The Blades of the Old Kingdoms (ebook)

Numerous isles dotted the Gandvík, many of them claimed by jarls or petty kings who strove to dominate those jarls. None of those so-called kingdoms concerned Slagfid. Only the call of the ring mattered. Rumours, though, legends even, spoke of other powers calling some few islands in Reidgotaland home. According to these stories, after their fall, one of the Old Kingdoms yet lingered, a slumbering shadow of its former self. This kingdom, the Niflungar—people steeped in knowledge even völvur feared—had retreated into Mist-cloaked isles. New kingdoms rose around them, but still there remained a shroud of fear. Sometimes, Men ventured to one island or another and never returned.
No one wished to take him to the isles, especially not on the cusp of winter, so he’d been forced to row a small boat himself. His arms ached with the effort, but his ring grew ever warmer, telling him he drew nigh to Svanhit. His wife awaited, and he could not brook biding through the long moons of winter, huddling in some longhouse to await her.
Mostlike, some of those petty kingdoms squabbled over an island or some other stretch of land. And their battles—rather, the heroic deaths those battles engendered—would draw valkyrjar, like his wife. Svanhit always liked a good battle. Sometimes they had sparred, Svanhit winning her fair share of their struggles.
It had bothered him, at first, a woman besting him oft as not, when almost no man had ever done so. But then, she was a valkyrja, not just any woman. Svanhit knew well the spear-din, was an expert in sword and shield, bow and spear. Besides, their matches ended most often with them going at each other like rabbits in heat. That, he did not overmuch mind.
A chill sweat dripped down his back. He glanced over his shoulder. There in the distance was an island, maybe the source of the battles. Certainly, he felt the warmth of his ring increasing. The sky above that island though, it grew dark, a storm sweeping in. By the ghosts of his ancestors, it was coming toward him. He’d never make it back to his last stop ere it hit, nor could he be sure of finding land if he turned more southerly. Njörd, it seemed now, was wroth with him. Probably should have made a sacrifice afore he left.
“Father, if you’re listening … I need to reach land ere the storm reaches me. Grant me strength.”
He turned back and heaved on the oars, propelling himself with all the speed he could muster.

* * *
Rain lashed against him, whipping his hair about his face, nigh to blinding him. He’d mocked Agilaz for keeping such short hair. Seemed his half-brother had a reason for it. The waves had grown in intensity, casting his rowboat off course, the dim sensation of his ring told him that.
“Njörd, if you get me through this … I will offer up nine lives in your name. Such, I swear.” Slagfid had no idea if the god was listening, or cared for the urd of a random Kven, but he saw little to lose in such prayers.
A surge of water crashed over his boat. One of his oars fell from his grasp, then disappeared, carried away from the boat. The Vanr did not seem to be listening. Damn fickle, the gods could be. Especially the god of wind and sea.
Slagfid pushed his hair back from his eyes, then cast about himself, still couldn’t make out land.
Another wave rocked his boat and flung him forward. His shoulder hit the rail, and he almost tumbled over the side. The gods did not love him this day, nor, it seemed, did his father’s ghost.
He could not steer the boat with one oar, and the waves were tossing him about so violently it might not have mattered. The winter storms had come early. “Svanhit … I pray you guide me true.” The ring pulled him to one side, tempting him with the promise of land.
With a deep breath, he vaulted the rail and dove into the sea. He was already soaked, but still, that first plunge felt like slipping into the icy demesne of Hel. The deeper he dove, though, the less force the waves held. In the darkness, he could make out almost naught.
All he could do was strive forward. Trust the ring.
Men claimed serpents and mermaids and even the Kraken lived beneath the Gandvík. Slagfid, though, saw not so much as a fish.
He broke the surface, gasping. Another wave crashed over him, flung water down his throat. He sputtered, coughing up a lungful of the stuff. Please, Svanhit. Or any other god who might be listening. He had little wish to die, pulled down into the net of Rán. Some said the saealf queen spat out her rejects as draugar, forever haunting the sea where they died. Slagfid would not wish such an urd even upon his enemies.
He dove under again, lungs feeling apt to burst. He’d not had a full breath of air, was not like to get one. At this point he’d accept aid from Rán or her dire husband, Ægir. He’d almost welcome succour from Hel herself. None of them answered.
Follow the ring.
His whole chest was on fire.
He did not want to die like this.