Viking Lost

by Derek Nelsen

  ‘Who to Kill First?’ was just a game helpless men played. Tor knew he’d be lucky to get to Vidar before one of the others put a knife in his back.

  “Skadi, please!” Runa begged.

  Tor remembered an old saying from his father.

  Deceit is a blade, and its cuts never heal.

  Runa’s eyes widened, as if she could sense the pain coming.

  Tor heard the sound of Ubbi rushing in, and then the lights went out.

  Confession

  “Shhh,” Skadi whispered.

  Runa just stared in horror as her long-time neighbor gently kissed the little circle she’d embroidered into the scarf, then used it to wipe the blood off her neck. Runa jerked as the pain of agitating the fresh wound ran down her spine, but she couldn’t fight back. They’d tied her to two saplings by her middle fingers, her arms spread out above her head. Ubbi was busy tying one of Tor’s middle fingers to a sapling up the hill.

  “That’s not enough.” Old Erik grabbed Tor’s seax out of Anja’s hand, and pushed Skadi away. “Here, let me show you.”

  Runa tried to scream, but the old man began stuffing her new scarf into her mouth. The more she tried to spit it out, the farther he pushed it in. His green eye bulged out of his head as if it might fall out onto Runa’s cheek as he made his first cut.

  “It wasn’t long ago that you offered me the butcher’s carrion as a sacrifice. Do you remember that?” Old Erik jabbed her wound. Then, as if satisfied, he crammed his gnarled finger tipped in her blood into his mouth, pulled it out clean, and wiped it dry on her shoulder.

  Runa could feel a warm, wet flow of blood pulse down until it soaked the collar of her coat.

  “There must be blood at a sacrifice.” He held his hand out to Skadi so she could help him to his feet. Then his attention went back to Runa. “You said you prayed for your husband to defeat that brute over there.” He gestured the quaking finger toward Vidar. “But as long as I’ve known you, your constant prayer has been that you’d see your daughter, Gefn, again. Hasn’t it?”

  Runa cried the pain of that memory into the scarf. Her throat burned outside and in, from the blade and her muffled screams. Through all the confusion of that moment, nothing could make her bleed more than that. What kind of torture was this?

  Old Erik ran his fingers through Skadi’s long, dark hair. “Skadi’s prayers have always been a little selfish. Many years ago, when Anja was sick—do you remember that?”

  Runa remembered. Skadi and Pedar thought they might lose her. They were all so close back then.

  Erik continued, “Skadi offered sacrifices to Freyja to save little Anja, but it wasn’t enough to get the goddess’s attention, was it, Skadi? But I knew her heart.” Old Erik pulled some of Skadi’s thick hair into his face and breathed in deeply. “She prayed for her daughter, but she was thinking only of herself. She was afraid she’d look like a failed mother if something happened to her little girl. You understand that feeling, don’t you?”

  Runa felt like she was choking. The embroidered circle at the end of that scarf was cutting into her tongue. But it was only half as harsh as his words. Skadi looked like she was also feeling the sting.

  “Not too long ago—last summer, in fact—she prayed for her son, Ragnall. By that time, she’d learned to come to me.” Old Erik sucked on his teeth. “She prayed that he wouldn’t become an embarrassment, really. And that’s why I brought Vidar here.” Old Erik pointed his long nose, wet around the nostrils, into Skadi’s ear, and sniffed. “That cost you Toren.”

  “But Vidar was shipwrecked.” Anja looked to her mother for answers Skadi didn’t seem to have.

  “Shush!” Old Erik ordered.

  The old priest is delusional. Runa tried to make sense of it all. Does he know the daughters of Rán that he can influence the sea? She cut her eyes to see Ubbi still struggling to get a knot tied to Tor’s other middle finger. He must still be alive.

  “You see, the things Skadi prays for cost more than a goat or a cow. A heart wants what it wants and will make deals the mind would never agree to. A soul for a soul, as the saying goes.” Then he let Skadi go. “Go make your offering.”

  Tears streaked Skadi’s face as she knelt beside Runa, put her finger to her lips—a sign that she should keep quiet—and pulled the scarf gently out of Runa’s mouth.

  Runa gagged and nearly vomited as it came out. She wanted Skadi to explain. She tried to plea with her with her eyes. Please!

  Skadi picked up some white snow and put it to Runa’s lips. It was icy cold, like the night, but it helped with the thirst, and for that, Runa was grateful.

  Skadi fingered Runa’s scarf in the weak light of the rising moon until she found the little embroidered circle. Then she dragged it across Runa’s throat. Runa winced but tried to stay quiet. She couldn’t bear the thought of being gagged again. At first it felt like Skadi was rubbing sand across the open wound, then she dabbed at Runa’s throat as gently as a nurse.

  “Runa, I know this must be a little confusing,” Old Erik explained, “but bear with us. You see, Skadi’s an apprentice of mine. She’s just learning.” Old Erik pushed up on Skadi’s elbow and nodded. “You are being offered as a sacrifice for her to become a priestess. Now that I’m gothi, I won’t have time for it all.” Skadi kissed the scarf, leaving a bloody stamp of the embroidered circle about the center of her lips. Then she wiped blood from the scarf across the backs of both of her hands.

  Runa felt a chill colder than ice climb up her spine.

  “Your husband Tor is Vidar’s sacrifice—a blessing for Anja, that she will not die bearing his children as his mother did when he was born. The Christian girl is a gift for Hel.” The old man didn’t even bother to look at Kiara when he said it.

  “Skadi, don’t do this! Not to me,” Runa begged. Her heart was beating so heavily she thought she might faint. Then she thought to appeal to her as a friend. “I do remember when Anja was sick. Remember how I stayed with you to help?” Runa’s mind raced. Even Skadi couldn’t be this cruel. But Skadi was trying to ignore her, as if she hadn’t known her at all. “What price did you pay to save Anja?”

  Skadi looked away, but Old Erik gave her a scowl, his mismatched eyes gleaming, unholy in the waning light. “Go ahead. You can tell her.”

  Skadi was in tears. “It was the only way to save her.”

  “What was the cost?” Runa felt a shiver down her spine once more.

  “A soul for a soul,” Skadi cried as she ran off into the darkness.

  Old Erik hobbled over to Runa and started laughing. “You prayed so many times to see your little Gefn again. Well, my dear, your sacrifice was acceptable. Here is your answer to that prayer.” Then the old demon cracked the butt of his staff across her cheek.

  Valhalla’s Toll

  Tor awoke to the clean, crisp smell of winter mingling with the earthy scent of red clay and frozen leaf. His legs were painfully bound at the ankles. He was lying on his back next to a large hollow at the base of a massive fallen oak, its roots standing high in the air like they were drinking from the green river of light dancing amid the twinkling stars. A small hawthorne stood to gain from the large tree’s falling, its trunk crooked like an old man’s back from years of seeking light inside the oak’s shadow. It was twilight, the sun was down, and the moon was on the rise, its dim, cold light filling the forest.

  Frozen leaves and snow slid up Tor’s back as Ubbi dragged him down into the hollow and tied his feet to a vine.

  “Aaaugh,” Ubbi grumbled unintelligibly as he used his nub of a tongue to lick blood from a fiercely bleeding finger. Tor’s eyes widened as the vine seemed to react to the taste of Ubbi, its thorns digging into his ankles as it slowly retracted, the thick fur insulation and tough reindeer hide of his boots stopping the vine’s sharp talons short of piercing his feet.

  Tor tried to grab something, but someone had tied the tips of his middle fingers to two saplings while he was unconscious. The vine loosened, then tugged at Tor
as if something underground was fishing and thought they may have had a nibble. He ceased his struggle, not wanting to let whatever had him know he was still on the line. With each slow tug of the vine, Tor’s feet sank deeper down into the recess of the earth until disappearing into the shadow of the massive roots of the downed tree. The tugging stopped.

  The old man held a ring up against the backdrop of the rising moon and took a better look with his left eye, the mismatched, oversized one that would be better hid behind a patch. The green of it lit up in the darkness, even as the western sky sucked the rest of the color out of the world. So far, this had not been a good day, but it was getting much worse as the greedy Sun took both light and hope away on its nightly stroll over the horizon.

  A whopping and flitting sound filled the air as two ravens, blacker than a moonless night, landed on the branches of the twisted hawthorne, nipping and nudging each other as if vying for a better seat.

  Old Erik smiled and began to work his jaw, as if chewing on his tongue. Then he drew out a sharp seax. It was Tor’s.

  Tor’s head was still in a fog. Where’s Runa? Twisting left and right, he looked frantically for his wife. There she is. She was prostrate, splayed out, and unmoving. Her throat was bleeding heavily from Vidar the oaf’s lack of delicacy, but he hadn’t opened it. Whether unconscious or dead, he could not tell. Kiara was tied up beside him.

  Old Erik hobbled over to Tor and whispered in his ear.

  “When is the last time you made a proper sacrifice to your god?”

  The fog was still there, and Tor’s tongue tasted blood. He spat, then lifted his head toward the old snake. “If I wanted a god I’d carve one.” Then he smiled. “And it would care more about how I lived than how I met death.”

  Old Erik’s brow furrowed, piercing Tor with his eye’s icy gaze. “You never wanted a god. You wanted a jinni in a bottle. Here’s one of yours, I believe.” The old man held up a carving of the goddess Freyja.

  “That’s my wife’s.”

  “Not the same care you put into your other carvings.” He held it next to the handle of Tor’s seax, its blade dangling precariously close to the tip of Tor’s nose. The old man looked at the two as if comparing fine art. “She lacks a little something, doesn’t she? I don’t think you gave her any soul.” His jaw hung loosely as he examined the knife. “Hmmph. Not like you gave this weapon. I think you put your whole heart into this one.”

  Both had certain features nearly worn away from years of handling. Both were used most whenever Tor had been away from home.

  Tor turned to his wife; she was still unconscious. His pride drained from him, and he tried to conceal the fire burning inside.

  “Let her go, Erik. Please, let her go.”

  “I couldn’t do this to you.” Old Erik acted like his feelings were hurt. “Vidar made this sacrifice—and Skadi and Anja. But, so did Runa.”

  Tor lunged, but the vines just got tighter. “There’s nothing more evil than a wayward priest.”

  “Is that really all you think I am?” Old Erik’s green eye contorted like it wanted to climb out of its socket. “Imagine how surprised I was when she asked that I make a sacrifice to the goddess for the safe travels of your sons. You sacrificed them—for what? You sent them out before the thaw because of mistakes you made in your past.” The old man pretended to be sincere. He wasn’t much better at it than Tor. “Your wife was right. It’s time there was a proper sacrifice. You know the kind, Tor, don’t you?”

  “No.” Tor gritted his teeth as he lied. He tried to stay focused on his wife.

  “Now, if your sons survive, they will be able to make their own decisions, of who they will follow, and who will get their souls.”

  “You really did have a talent.” Old Erik smiled as he looked at Tor’s seax. Then he dragged the blade across the front of Tor’s shirt. Tor grunted as the knife slipped into the cutting board of his chest. Saplings flexed as he drew his limbs in and stretched him back as soon as he quit.

  The slice Erik put on Tor stung but was not deep, splitting open his shirt and only the top layers of skin underneath with no damage to muscle or bone. His chest and stomach became warm and sticky wet as blood drew into his shirt before coloring the surrounding snow.

  Old Erik leaned in close to whisper directly into Tor’s ear. “Tonight, you will escort your wife to her goddess.” His breath stank of onion and cod and teeth rotting from a neglect.

  He winked at Tor with his green eye, which started twitching almost violently as his face turned stern and angry.

  Old Erik hung the little idol around Tor’s neck. Blood from the bubbling wound climbed into the dry wood like wax up the wick of a candle.

  Old Erik placed the ring on Tor’s chest on the scar where his own soul had been cut out long ago. Tor gasped for air under its weight. It wasn’t his, and it locked him to the earth, an immovable burden holding him firmly to the ground.

  The ravens chirped and cawed.

  A reanimated Orri lunged toward Tor and stared down at him. Dried blood coated the right side of his face like a black mask from where the blunt side of Tor’s axe put him down.

  “Is that my soul ring?”

  “Yes.” Old Erik hissed. “Had you been better with your bow we wouldn’t need it.” The tension left his face. “Don’t worry, Orri, soon it will have you back.”

  Tor couldn’t move. The weight of Orri’s soul was stifling. He’d never felt pressure like that before.

  Vidar appeared and grabbed the bloody seax out of Old Erik’s hand, and pushed the blade deep into the fat of Orri’s back.

  Bitter

  At first it looked like Orri had been hit in the back with a hammer, not a knife. Orri’s jaw dropped, but he didn’t scream. Instead, he whimpered, the way Vigi had before taking his last breath. His eyes closed painfully tight like he was burning on the inside, and tears froze to his jowls as his cheeks drained of all color. When he opened his eyes, trembling and wet with fear, they fixated on his ring, still crushing down on Tor’s bloody chest.

  Orri lost his legs, and with a quiet thump he fell across the vine tied to Tor’s feet. The fat Viking slid headfirst down into the dark shadow, into the hollow left by the uprooted base of the tree, dragging Tor down as he painted the pure white snow a crimson red. The dying man looked up to Vidar, confused.

  “Why?” he uttered with shallow breath.

  “You betrayed me,” said Vidar, as he wiped the blade off on Tor’s shirt. Orri’s reaction was only one of confusion, as his blood soaked down into the surrounding earth and snow. “Did you think you could just send those boys to take that chest? Did you think I wouldn’t find out, or that I wasn’t strong as you and wouldn’t be waking up?” Then his demeanor changed to that of a man speaking to a dying friend. “I wanted to forgive you, Orri. But what kind of man would that make me?” The giant stood. He cast a glance at Ubbi as if he needed someone to understand. “I had a right to my revenge—for my honor.”

  As Vidar was talking, something moved in the shadows, slithering into the blood and disappearing under Orri’s back. Vidar didn’t seem to notice. He laid Tor’s sword on Orri’s chest and pressed the fat fingers of the dying Viking’s right hand around its hilt, then placed a small silver coin in his left.

  Orri stared at Vidar, the light flickering in his eyes. “My soul,” he whispered. “Please.”

  Vidar shook his head as if arguing with himself. “You did this.” He took a drink from his flask with a shaking hand, then dripped some into Orri’s loose lips. “I do not suspect the Valkyries will be coming for you, my old friend, but if they do, I will see you in Valhalla. And we will drink mead and firewater, and you can tell me your stories, and we can laugh together once again.”

  Something was definitely moving under Orri. A horror seemed to reanimate his dimming eyes. As if whatever was wriggling along the small of his back was pulling itself inside.

  Vidar started shaking in anger. “You did this!” The still, cold air ate hi
s words. He left his old friend behind as he climbed out of the pit and settled with Old Erik. “Do your worst to the others, but have mercy on Orri. I’ve had my revenge, and it tastes bitter.” He spat toward Tor. “Orri was a good man, and his debt to me is paid.” He looked down at him. “Your fate is in the gods’ hands now.”

  The black ravens began to caw ferociously, jumping down to the feet of Old Erik as a great white owl swooped in and landed on Kiara’s chest. The owl jumped down onto the ground and chased the two ravens, screaming, splitting them, and sending them into the trees. The owl clawed back onto its perch on the still unconscious girl, like a white knight from one of her stories, a savior on a dark night.

  Blood Weeds

  Blood was sprinkled over Orri, Runa, Tor, and Kiara. Handfuls of dirt were tossed over them. Prayers to the gods were spoken. Then there was nothing.

  The night air was still. Snow began to fall on Tor’s face, and all he could hear was the sound of his own breath and the falling snow.

  “Runa?!” he grunted in pain.

  She did not move, but he could see her breath.

  “Orri?” Tor saw movement. If he was still living, he could thank that thick layer of blubber he’d been piling on like a bear preparing for a ten-year hibernation.

  Orri groaned a reply.

  “Can you get up? Can you cut me free?”

  No reply.

  He looked into the forest, but Old Erik was nowhere to be seen. They were all gone. Despite the pain, Tor pulled at the vines with everything he had.

  “Nnnjaah!” he groaned. The saplings seemed to resist more the more he struggled.

  Then he felt it—a strong tug at his feet, then another. Then the vine around his ankles pulled his feet down toward Orri until he was stretched out in three directions between the tugging and the two saplings.