Valkyrie's Shadow

Winter's Crown: Act 8, Chapter 20

Winter's Crown: Act 8, Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Sigurd stormed his way towards Thingvellir. Snow and ice flew before his furious steps and the ground quaked under his cold wrath.

Anger was not all that fueled his conviction; there was also remorse. Remorse over the state of his people. Over the fact that he had not done what tradition had demanded of him before it was too late. Complacency. Sloth. Decades of shirking the duty of the strong. It was as much his fault as anyone else’s – no, if anything, Sigurd’s failure to act had brought the judgement of the gods upon his people.

Upon learning of what had occurred; of the cursed fate that would befall the tribes, fury welled up from within him. He shouted and raged and smashed down one of the walls of the icy hut under the mountain. Into the bright daylight he ran, going straight to his village to arm and equip himself with what he could find on such short notice. There was no time to locate what had been lost, for the reckoning that stood at the end of all his squandered years was already at hand.

In his wake came the Valkyrie, Shalltear Bloodfallen, and her shieldmaiden, Ludmila Zahradnik. They rode upon the back of the Dragon, Fimbulvetr, who did not appear very pleased.

“I can’t believe I’m being ridden,” she complained. “I can’t say that I’ve seen any of the nobles in the city using their vassals as mounts, either.”

“Hejinmal carried His Majesty on his back when we first met,” the Valkyrie replied, “it was a great privilege and honour for him to be allowed to serve as a mount. Aura rides her pets around all the time as well.”

“I’m not a pet!”

“But you will be, yes? Unless you mean to say that you’re defying my instructions…”

Fimbulvetr fell silent, gliding quietly after Sigurd. He felt it an odd exchange to have with the circumstances as they were. Odder still was having a Frost Dragon following him around without their trying to kill one another. Then again, it seemed that the entire world had been turned on its head.

The prophecies of old had passed them by unawares. The fate of the gods – where the honoured dead would be called upon to fight the final, great battle – would never come, for it was already gone and done. For five centuries, they had been oblivious of the new world that they now dwelled in.

It was ludicrous. So ludicrous that Sigurd could only agree with the gods’ disgust at his people. Yet, they had been granted a chance. One, final, chance to set things right again; to prove that they were worthy of existence in the eyes of the gods.

The frozen landscape went by as he dashed over fields of rugged ice. It was over 30 Kilometres to Thingvellir, and the way wound along an uneven route, going by several mountain peaks. It would be an otherwise simple journey for him – a relaxing day’s stroll – but need now drove him forward and he worried over whether he could make it in time.

In his haste, he left Gudrun and the others who wished to follow far behind. The Valkyrie said nothing of his decision, neither did she give any hints of what his fate might be. It felt a test; a challenge that faced the storied men and women in the tales of old.

And a challenge would await him. Jarl Vali Stenberg and the rest of his cronies were craven and surely stayed behind in Thingvellir rather than march with the army to face the Knight of Niflheim. They would have held back their strongest from the battle: their Champions, Blackguards and loyal housecarls.

Contrary to what his name might suggest, Vali Stenberg would most likely choose his champion, Hákon, to fight in his stead. That was if he even entertained the notion of a challenge. Sigurd believed that he would, however. He did not think his people as a whole had fallen so far just yet, and turning Sigurd down would damage Jarl Stenberg’s position as a leader and his standing amongst the other Jarls.

It was late in the afternoon when his steps slowed, and they came into the shadow of the mountains that loomed over Thingvellir. Across the vast vale that lay under the tallest peaks of the Azerlisia mountains, the camps of hundreds of Frost Giants were spread out as far as the eye could see. As he made his way through them, it was clear that none were occupied – even the places of honour where the tribal leaders should be.

It has already started, then. But where are the Jarls? Did they actually find the courage to fight?

He continued working his way through the camps until he spotted several people slowly walking north. Breaking into a jog, he called out for them to stop. They turned in his direction, wide-eyed at his approach. The group appeared to be a family: adorned in hides that were not the armour of a hunter or warrior, but those of simple villagers. A man and a woman each held a spear, while the children dragged bags of stones behind them.

“Where–”

Sigurd glanced behind himself, belatedly recalling the fact that a Frost Dragon was tailing him. Fimbulvetr was nowhere to be seen, however. The Valkyrie and her shieldmaiden were following in his trail…with an additional female beside them. The Frost Dragon certainly lived up to her crafty reputation. He turned back to the family.

“Where is everyone?” He asked, “Why have villagers armed themselves like this?”

“You…you haven’t heard?” The man answered, “The Jarls had the citadels and all the villages emptied. Everyone has been called to fight the lowland invaders coming from the north.”

“From where did you travel?”

“Vestrberg.”

It was the tribe to the west, the furthest of the central tribes from Thingvellir. The call to arms meant that the army had been defeated, or they at least required help…no, knowing what came, they were almost certainly all dead.

“How long ago was this?”

“Word came this morning. We’re the last, I think.”

With a nod, Sigurd jogged off, and the family stared after him and his diminutive following. Did they recognize the Valkyrie? Or had they forgotten altogether? In addition to flouting the traditions of their ancestors, the central and northern tribes considered the histories and lore left to them nothing more than fanciful myth. It was well-worn entertainment at best.

Following the procession of villagers north, he finally came upon the main body of Frost Giants. They were loosely arranged in a line just beyond the northern entrance to Thingvellir; most looked to be armed in whatever they could find. Sigurd turned to address the Valkyrie and her companions.

“It will be better if I go alone from here,” he told them. “I have no desire to see what will happen if someone accidentally steps on a Valkyrie.”

The three before him exchanged glances.

“So he says,” the Valkyrie said.

“This fool is just going to go in and challenge this lot?” Fimbulvetr’s voice was incredulous, “He might be stronger than the rest, but they’ll still chop him to bits right after he opens his mouth.”

“I will not allow that to happen,” Sigurd told them.

Fimbulvetr turned a dubious expression upon him. A hole, darker than the fading twilight, appeared in the air between them.

“Sigurd has been charged with the fate of his people,” the Valkyrie said. “Come, let’s see what destiny has in store for them.”

One by one, they disappeared into the hole. Fimbulvetr paused to sniff at it suspiciously. The Valkyrie’s shieldmaiden pushed her through from behind. When the hole in the air closed, Sigurd took a deep breath before turning to approach the Frost Giant line.

Finding Jarl Stenberg and his followers was a simple enough task. They were the only people in the entire group who had any semblance of proper equipment. Well-armoured and wielding mighty weapons, they stood out starkly against the throng of villagers with their crude log spears and common adornment. It also helped that the Jarl and his housecarls had safely placed themselves well behind the line.

As he approached the Jarl and his men, one of them looked up and said something. Their discussion quieted as they turned their attention to him.

“Sigurd?”

Jarl Stenberg was a man in his prime, adorned in the plate mail armour worn by the Frost Giant elite. A pale gold beard spilt out in waves over his breastplate, and a hand rested atop of the haft of his finely-crafted greataxe. Eyes that matched the colour of his hair peered out at him from under the shadow of his helm.

“What are you doing here…and what in the world happened to you?”

Sigurd supposed that he did not appear as he usually did. The armour he wore was borrowed and did not fit quite right, and a regular iron axe was a poor substitute for his missing Frostreaver.

“Well, no matter,” Jarl Stenberg looked up at a distant sound. “Frostreaver sent his son instead of you, so I figured he was holding back on us. It’s a good thing you came to your senses.”

“Speaking of Gunnar,” Sigurd asked, “where is he? What of all the warriors that came to fight from all the tribes?”

“He was sent north to defend the other side of the central valley,” the Jarl answered. “The rest were useless.”

“Useless?”

“They fought and they died,” Jarl Stenberg said. “Didn’t even last the morning. The other Jarls were probably just like old Frostreaver: selfishly holding back their best to protect themselves.”

And what of you?

Sigurd glanced around them. Was he blind to his own hypocrisy?

Aside from Jarl Frostreaver’s two Blackguards and Sigurd’s warband, Gunnar had been sent with nearly all of the Frostreaver Tribe’s warriors and hunters. They had sent everything, save for the bare minimum that was required to defend their territory. Meanwhile, Stenberg was surrounded by dozens of his best.

“Then the other Jarls stayed back in their citadels?”

“The three in the north did,” Jarl Stenberg replied, “just like Frostreaver. Austrberg and Vestrberg showed up, but Vestrberg ran back to his citadel after what happened this morning.”

“And Austrberg?”

“Dead.”

Sigurd fought to keep a sneer from his lips. It was a warrior’s place to fight and defend a tribe’s territory, yet Vestrberg had fled and sent villagers – even children – in his stead. If Sigurd had his way, he would drag these cowards out and hang them from their citadel walls to be eaten alive by the ravens…but first, he needed to deal with the craven Jarl before him.

“Show me to this enemy,” he said.

Jarl Stenberg jerked his head towards the lines of villagers to the north.

“They’re just across the field if you want to see them for yourself…what do you have in mind?”

“I thought a challenge would be appropriate.”

“A challenge?” The Jarl snorted, “I don’t even know why you think that’d work. Did Frostreaver send more warriors? Where is your warband?”

“I rushed here on my own,” Sigurd replied.

The Jarl wrinkled his nose, a disgusted frown forming behind his beard.

“Sigurd is stronger than those black-armoured fellows across the field,” one of Stenberg’s huntresses said from nearby. “If it came to a challenge, he would easily win.”

Jarl Stenberg gave her a sour look.

“Yeah,” his voice dripped acid, “and then what? You think they’ll all just conveniently line up for him to fight? What sort of idiot would allow that?”

The huntress frowned and turned her gaze away from them.

“What do we have to lose?” Sigurd asked. “Every one of our people’s enemies that I destroy is one less to worry about.”

“Fine, whatever,” Jarl Stenberg waved him away with a dismissive gesture, “it’s your life to throw away.”

“You will not come and bear witness?”

“Why?”

Truly, this man is dead inside.

Even with a powerful Champion heading out to challenge fate, not a shred of interest could be seen in the Jarl. Sigurd looked pointedly to the Jarl’s retinue, who at least showed a bit of excitement at the prospect. Jarl Stenberg did not miss his look. He turned his gaze over the men and women nearby, then lifted his axe.

“If you insist on turning yourself into some sort of side amusement,” he said, “then be my guest.”

They made their way through the crowd, stirring the curiosity of the mustered villagers. Upon breaking through to the far side, Sigurd found a familiar sight.

Just over 500 metres away stood hundreds of black-armoured shield bearers ordered in neat formations. They were the same Undead beings that he saw lined up along the Dwarven highway weeks ago. With what he now knew, Sigurd understood them to be an army from Niflheim: the dark and misty realm of the unworthy dead.

Far ahead of them, a row of figures stood. The Valkyrie in her blood-red armour stood in stark contrast to the clear snow, and her two companions stood beside her. To the right of them stood a figure that was nearly a head taller than the Undead warriors. It was insectoid in appearance and gripped a halberd in one of its claws. Its carapace glistened in the bright blue hues of glacial waters. Sigurd had no doubt in his mind that this being was the aforementioned Knight of Niflheim, one who ruled over its frozen rivers.

Steeling himself, he strode out towards them. A hundred metres out from the Frost Giant line, he stopped and raised his axe overhead. The murmur of curious discussion behind him stilled.

“I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund,” his booming voice echoed from the walls of the valley. “Champion of the Frostreaver Tribe. In this place where three valleys meet; in the eyes of the gods and by the traditions of our ancestors, I declare my right to challenge!”

Sigurd turned to face the Frost Giants, lowering his axe to level it straight towards his adversary.

“You are called to Holmgang,” he shouted with barely-contained fury, “Vali Stenberg!”