Freya’s grin fell as her pride was dashed away. It felt like the Life-giving Flame was snuffed out within her, leaving nothing but a cold, jealous pit. “As you say, Vanir,” she replied, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
The grizzled fireborn frowned, his heavy eyebrows drooping. “We take feedback when it’s given, child, good or bad. Now, let’s finish up here so we can get back to the clanhold. I’ve half a mind to bathe in the Fire Well to warm these old bones of mine.” He shivered into his coat and tottered off, exchanging terse words with the other fireborn he passed.
Freya watched him go as an icy wind gusted past. It stung her face and pulled on loose strands of her hair, but she barely noticed the chill. I’d sooner burn my own eyes out than learn from Runa, she thought, lifting her chin to embrace the cold. That wretched girl is a blight upon us all.
Around her, thrall servants labored to organize the corpses—the Norvaask battleborn into neat rows and the Jotungard raiders into a careless heap. The thralls were wiry men and women, bent figures in dirty rags and bound with iron manacles. They scurried beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, relieving bodies of weapons and armor before depositing them into their designated resting places.
Freya’s lips parted in a grimace as she watched them work. The thralls had only just started and already they were covered in viscera.
She averted her gaze and looked instead at the nearby watchtowers, the massive columns of ice and stone appearing stark against the black sky. Lamps hung from the many windows, illuminating the battlefield and causing the structures to glow blue. The “Pillars of Norvaask” were the tallest buildings anywhere on the Ice Barrens. They could be seen from miles around, marking the clanhold’s location and standing silent watch over the hostile tundra. Gazing upon the ancient towers always filled Freya with a fierce sense of pride. Even surrounded by enemies, Norvaask was among the strongest of the Nine Clanholds, and its Pillars were an embodiment of that strength.
As are its fireborn, she thought smugly.
Taking a deep breath, she tore her eyes away and began making her way toward the others who had all begun gathering around their Vanir.
Some were of similar age to Freya, but many of her fire brothers and sisters were older, veterans who’d fought in more battles than they could count. There were more than a few youngbloods as well, youths barely past their fifteenth year who’d only recently been adopted by the Aesir. Freya remembered when she’d been one herself—a wide-eyed innocent terrified of the prospect of killing. Now, years later, it had become second nature to her, a common occurrence.
A duty to which she was well suited.
She found her friends Brimir, Oster, and Solveig among the rabble. They’d been with her since she first came to the Temple, and were now closer to her than her own family.
They nodded in greeting as she came to stand beside Brimir, a winsome man with a clean-shaven face and an artfully messy crop of brown hair. He looked at her with laughing blue eyes and grinned, pulling her close as Vanir Kelvar started droning on about his observations of the battle.
Freya barely listened, instead peering around to see if any fireborn had died in the fighting. When her gaze finally landed on Runa, her expression soured. No casualties, she thought. How unfortunate.
Runa stood quietly listening to the Vanir, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She had dull blonde hair that hung loosely to her shoulders and pale blue eyes that bordered on violet. Perhaps her most defining feature, though, was the hideous puckered scar marring one of her cheeks. It tugged up on the corner of her mouth, always making it appear like she was smirking. She would have been pretty if not for that scar. Rumor had it that she’d secretly learned magic as a child, and that she accidently started a fire that burned down an entire longhouse, killing everyone inside. Runa never talked about her scar, which only emboldened the rumormongers.
She stood in the midst of the other fireborn, and yet also stood apart. Runa was strange, a quiet individual with few friends in the Temple. She preferred to spend most of her time alone studying or practicing her spells in the training rooms. It wasn’t a secret that she was the bastard daughter of the Clan Lord, Ivar Haig, and that he’d severed all familial ties with her after she was born. That made her even more of an outcast—a lowborn orphan with highborn blood. A reject.
As Freya stared at her, she could feel envy twisting her insides. Runa was several years younger than her, but was nevertheless a more talented pyromancer. This fact rankled Freya. She’d always been one of the best magic users in the clanhold, and she had ambitions to one day become an Aesir, but in recent years, she’d felt upstaged by Runa at every turn. Though the girl wasn’t popular among the other fireborn, the Vanir heaped praises upon her, lifting her up like she was some sort of prodigy.
Freya probably hated her more than anyone else on the face of Njordrassil.
After a minute, Runa caught her staring and offered a tentative smile that tugged at her scar. Freya maintained her cold expression, turning back to listen to Vanir Kelvar.
“The Life-giving Flame gives us strength,” he continued in a formal tone, gesturing at the thrall and the growing pile of enemy corpses. “With it, we’ve defeated our enemies and earned favor with the gods.”
Several of the younger male fireborn whooped and clapped their hands. Freya remained silent along with the elders, keeping her features neutral.
Kelvar shot the young men a disapproving look and raised a gloved hand to quiet them down. “Even so, we can’t allow arrogance to blind us. We’re not battleborn—our brawn doesn’t give us power. We’re the will and spirit of the clanhold. The Life-giving Flame works through us to protect our people, so we must remain vigilant and humble lest our many enemies overpower us.”
This seemed to have a sobering effect on the youths. They stopped their boasting and dropped their eyes to the ground.
The old Vanir let out a long sigh. “Warfare always exacts such a terrible toll. Brothers, fathers, sons, and daughters... these are the sacrifices we must make in order to survive. It is, however, also the price we must pay in order to enter the Immortal Halls.” He approached the line of dead Norvaask battleborn and bowed his head as if in prayer. It was always customary to burn the bodies of fallen warriors after a battle, and the Vanir usually chose a fireborn who’d distinguished themselves to do the honor.
Freya tensed, hoping silently that he would choose her. He sought me out specifically when the fighting was done, she thought, resisting the urge to wring her hands in anticipation. He praised my performance, even if he did compare me to that skrill Runa.
It was a small thing, the burning of the bodies, but it was an accolade nonetheless. Such distinctions were important at the Temple, where Reputation often determined one’s ability to advance in rank.
Kelvar waited for a long moment before finally turning back to face the gathered fireborn. When he did, his eyes passed over Freya and fell on Runa, his wrinkled expression softening. “Runa, would you send our fallen brethren to the Immortal Halls?”
The flaxen-haired girl stepped forward, her scarred visage pleasantly surprised. “Of course, Vanir.”
Freya fumed and was unable to suppress a look of utter contempt. She balled her fists at her sides, fingernails biting into her palms, but she barely felt the pain. The jealous rage inside her was all-consuming.
Brimir took one of her fists and squeezed, and to the side, she heard Solveig mutter the word “skrill.” But not even her friends’ ire could comfort her. All she could do was stand indignantly and watch as her rival took all the glory.
Runa approached the bodies and pulled a small phial of flame spirits from her belt. She needed it to replenish her Magic Points so she could cast spells. She removed the stopper, tilted her head back, and poured the clear liquid down her throat. Few fireborn grew accustomed to drinking the foul stuff—it burned like acid and filled the body with an uncomfortable heat—but Runa didn’t so much
as grimace, her mouth and nose smoking like a chimney. She stretched forth her hand and began to draft, drawing upon the potion to create a fireball. It flickered brightly with a glow that warped the air around it, materializing without so much as a spark.
She tossed the fireball onto the nearest battleborn, then repeated the process for every corpse lying on the ground. The flames spread quickly, consuming flesh in a matter of minutes and sending a great cloud of black smoke into the sky.
When it was done, she turned to regard Kelvar, who nodded at the pile of Jotungard corpses. “And now the raiders, child.”
Using the last of her flame spirits, she conjured a large fireball and flung it onto the pyre, igniting it with a great whoosh. The Jotungard bodies became an inferno and everyone, including the nearby thrall and battleborn, took a few steps back to avoid the intense heat.
“It is done,” Runa said at length, violet eyes reflecting the fires.
Kelvar nodded. “So it is.”
The fireborn stood quietly for a long moment, watching as the flames consumed the bodies. It was a bleak affair, and Freya couldn’t help but chafe as the smoke swirled around them, filling the air with the smell of charred flesh. It would take days of scrubbing to get the stink out of her hair. Why did they have to stand there and be befouled?
Finally, the old Vanir waved in dismissal, sending his pupils back to the Temple for refreshment and rest. The battleborn and the thrall stayed behind. The ashes would need to be scattered when the flames died down, and somebody needed to stand guard in case of another attack.
Sullenly, Freya made her way back to the clanhold along with her flame brothers and sisters. The warm, wet air of the springs washed over her, dampening the smell of char clinging to her clothes. Her friends buzzed with conversation, but Freya remained silent, brooding as she headed for the Temple.
The shield wall was already broken by the time Runa drafted. I’m sure of it. She chewed her lower lip in frustration. Why should she get all the attention? There’s no way she’s as good as everyone seems to think! Compulsively, Freya checked her Reputation. Still 7, she thought, chagrined. Liked, in general and among the fireborn. I suppose it could be worse.
In order to become an Aesir, she would need to reach level 10 and achieve Revered Reputation with a recommendation from the High Aesir. There had to be a vacancy as well. Although she was well on her way to reaching these goals, Freya still had a long road ahead of her.
Assuming Runa didn’t somehow take her position.
“Cheer up, Freya,” Brimir said, flashing her his most dashing grin. “We survived a Jotungard raid! This should be cause to celebrate!”
“Yeah,” Oster agreed, his auburn hair falling loosely about his shoulders. “The same can’t be said for those miserable wretches burning up on the tundra.”
Freya forced herself to smile. “Of course,” she said, pushing away all other thoughts. “You’re right. We won a great victory tonight.”
“It’s all about keeping things in perspective,” Brimir went on. “One day, we’ll all be cold and dead, our spirits carried up to the Immortal Halls. But now, we still breathe. There’s still life in us. Every day we don’t fall is a day we should spend drinking and enjoying the pleasures of life. It’s one of the perks of being a fireborn, after all.”
The others laughed and nodded in agreement. They spoke at length of the revelry they would indulge in once they returned home. Freya tried hard not to let her earlier disappointment show. Brimir was right. She should just live in the moment and forget about her future... for one night at least.
Inevitably, though, thoughts of Runa crept through, tainting her enjoyment like a bitter drink. I need to train harder, she resolved. I need to be better. It’s the only way I’m going to beat her. It’s the only way I’m going to become an Aesir.
A wide bridge connected the clanhold’s middle tier to a lonely terrace on the northern edge of the ravine. The Temple was massive, an elaborate building perched above the Fire Well like a stone behemoth, with sloping outer walls and a peaked inner sanctum. Intricate carvings and glittering gems covered nearly every inch of the structure, depicting heroic deeds and epic myths. The entire structure was like one continuous story, a testament to the history of men on Njordrassil.
When Freya had first come to the Temple, the sight had awed her. Now, it was simply the place she called home.
They crossed the bridge to find that the party had already begun. Music played and wine flowed freely, men and women dancing together and cavorting in ways that would be unseemly anywhere else. People laughed and sang on balconies, their voices carrying over the steam-slicked stones like a loud, drunken choir. Freya and the others joined them by taking up glasses and toasting to their health.
It felt good to celebrate, even though Freya was exhausted from the fighting. She drank and talked, mingling with the crowd and listening with half an ear to the bawdy songs. She lost herself in the merrymaking, carousing with her friends until every inch of her felt warm. The wine made her thoughts grow fuzzy, but she kept her friends close, relishing in being among the clanhold’s chosen.
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, she thought, draining yet another cup. To think I ever lived apart from this... to think I’d ever been a lowborn...
Nearby, a group of people burst into laughter. Curious, Freya inched closer to hear what they were saying.
“The mud warrior from the Dregs!” one man said, wiping his eyes. “That’s a good one!”
“I’m telling you, the man must be soft in the head,” another insisted, his mocking smile broad. “He challenged the new champion to a duel, a battleborn named Ironfists for frosts’ sake! Then, he called the huskarl a coward in front of everyone! The lunatic.”
“I heard he managed to hold his own for a while,” one woman remarked. “Is that true?”
The man shrugged. “For a few seconds, maybe. But as soon as the battleborn was done playing with the skrill, he beat him to a pulp! I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s an idiot in truth, now. That many punches must rattle the brain.”
“What was his name?” someone else asked. Freya couldn’t see his face.
The man leaned in conspiratorially. “Jarl Beckström.”
“Beckström? Isn’t that...”
“Mhm. He’s the brother of Freya, our middling fire sister!”
More laughter, only this time, it was accompanied by more than a few raised eyebrows.
“Must run in the family. You ever seen that girl? Strutting about the Temple like she’s a freezing Aesir herself. Irritating.”
“Those two make quite the pair.”
“Freya,” Brimir said softly, taking her arm and guiding her away. “Don’t listen to them. Come on, let's go somewhere else.”
She pulled away, blinking back sudden tears. Her cheeks were burning, and inside, she was enraged and mortified. “How could he?” she spat, briefly losing control of her emotions. “How could he do this to me?”
“Him?” Brimir gestured to the fire brother laughing with the others. “I’m pretty sure he’s drunk.”
“Not him,” Freya seethed. “Jarl. My brother! How could he be such a fool? Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me?”
“Calm down,” Brimir said in a soothing tone. He reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Take a deep breath. We can leave if you want to. We can go back to my room for the night.”
“No,” she snapped, pulling away from him again. She stalked off without another word.
Freya made straight for her chambers, entering the dimly lit halls of the inner sanctum. Her head was swimming, and tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. This day hadn’t gone at all how she’d hoped it would. Runa was stealing her glory in the eyes of the Vanir, and now her brother was undermining her at every turn.
It made her want to scream.
There were no windows in the sleeping chamber. It was sparsely furnished and contained only the barest of necessities—a woven sleep
ing mat on one side of the room, a chamber pot and baskets for storing clothing. Her most prized possessions were the metal plates stacked against the far wall. They were thin squares of beaten iron, etched with runes chronicling the histories of the Nine Clanholds. There were songs and ballads as well, including stories stretching back to the dawn of time. The Temple housed the records of each clanhold, so rune plates were readily available for each fireborn to study.
Not even reading could lift her spirits. She merely walked over to her sleeping mat and laid down, curling into a ball.
The mocking laughter of the fireborn echoed in her mind, as well as the chiding voice of Vanir Kelvar. Runa was able to kill fifteen of the raiders. She also broke an entire shield wall on her own, if I’m not mistaken. There’s a formidable strength in that one. You’d do well to learn from her example.
She hated crying. It made her feel weak. And yet, she couldn’t help herself. The combined events of the day came crashing down. She laid in the darkness for a long time, cursing Runa’s and her brother’s names, swearing by all the gods that she wouldn’t let them keep her from her ambitions. She resolved to be the greatest fireborn the world had ever seen.
Then, thankfully, she drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5
An Ancient Foe
“Never forget where you came from. It’ll always be a part of who you are.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 2
A northern wind buffeted the Old Man of the Tundra, tugging at his cloak like an insistent Valkyrie, beckoning him to his grave. The wind was no stranger to him. He viewed it as an old acquaintance—not a friend, but an unwelcome tag-along he could neither shake nor ignore. He shivered, sinking deeper into his furs as a violent gust nearly sent him tumbling to the frost-covered ground.
“Could’ve been warm in our cave,” he said in an accusing, nasally voice. “But no. You just had to come out here and investigate.”
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