
“Uh… Hello?”
I hesitate to enter, or even open the door fully. I peer inside.
The room is smoky, with herbs still burning in a jar. Herbs with a smell I don’t recognize. The hearth is dead. Only a single candle lights up the room. It’s like light from outside isn’t allowed to penetrate into the space.
“Hello?” I whisper.
Shuffling from the corner. Someone is here. What if Thyra is hurt? What if she’s choking on her lunch? Maybe one of the girls is hurt?
I decide to enter. Taking a deep breath as blood pumps in my ears. By the gods, Eidunn was right, I’m mad.
My foot steps on some fabric, probably a dress or a cloak. How strange. It makes me notice the state of the house. It’s a complete hovel. A pot has been knocked to the floor. Shoes and clothes lie spread about. The bed is unkempt.
Fuck it, I’m already inside.
“Thyra? Are you okay?”
As I step in, I see her. At the foot of her bed. She’s rocking back and forth like a mother comforting her baby. Her hair shoots out in all angles. The beautiful Valkyrie looks like a drunkard.
Her eyes are closed as she swings back and forth, gripping something tightly in her hands. What the fuck is going on?
“Thyra…” I whisper.
No one should see her like this. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.
She’s a proud woman. She’s respected. Groomed.
I can’t leave her in this state. Maybe if I help her, she will help me.
I step toward her while throwing a glance at the door.
Or maybe I should just run. Get the fuck out of here as fast as I can.
The room is colder than outside, and somehow, it feels like it’s emanating from Thyra.
I crouch next to her.
“Thyra.”
No reaction. She just keeps rocking back and forth, eyes closed. I stretch out my hand to wake her. Maybe she’s sleepwalking. I stop my hand, hesitating. My stomach acts up again. I’ve already vented all of its contents, but I just can’t find peace.
Should I get Sigurd? Please. Why not just jump into the river again?
But something has to be done. Right now. I lay a careful hand on her shoulder.
“Thyra,” I whisper.
She shoots up. Standing straight. Rigid.
Her eyes are still closed, her hands still gripping something tight.
“Are you okay?”
Still no reaction. What kind of twisted joke is this? Is she cursed?
I touch her shoulder again, shaking her lightly. She’s rigid as a rock, towering over me. My instincts tell me to run. Head for the hills and never look back.
She’s gripping so tight that her knuckles are white. What is she holding? It could be an enchanted item, keeping her frozen. If I help her, surely she will return the favor.
I touch her fingers, keeping my eyes on her face. She doesn’t move a muscle, no reaction to my presence whatsoever. I pry one of her fingers backward, then another, gripping them firmly to break her clutching hand.
As it opens. I see what’s inside.
“By all the gods,” I whisper.
Three bone pieces. Perfectly cut. Each one with a rune carved into it.
Triple Thurisaz.
What the fuck…
“No, but…”
Thyra’s head turns to me. Her eyes snap open, but it’s not her. The sky-blue of her irises is covered by her black pupils. Her eyes stare at me as a wide smile spreads on her face. She releases a low rumbling laugh.
“There she is,” she whispers. “The slut.”
“Wha… What?”
“It’s been a while. There’s more to do.”
I stumble backward. Terrified by Thyra’s blank stare. She doesn’t talk like this. All the insults she has flung at me have been eloquent. But calling me a slut? It brings back a memory…
It dawns on me. When I touched the hammer. The vision. The old Volva with the covered eyes. The guts. The stench of blood and bile. She called me a slut. Why me? Why always fucking me?
“Who… who are you?” I whisper.
“Me? Thyra. Are you blind, child?”
Even in her trance-like state, Thyra’s voice carries venomous sarcasm.
“Leave now!” I shout. “Leave Thyra’s body!”
Shivers run through my spine. These waters are too deep for me. This Volva is on Ylvin’s level, if not way above. Thyra’s body turns to mine.
“I will leave, but not without giving you a parting gift.”
“What? But how—”
“Farewell, little slut. Enjoy.”
A vicious smile invades Thyra’s face. From ear to ear. Her eyes stare blankly into the air for a few seconds. Like she isn’t present.
“Thyra…” I whisper. “Are you back?”
She convulses, her entire upper body shaking back and forth while her legs stand rigid. I step back and trip, falling to the floor.
Thyra’s eyes lock onto mine. But they are hollow. I can’t see Thyra. Only dark pools where her blue should have been.
“Please,” I shout, terror spreading through my body. “What is—”
Thyra opens her mouth. A shriek comes out. A sound defying the human voice. Her scream rips through the room, making me cover my ears. Thyra’s voice shouldn’t even be able to produce such shrill sound. And she wouldn’t if she could.
This isn’t Thyra. This isn’t human. I’m in mortal danger—I know it in my bones.
Run. Just fucking run.
I scramble to my feet to head for the door.
But Thyra jumps on me, scratching and kicking in a wild mess. She tears at my robe, ripping it at the shoulder. She pushes her knee into my groin. Punches land all over my body.
Panicked, I protect my face with my arms as I push her away with my legs. Kicking at her face and torso. She keeps screaming. I’m feeling dizzy. If I black out, I’m gone.
“Help!” I scream as loud as I can. “Help!”
Thyra doesn’t stop, but I manage to pull my leg back under her and push her up with my foot. She pushes against my leg, flailing, mindlessly trying to reach my face. Thyra looks wild, gleeful. But it’s not Thyra. It’s a curse.
I slam my other foot into her jaw, stunning her.
Panic. I crawl, toward the door.
“Help!” I shout again.
As I reach the door and raise myself, Thyra has locked her eyes on me again. She grabs a knife from the table.
Fuck fuck fuck.
I run outside. One of my breasts hangs out of my ripped robe. Blood pours out of my nose and down my bare chest. I can barely breathe, gurgling on my own vital fluid. I stagger and turn toward Thyra’s house.
“Help,” I manage to mutter.
Some women have appeared around me. But they don’t step forward. Of course they don’t. Why would they risk it all for me? I’m as alone now as I was in the river.
“Stop her,” I wheeze.
“Stop who?” shouts one.
Thyra comes barreling out of the house. She doesn’t look around her. She doesn’t care who sees. She just comes straight at me. Knife raised.
“Please,” I shout at her, raising a hand as if to cast a spell of protection.
I look around in panic. No one is coming to help. No one is—
Then I see her.
Lovely Ragnhild.
Thyra’s little girl. Wide-eyed. Covering her mouth. Her hair is wild, unkempt.
Let her look away.
No more time for empathy. No time to think. In seconds, I will die.
“Stop!” I shout at Thyra, keeping my palm raised at her.
And she does.
She crashes to the ground. Rolling, limbs everywhere. Dust flies in all directions. Ragnhild sprints forward, holding her hands out to her mother.
“Mama!” she shouts.
“Stay back!” I shout at Ragnhild, holding my palm up to her this time. But she ignores me, arriving at her mother’s side.
Thyra lies on her back. Spluttering. Choking on her own blood. Her own knife is stuck in her chest, right between her ribs. It stopped at its hilt. Ragnhild pulls at her mother’s shoulder. Wailing.
Thyra turns her face to her. She smiles.
Coughs blood. Ragnhild leans forward, putting her ear to her mother’s mouth.
I’m not sure how, but I know Thyra is whispering something to her daughter.
Or is it Thyra at all? It could be the witch.
That unholy fucking witch. Let it be Thyra, not the witch. Freya, please.
Thyra’s entire body shakes violently.
“No!” shrieks Ragnhild. “Don’t go!”
Her mother lies back. Perfectly still. Dead. Everyone stands frozen. Only Ragnhild’s sobs fill the air.
I will be blamed. How will I live with this? At least there are witnesses.
Ragnhild holds Thyra’s cheeks, shaking her head from side to side. A free woman steps forward, kneeling and placing a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. Ragnhild smacks it off without looking away from her dead mother.
“Wake up!” she screams. “Come back!”
Ragnhild places her forehead against Thyra’s. I hear her muttering, probably a prayer. She stands and turns to face me, covered in blood.
Her eyes burn with an all-consuming rage. This can’t be undone. Gone is the child I knew. This is not the cute girl who offered me berries. Gone is her innocence. Ragnhild’s twisted face sends an icy cold finger running down my spine. Hate. Pure hatred.
“You witch!” she screams as she points a finger at me. “You filthy witch!”
The woman tries to embrace the little girl, to hold her back. But Ragnhild screams and shakes her off, swinging wildly to make her step back.
She points at me again.
“I curse you, Kilda witch!” she shrieks, her face, hands and clothes covered in her mother’s blood. “I curse all you love!”
I take a step back, unable to take my eyes away from the blood-covered girl. A child’s curse. The gods may listen. This is it. This is the end. There is no going back. Thyra’s curse, so old. So cold. Frost. Rock and ice.
“I didn’t do any—”
“Murderer! You filthy murderer!”
“No, I—”
“I curse all you love!” screams the girl, her voice echoing across the mountains. “You will die!”
It’s all over. It’s all lost. Innocent, but I will never be forgiven. I turn on my heel. An impulse I follow. How can I face this child? How can I explain? I run toward my house, hearing Ragnhild’s voice behind me.
“You will burn!”