The Unbroken Line of the Moon

by Hildebrandt, Johanne

  “What I have said must happen,” Emma said.

  The seeress lowered her head in acknowledgment. “I hear you.”

  “Then sing of my name so it will live on forever,” Emma replied.

  Emma let go of Beyla’s arm and turned around and ran, away from the fire, through the tents with their flags and banners waving and their burning fires where men hunkered down in the wind. Kára carried her toward the ships bearing Styrbjörn the Strong’s colors. Only when she was there did Emma stop and hold her hands up to the sky, where the valkyries were swooping around in the night, coveting the blood that waited by the beaches.

  Kára greeted the valkyries with a roaring shriek, so powerful that it echoed between the nine worlds. Fire Giants, I summon you and conjure up your devouring might.

  She grabbed a burning log and jumped onto one of the ships. She set fire to a pile of cloth and laughed loudly as the fire giants spread in every direction. Quickly she leapt over to the next boat beached there and spread the flames further.

  The fire was like a living being. It consumed each ship and jumped from one to the next, each of them blazing up in the night. Emma rolled over the gunwale and backed away from the ships. Laughing, she watched the roaring inferno. Consuming flames, radiant devastation, most lethal of forces, I conjure you. Then suddenly the all-consuming fire was far too close. Screaming, she saw it climbing from the hem of her dress up toward her chest. Burn, they were all going to burn.

  Men came running from every direction trying in vain to put out the flames. Emma held up her burning arms to the sea of flames on the beach. Her skin bubbled and scorched, her hair burned away, and her flaming dress clung to her body. She embraced the screaming pain as it consumed her. Burn, they were all going to burn and she had to die.

  But not yet.

  Styrbjörn the Strong and his men stared at her in horror.

  Emma’s legs scarcely held her as she staggered toward the cross Styrbjörn wore on his chest.

  “I curse you, cross worshipper,” Kára roared at him in a mighty voice. “You who profane the Most High will all die.”

  Emma’s dress and cloak blazed and she sank to her knees. Smoke filled her lungs as she wheezed and coughed, struggling for breath. Sigrid and the babies must live. The torment was insufferable as her flesh burned and her skin became charred.

  “Kára!” she bellowed in her pain.

  Soon you will be with me, the dís whispered gently.

  With a shudder of pain, Emma closed her eyes as the darkness released her. It was finally over.

  Sweyn stood up like a new man, filled with contempt. He had been a sniveling fool, caught up in false hopes, fawning like a lapdog over another man’s wife. He had disgracefully allowed dreams to stand in the way of strength and had faltered when so many men were relying on him and supporting his cause. But no more.

  He stared vacantly at the flames that raged in the distance, by the shore. Just then Ragnvald came running, all out of breath.

  “Styrbjörn is burning his own ships,” the boy screamed breathlessly. “People heard him say he would be victorious or die on these shores.”

  So, madness had finally consumed the cross worshippers. Sweyn looked at his men, saw their uncertainty about what was happening, and then smiled broadly.

  “This isn’t our fight,” Sweyn said. “Tell the men we’re boarding our ships immediately. A richer plunder awaits where we are headed, far greater than what Styrbjörn has to offer.”

  The words set the men in motion. They snatched up all their things and rushed to the ships.

  “It’s time to take what I have coming to me,” Sweyn stated with a nod to his inner circle as they left the camp.

  A yearning for battle ached in Sweyn’s body as he stood at the prow of his ship and watched the flames spreading through Styrbjörn’s ships like a wind-driven wildfire. He wanted to beat someone to a pulp, kill every man he saw, and hear their death screams as they fell to his sword.

  Ragnvald waded out into the water with his knapsack in his arms. He was the last of the warriors who had hurried to the ships. The boy flung his pack over the gunwale and was pulled aboard as the men began rowing away from the beach, where scores of ships were burning. The flames rose into the sky with a roar all the way up to Valhalla, turning night to day for the Jómsvíkings.

  “Styrbjörn sure picked an expensive way to instill courage in his men,” Åke said.

  Their own ships a lost cause, Styrbjörn’s warriors lined the beach pointing at the departing Jómsvíking ships and screamed that the Jómsvíkings were deserters. In vain Styrbjörn’s men shot burning arrows after them, hoping to share the devastation.

  “Row!” shouted Sweyn. “Row us all the way to Valhalla!”

  At that moment Sweyn saw everything clearly: Sigrid, Svealand, Styrbjörn’s battle. They were all delusion. There was only one path to take.

  “By Thor!” he cried to his men sweating on the rowing benches, as the sails filled with Kára’s favorable wind. “We sail to the south and we’ll burn and plunder any village or farm that serves Harald Bluetooth. Men, I promise you riches and glory, or an honorable death.”

  The men’s loud shouts only fueled Sweyn’s rage. Sigrid might be lost to him, but he would claim the kingdom that was his.

  The babies slept calmly at Sigrid’s breasts, safely dozing, unaware of how fragile their lives were. She held them in her arms, unable to let go of them. She wanted to protect every breath they took and safeguard the time they had together. However short it would be. Muffled screams were heard from the hall. Sigrid wiped away her tears and listened carefully for the news she hoped for and feared.

  “The Jómsvíkings are deserting! They’re leaving Svealand!”

  “Styrbjörn is burning his own ships!”

  She had succeeded. Sweyn had listened. Sigrid lowered her head as sobs shook her. Her beloved was gone.

  Thank you, Vanadís.

  Her tears fell on the two little ones while her grief at the sacrifice she had made stabbed daggers in her heart. Without the Jómsvíkings, the Svea could win. She had given up the happiness and safety she and the children could have had with Sweyn for Freya’s sake, so that the power of the gods would endure, to prevent the Christian god from swallowing the world. All she could hope for now was that Freya, the shining Radiant One, would have mercy on and protect their lives from Erik. Sigrid’s cheek was wet, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Freya had sent Kára to watch over the babies and had protected her in everything. She had to trust that she wouldn’t desert her now that Olaf, the king of kings, was here.

  A quick knock on the door made Sigrid look up. To her relief, when the door opened she saw Ulf step into the room, looking singularly manly in his battle garb, fully armed.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Sigrid in surprise as she quickly wiped away her tears.

  She shook her head and said, “Nothing, now that you’re here.”

  “Father is still back home fighting Anund’s men. Soon even their land will belong to the Scylfings. He sent me with five ships to make good on his promise to Erik.”

  Things must be bad if Toste sent Ulf, who has no interest in combat.

  “I brought good men with me,” Ulf said as though sensing her thoughts. He walked up to the bed and studied the babies. “Oh, look at the poor little thing.”

  Sigrid lifted up the girl, who lay closest to her, and placed the baby in her brother’s hands.

  “Is this Olaf?” he asked, giving her a look of concern.

  “That’s the girl. Erik won’t adopt her. He says she’s to be killed. He wants to do away with all three of us.”

  “I know.”

  “How can you know?” Sigrid said, raising her eyebrows.

  “I have people who tell me things,” Ulf said, smiling at the baby, who gave a big yawn in his hands.

  Carefully he put her back in Sigrid’s arms.

  “If Erik won’t adopt her, I’ll take her home as my
own,” Ulf said calmly. “No Svea is going to spill Scylfing blood.”

  Sigrid’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time out of relief.

  “We share blood and lineage, sister,” Ulf said. “I have to leave you for the battlefield now. Erik is going to swear himself to Odin before the battle and once we’ve been victorious—with the All-Father’s help—I will return to your side.”

  Standing tall, he strode over to the door and put his hand on the carved handle.

  “Estrid,” he said.

  Sigrid put her arms around the girl.

  “Yes, her name will be Estrid,” she said and forced a smile. “Come back victorious.”

  He nodded and left them, looking resolved. Sigrid lay back in bed and took a shaky breath. There was still hope. The darkness wasn’t over them yet.

  The thunderous beat of the war drums echoed through the morning mist as the mighty army of the Svea stood ready to face Styrbjörn’s warriors. Row upon row of grim-faced men with their shields raised and weapons in hand waited to fight to the death. The banners fluttered in the wind. Horses whinnied and stamped uneasily. In the sky the valkyries waited, ready to bring home the finest of the fallen. Like birds of prey the wondrously beautiful dísir—with their flowing hair and bared fangs—shrieked.

  Emma swooped forward over the grass, filled with the empty serenity she had been blessed with. The ground pulsed in expectation and anguish at the battle that was about to take place.

  Sweat ran down the warriors’ faces as they waited to wage the battle of life and death. They shouldn’t feel any fear. There was only stillness in the afterworld, and soon their torment would be over.

  On the far side of the meadow Styrbjörn the Strong rode ahead to the front line on a white horse. The banner with the white cross billowed over his head. Emma looked at his empty future with indifference. The darkness at the top of his head was the sign that his time would soon be up.

  The drums quieted, and Erik moved forward with Odin the All-Father at his side. The one-eyed god carried his ravens, one on either shoulder, and his back was stooped beneath his dark cloak.

  Erik put on his helmet and firmly grasped a battle spear, feeling strengthened by the watching presence of the mighty god beside him. The king of Svealand raised the spear to his people before turning and throwing it over the battlefield.

  “Odin owns us all!”

  His battle cry was answered by all the warriors, and like a wave of fury the Svea surged across the meadow, down toward the intruders at the beach. The steady rumbling beat of the war drums triggered unit after unit of lethal men, brimming with the rage of the valkyries.

  Styrbjörn’s warriors raised their shield walls and spears as the Svea arrows approached their units. Showers of arrows rained from the sky, drilling into the wooden shields and into the men, who fell screaming. A moment later the two forces met in rage, pain, and death: ax blade against ax blade, sword against sword, long spears through soft bodies, crush, chop, shred, shriek. Emma circulated through the fighting and watched man after man fall to sharp blades. Youths who dreamt of making a name for themselves as warriors, fathers seeking glory and riches, men with no choice but to obey their master’s orders. They were all doomed.

  Emma smiled at Kára, who with a howling shriek swooped down from the sky like a black shadow. The valkyries, horrifying in their bloody insanity, harvested the fallen warriors. They took some of them into their arms and whisked them into the afterworld, the best for Freya in Folkvang, others to Odin’s Valhalla. They imparted their blessed fury to some of them so they were filled with such strength that their blows could easily cleave a shield in two, and a select few they protected fiercely. Mjölnir flashed as Thor, the mighty thunderer, fought at the Sveas’ side. Thor, the magnificent protector of mankind, knocked down enemy after enemy, and the Svea warriors beside him were filled by his strength. A brilliant light shone over Styrbjörn and the cross bearers, dazzling in its purity. It carried them forward and filled their hearts with courage. Soon they would cross swords in this world and the next.

  Emma squatted down and stroked the cheek of one of Styrbjörn’s dying warriors, no older than herself. Trembling with fear, he clung to life with his hands pressed over a bleeding, fetid wound in his belly.

  “Feel no fear, my friend,” Emma counseled with a smile. “Let go. It will be easier that way.”

  The young man turned his head and when his eyes settled on her, he started shrieking in sheer terror. Emma looked down at her own scorched feet. If he didn’t want her comfort, he could just lie there and die by himself. He would have plenty of company soon enough.

  Styrbjörn’s men backed toward the water, step-by-step. The rage of the Svea hammered mercilessly at Styrbjörn’s lines, knocking warrior after warrior down and grinding them up like a millstone. Erik’s sword flashed in the battle, guided by Odin at his side. Splashed with blood he reaped his enemies under the waving banner of Svealand as he fought his way toward Styrbjörn.

  Styrbjörn fought bravely against the Svea shield wall, and he urged and incited his men to gain ground. Then the loud warning cry of a horn penetrated the din of the war drums. Ship after ship pulled ashore. They were the chieftains from Södermanland, who had finally arrived to attack Styrbjörn’s forces from the flank.

  Emma giggled at the desperate struggle of those marked for death. Trapped between two armies and the water and the marsh, Styrbjörn and Harald’s Danish fighters had nowhere to flee. With desperate courage, they fought bitterly against the superior armies. The ground shook with death screams and despair. The sky darkened from the valkyries’ hunger. Emma swept across the meadow, which had now been baptized in blood, over toward Styrbjörn the Strong, who was fighting, staunchly defended by a close ring of men around him. His standard bearer lay by his side, already dead, an arrow straight through his neck. The Svea cut down Styrbjörn’s hird one man at a time. Axel and Orm, side by side, were leading the battle.

  Then Erik rushed forward to Styrbjörn, his own nephew, and their swords met. The combat was intense as they slashed at each other with their swords, relative against relative, Valhalla against the cross. Sweat poured down their faces, and their exhaustion showed in their fighting as evening fell over the battlefield.

  Styrbjörn was bigger and stronger than the king of Svealand. With his strong arms, Styrbjörn managed to split Erik’s shield. Erik, smaller but able to move faster, caught the shield Axel tossed to him and continued fighting with Odin’s ecstatic rage gleaming in his eyes.

  Emma lowered her head in deference to Odin as the stately old man came walking through the battle in his broad-brimmed hat and dark blue cape. The one-eyed All-Father bore a staff in his hand.

  “Odin by your many names,” Emma said, “Vakr, Farmatýr, Baleyg, the Most High, Awakener, God of Burdens, Flaming Eye, I honor you.”

  Odin didn’t look at her as he raised the staff toward the light radiating from the cross that Styrbjörn wore on his chest. Styrbjörn advanced even more fiercely and landed a blow on Erik’s sword arm, but he kept fighting even with blood pouring from the wound. The cross on Styrbjörn’s chest blazed with burning purity, and he grinned like a mighty god as he drove the weakening Erik backward.

  Odin, the War Father, again raised his staff, and Valhalla rose like a red wave toward the shining light, god against God, strength against strength. The valkyries swooped through the darkness into the light, where they ripped the light bearer to pieces. Then the red wave crashed over Styrbjörn and extinguished all his light.

  Erik was infused with a new courage. He tossed aside his shield and drove Styrbjörn backward with his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Then Erik succeeded in stabbing the dagger into Styrbjörn’s throat. Smiling, he looked into his nephew’s eyes as he choked, sputtering in his own blood.

  Styrbjörn fell down dead on the ground. The flag with the cross lay by his side, trampled into the mud. Odin gazed in satisfaction at the man who had failed to conquer Sv
ealand.

  “Odin owns us all!” Erik shouted, raising the dagger high above his head. Gleaming blood red, it sent its strength over the battlefield, and at that moment every Svea warrior knew that they’d achieved victory.

  Styrbjörn’s people had lost. Young and old had fallen to the Sveas’ blades and piercing spears. Priestesses’ war charms had paralyzed many of the rest of Styrbjörn’s men so they couldn’t move. Those who still could huddled together, fearing the horrendous sorcery.

  Many fled across the marsh but were pulled down into the quagmire by their armor. They drowned, embraced by Rán’s daughters who dwelled in the water there. Only a few made it to the land on the far side and ran for the woods.

  Emma smiled at a dead man who was wandering among the wounded still screaming in pain.

  She pointed to the east where the immense gates to Hel stood open, but he didn’t seem to see her or even understand that he was dead. Confused, he was still wandering around among the spirits who had fallen in battle.

  Emma raised her arms and danced with the valkyries on the battlefield of the fallen until night came. Their blood had flowed across Fýrisvellir, and finally peace did settle over the meadow.

  Odin owned them all.

  Victory for Valhalla.

  Sigrid was numb with gratitude and relief as she looked out across the hall where the freewomen, servants, and slaves were tending the wounded. The men suffered from mutilated arms, sliced-up bellies, and bleeding wounds. Svealand’s victory came at a painful price. The priestesses chanted over the dead, who were then carried away, new wounded immediately brought in to take their place.

  Sigrid swayed on her feet, still weak from childbirth, but she couldn’t just lie in her bed as the screams of the dying filled the hall. Her chest was burdened by her worry for Emma and her brother. Her sister should have been back ages ago. Maybe she had stopped to watch the battle. Maybe she was watching over Ulf to make sure he returned unharmed.