Einnar shrugged, "We might as well be off. If the Christians wish to catch up, let them, if not I don't care. Come on."

He pulled quiver and bow over his shoulder, his haversack of supplies over the other and he set off to the gate. The men there opened it cautiously, peering out as if draugr would be just outside. It was quiet and the road was empty. The huntsman signaled the two trappers and the newcomers to follow with Vigi and they set out on the road.

"I figure, we'll get to where he left the party and pick up the trail," Einnar said offhand to whoever was listening, "That painted man was the last to see Bjorn but he's not here and I'm not waiting. We'll find him though, we have the dogs."

Vigi picked up his supply pack and hefted it over his shoulder as he jogged after the hunter. He gave a small pause before the gates as they were being opened. He took in a deep breath to quell his rising fear and marched out of the gates behind Einnar once they were open.

“Did he say when Bjorn disappeared?” Vigi asked him, picking up his pace to catch up to him. “Was it when we were fighting the draugr that were blocking the road back to the fort?” He questioned.

Einnar tugged his cloak closer against the icy wind, he could feel the bite of ice and the scent of moisture in the air. He shrugged, "I didn't speak to the painted man but the road lies straight and we are bound to come across where the last battle took place, which is where he must have vanished. Loker said he saw Bjorn before he went to fight with Ragnar in front of the wagons. From there, maybe the hounds will pick up their master's scent."

He moved in a quick lope, his long legs carrying him at a steady ground eating pace and he did not look back to see if the others were keeping up. The dogs ran eagerly, straining at their rope leashes which he gripped. Einnar was tired, he knew the other men were exhausted but Bjorn's life was more important than discomfort. The hunter kept a sharp eye out for any movement, he had not had a close encounter with a draugr yet and wished to keep it that way. He had seen them within shooting distance and that suited him fine. As he jogged along, he heard footsteps catching up and keeping pace with him. A quick glance told him the seidrmadr now ran beside him.

His light brown eyes flickered up to the steel grey clouds, "The gods listen to you, ask them to hold back the coming storm just a little while longer."

Vigi followed his gaze and frowned at the foreboding clouds. “I will.” He nodded to him, placing his focus back onto the path they were following. A strong gust of icy wind blasted through the area at that moment, the coldness of the gale stabbing right through Vigi like a thousand daggers.

He clasped his cloaks around himself tighter and pushed past the frigid wind to keep pace with the hunter. The storm was charging at them like an angry boar and Vigi would guess they had an hour, two hours top until it was upon them. He didn’t know much of hunting but he knew that that wouldn’t be enough time to find someone. The poor lad didn’t have the proper clothes to combat the coming storm either, which made the situation that much more grave.

It was not long before they began to see the remains of draugr scattered on the road. Limbs and hacked headless torsos were strewn about as they approached the scene of the last battle. Einnar paused, catching his breath as the dogs tugged at their leashes, whining and pawing anxiously at the muddy road. It was quiet but for the sound of the north wind as it caused the dry leaves to swirl around. The fog had lifted enough to see into the scattered woods on either side of the road. The hunter walked the hounds around, letting them smell everything.

"Keep an eye out," he said needlessly, "Those monsters are probably still lurking around."

He murmured to the dogs, "Let's get to it, find Bjorn. Come on."

Alexander snuffled all over but Roxanna was the better tracker and she quickly began to head in a straight line, yanking on her lead. There was a muddle of footprints in the road that overlapped the deep wagon ruts. Einnar's trained eyes recognized the heavy boot prints of the young Jarl. He was one of the few that could afford such stout footwear and the other set was lighter, fitting the small Pict who had been with him. The rest were smeared and unclear, as if someone had dragged their feet through the mud. His eyes moved over the tracks and he stepped around them, following the dogs as they scented Bjorn. He looked up as the tracks lead into the woods to north. The smaller, lighter tracks of the Christian went the opposite direction, along the wagon ruts.

He glanced back at Vigi and the rest, then gestured to the mixture of dark conifers and golden leafed birches, "He ran, his tracks go that way and he was pursued."

“He must’ve been trying to lead away the draugr that were following the wagon.” Vigi said, kneeling down to look at the tracks of the pursuers.

“Alone?” The father of the two huntsmen said in disbelief. “That lad is either very brave or mad.”

“You’d be surprised how often the two coincide.” Vigi grunted as he stood back up and looked to Einnar. “Should we split up into pairs and spread out to cover more ground?” He asked, motioning to the treeline.

The older trapper spit on the ground where the slur of draugr tracks trailed off the road and into the trees. He tugged the fur mantle around his shoulders against the cold. It was dark and sleek, made up of several otter pelts and he wore it proudly as a warrior would his rings. "If the Jarl went this way, then it is where we go. Odin protect him..."

Einnar knew these woods, they were not part of his hunting ground as game was scarce around a community of hungry people but he kept other things hidden away. Among the trees were hollowed stumps where he stashed his mead, sealed in clay jugs and secreted around the forest. He came out here not to hunt but to drink and be away from the fort and the prying eyes and prattling tongues. He shifted his weight, feeling the familiar comfort of his bow and began walking away from the road, letting Roxanna lead them.

The clouds hung heavy and the wind snapped cloaks as it picked up in speed. The dark haired hunter kept his eyes on the trail and he listened for the sound of howls or moans of the draugr. The tracks lead through a forest path, bright red and gold leaves trampled in the mud as Bjorn must have retreated along the well known trail. Einnar had walked it many times with him, since the Jarl was a boy, it would eventually lead to a cold stream that ran to the nearby sea. He wondered briefly if the draugr would be stopped by water or if they could swim, he had never observed them near water.

He felt the first icy drops on his face, the clouds opened up with rain and soon it pelted the search party. Einnar pulled his cloak close and the dogs whined, Alexander hugging close to his legs and Roxanna sniffing in widening circles.

"By Thor's balls," he muttered, "We're going to lose this trail, quickly now."

He set off, keeping his eyes glued to the blurred tracks as the rain fell harder. His breath steamed in front of him as he squelched through the mud, the dogs milled around, confused and unable to catch Bjorn's scent. Einnar turned back to his men, looking at the worn faces beneath the soaked hoods, tired eyes on him as they waited for his orders. He cursed under his breath at his bad luck and gestured to them to move off the trail and into a cluster of birch trees that still had much of their vibrant autumn foliage and would provide some shelter.

Vigi sat down heavily under the trees, pulling his cloaks closer around himself for warmth.

“Seidrmadr, isn’t there anything you can do to find the Jarl?” The son of the tracker pair asked him once they were seated.

Vigi had been dreading the question and he took in a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. “There is nothing I can do save hope the gods will give us a sign.” He answered solemnly.

Einnar leaned against the silvery white trunk of one of the birches and plucked idly at the peeling bark, listening to Vigi’s answer. Or lack thereof. He snorted and pulled his hood closer around his face. The gods did nothing but roll their dice and laugh at the misfortunes of the mortals who scrambled around like bugs. If they existed at all.

Alexander and Roxanna huddled by his legs, trying in vain to stay out of the cold rain that fell. The wind rushed through the wet leaves and sent shivers through the men. He debated trying to start a fire for warmth but it would take time and that was something they had precious little of.

The trappers crouched together, their otter skin cloaks beading the water off and they were the most comfortable of all the party. The gaunt faced newcomers stayed to themselves and Einnar ignored them for the most part.

The rain turned to sleet increasing the frigid misery of the search party. Tiny balls of ice bounced off the ground and it coated every branch and leaf with around them. Einnar sighed deeply as he watched the frozen rain finish obliterating the trail. The dogs would be hard pressed to find any scent now.

“Seidrmadr,” he said reluctantly, “Do the gods send you any sign other than give up and go home?”

He looked down at Vigi, the sleet piling up around their boots.

Vigi looked away from gathering birch bark to the huntsman and frowned. “Not yet.” He responded to him. He went back to peeling off birch bark to place in his bag so he could make charms later. Gods know they needed as many as they could get.

The cawing of a raven brought his attention upwards to branches above him to see a raven land. It shook out it’s wings to clean off the sleet that had gathered on it’s feathers.

“Is that a sign?” The elder trapper asked him and Vigi couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Before Vigi could respond he heard flapping wings and felt feathers brush against his face as the raven landed on his shoulder. “Ow.” He grunted, feeling a sharp beak peck at his head before there was a tugging in his hair and he felt one of the beads in his hair get pulled free.

The raven flew off with the bead, going over to a tree not to far from then and cawing again with the bead in it’s beak. Vigi slowly stood up from the ground, looking up at the raven with narrow, thoughtful eyes.

The raven cawed one more time before flying off and Vigi ran after it.

Einnar watched the raven and he grunted in surprise when Vigi chased it. He frowned, the last thing they needed was to have to track down two lost people. He gestured for the rest to remain, passing the leashes of the hounds over to the younger trapper and he followed the seidrmadr. Ice crunched lightly under his supple boots and he cursed with bitter amusement at the whims of the gods. The trail was gone, the men were tired and freezing and the dogs useless. If Bjorn was alive, he would have to seek shelter and hopefully stay in one place long enough for them to locate him.

"Vigi, what are you doing?" he asked, wondering briefly if the bird was leading them to a dead body. Ravens loved carrion and he prepared himself for the answer. That Bjorn was dead and the hunt was over. "Draugr are still a threat, I doubt the weather will deter them much."

“You wanted a sign from the gods.” Vigi said, pushing past the cold seeping into his soft leather shoes to keep up with the black feather bird. “There it is.” He could feel it in his gut, his instincts screamed at him to follow the bird because it would lead them to Bjorn.

Their breath rose in twin plumes as they eyed the black bird. The raven hopped along a branch, a silver bead clutched in his beak. It tilted its head and peered at them with it's bright dark eyes and flew off, landing several yards away on another limb. Einnar glanced over his shoulder, the sleet still fell but it was not as heavy and he could see the four men still huddled with the dogs. They stayed put and waited for the shaman and the hunter.

"It's a bird who stole your bead, if that is a god sign then I'll leave it to you to figure it out," he muttered. "Odin's trickery..."

Vigi frowned at him, about to say something when the bird took off again and Vigi followed after it. “You may not have faith in the gods, but I do.” he said over his shoulder, but kept his eyes on the bird as it flew through the branches of the tree.

Einnar watched him go and snorted, tugging his hood closer around his face. The sleet had tapered off to an icy drizzle but the wind had a keen edge. He looked around absently and spotted a familiar rotted stump. The hunter squatted down and reached in among the wet braken and found one of his flasks of mead. It was still full and he pulled it out. He glanced around, he was alone for the moment and he unwound the leather thong that secured the stopper. The warmth spread through him as he drank deeply from the honey wine, the sweet taste filling his senses. It was a batch from last year and it was strong.

The hunter paused, he probably should not drink, not with Bjorn still out but he was cold and miserable. He took another deep draught and looked over to where Vigi had run off to. Einnar held his spear with his free hand and considered going after him, the draugr could still be around but the mead called to him and he took another drink, waiting for the seidrmadr to return.

Vigi made sure to keep an eye out and his ears open for any sign of the draugr lurking close by as he moved through the forest. His feet were starting to grow numb when he broke the treeline and found himself on the edge of a river bank. He stopped, staring at the dark grey icy waters for a moment before looking up in search of the raven.

He spotted it descending not too far from him and he raced toward it, doing his best to stay out of the deep mud of the river bank. Finally he reached the spot where the raven was landing and Vigi skitted to a halt with a gasp.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Vigi walked slowly his head bowed forward and his face heavy and seeming older than his years. It took longer to return to the campsite at a walking pace than the running he’d left at. He was surprised when he came across Einnar first, but he was who he needed to see right now. He took in a deep breath and approached him. “Huntsman.” He called out to get his attention.

When he stood before him he silently pulled out of his cloak a broken boar spear. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, holding out the spear pieces in his hands for Einnar to take.

Einnar tucked the flask behind him when Vigi walked up quietly. By the look on his face and the fact he was alone, it was ill news he carried. At the sight of the broken spear, the hunter breathed out hard through his nose. The great boar spear Bjorn had carried was as sturdy a weapon as there had ever been made. It was disheartening to see it splintered, it would have taken no small amount of force to break the heavy shaft. It was streaked with dried gore, black and sickly looking, draugr's blood.

"Was there nothing else?" he asked after a long moment of silence as he turned the iron spearhead in his hand. "Any sign of a body, blood trail?"

At his negative response, Einnar nodded and tucked the broken spear into his belt. He took another deep drink from the mead flask and after a moment of hesitation offered it to Vigi. "We'll have to tell the men...I think I should probably stay out here, keep looking around and...see what can be seen. But you, take the dogs and those men back to the fort."

His words were slightly slurred from drink and he clapped a hand on Vigi's shoulder, "They need you back there, my place is here...among the trees and the ice and such. I can't leave Bjorn alone, dead or alive."

Einnar finished off the flask and looked at it, then tossed the empty jug aside. He had more around here, for the last handful of years he had stashed away his wine and despite the odd raided site or two, it remained hidden. Finding Bjorn would be thirsty work, for in his heart, the huntsman knew there would be little left of the young man. He had seen the remains of those fed on by the draugr.

Vigi frowned watching Einnar start to drink himself into a stupor. The pain he was feeling over the loss of Bjorn was great, that much was clear. Silently Vigi placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “He fought valiantly, his sacrifice allowed us all to live. No doubt he is with his father in Valhalla.” He said gently, bringing up his other hand to brush over Einnar’s cheek. “He wouldn’t want you to waste away, alone, in the dark and cold like this.” He dropped his hand to his side from his cheek, but kept his other hand on his shoulder.

“Come, we must return. All of us.” He said, a firm edge entering his comforting voice as he tried to use the hand on his shoulder to direct Einnar back to the group.

The light touch on his cheek made Einnar’s eyes snap to the fair faced shaman. He felt a flush of warmth and he cleared his throat, even as the man’s hand dropped. He looked away, into the trees, unsure how to react to the kind words and affectionate touch. It had been a long time since anyone had showed kindness to him that was not either paid for or from a slave.

“No doubt you’re right...” he muttered, shifting his weight. “Though Loker will not be satisfied, not without a body.”

Vigi gave his shoulder another squeeze. “There may not be a body for us to find.”

The men accepted the news with heads bent in the falling sleet, they were eager to return and find a place to sleep in a warm dry longhouse. The road was a few miles back and the men began to head up the icy trail the way they had come. It was quiet but for the hushed hissing sound of the sleet and the crunching of booted feet. The daylight was fading, darkness was falling earlier as the year waned into winter. Despite the bad weather they were making good time, walking as quickly as they could through the forest.

It was the dogs that alerted Einnar that something was not right. Alexander and Roxanna stopped in their tracks and growled, their lips curled to reveal sharp white teeth. As he looked up he heard the sound of something large crashing through the frozen underbrush and the dreaded moaning howl made his skin crawl. Draugr, several of them, plowed through the underbrush toward the small group. Many of them showed gaping wounds from axes and spears and some were even missing limbs. The huntsman drew his bow, he suspected these were some of the same that must have run down Bjorn. He scowled and nocked an arrow, hearing the other men grab their weapons to defend themselves.

collab between Constable Walrus, Igraine, idlehands, and RoadRash

Trelleborg, late afternoon, The Healing House

Ragnar led the way towards the healer’s house, the severed head of the guard he’d killed still clutched in his left hand. Haakon and Ivarr flanked him, Faolan bringing up the rear. As they approached the building Ragnar adjusted his sword at his side, his eyes narrowed. His rage at the situation was plain, and he was in the mood for a bit more killing. He reached the door and threw it open, not bothering to knock or announce himself.

Hallerna’s head snapped upward at the unexpected arrival, knowing full well this was definitely not Sigrid. She blinked, the fading light of day streaming past the bulky men’s forms still brighter than the relative darkness within the candlelit healing house. Ragnar… Of course. She shot a quick look toward the weepy Christian man, half warning and half worry as she stood quickly to her feet and approached the thane swiftly.

The severed head in his hand was probably one of the least subtle hints imaginable, that he was in no mood for anything other than straightforward and no-nonsense. “Ragnar!” she called in what, prior to his ‘entrance,’ would have been a far-too-loud hiss of a whisper to the thane and the men who accompanied him. “Tora is over here,” she said, gesturing to him swiftly, toward where Anndrais still skillfully tended to the thrall woman.

The feral light in Ragnar’s eye was not lost on Hallerna in the least, as she seemed oh-so-naturally to sidle up to the monk, to insert her body between the enraged Dane as he approached, the ‘Priest Killer,’ and this Christian healer. She might not yet hold a grand opinion of the man, but this was the seidrmadr’s house, and he had done no small amount of good for Tora.

Turning her head slightly she looked over Anndrais to where her master entered the doors and she went pale at the thunderous look on his face. Her grey eyes flickered to the head in his hand and she felt a small twinge of gratitude, she recognized him from the nightmarish encounter. Tora slowly turned over onto her side, her body aching all over and she pushed herself up on her elbow.

“Master,” she whispered, her voice still hoarse from screaming.

Anndrais looked up at the throwing open of the door his eyes narrowing at Ragnar for a moment then looking back down towards Tora wincing as she moved over and he hushed her softly and he looked up at Ragnar “Are you done with the loud racket? We have wounded trying to get rest, the charging in like a stumbling bull won't help anything or prove a point.”

Anndrais leaned down and murmured to Tora “Hush, you need rest. I’ll talk to him.”

Hallerna winced, rolling her eyes with a soft sigh of frustration when the monk spoke so rashly to the enraged Dane, but said nothing. Weepy and suicidal? There wasn’t much she could do for the man, no matter his great skill, if the thane decided it was one word too many.

Ragnar posted Haakon and Ivarr outside the door, then eyed Anndrais’ cross with disdain, his lip curling. He lifted the head by the beard and growled, “My point has already been proven today, Christian. You may be working your arts on her, but don’t forget that we have a healer of our own, and don’t presume to tell me how to behave.”

He crossed to Tora, looking her over. “Get some rest,” he grumbled. “You’ve done no wrong, and have no need to fear punishment.” She may be only a slave, but she had served the Thegn’s family well, and he had a soft spot for her. At least, as soft a spot as was appropriate for a man of his standing to have for a thrall. Turning his back on Anndrais pointedly, he spoke to Hallerna. “Where is my wife? Has she been informed of what’s happened?”

“Thank you, Master,” Tora murmured and lay back down on her stomach, pulling the large robe up to her chin.

“I expect Sigrid any time. I sent my daughters in the company of Anndrais’ man to retrieve her,” Hallerna replied softly as her attentions returned to Tora, one hand falling carefully to the young woman’s shoulder. However gruff, her master’s words should give some measure of reassurance, and she had been as brave as any man during all their ministrations.

Sigrid walked with a quick and determined stride, ignoring the cold rain that began to fall as she approached the healing house. Her beads swayed and her coppery hair began to come loose from the braid as the wind picked up. She pushed between Ivarr and Haakon who instantly made way for her as she entered the warm shelter.

“Ragnar,” she said, approaching her husband, glancing at the head. “I’m disappointed that is not Harald.”

The Thegn grinned, his rage vanishing for a moment, replaced by amusement at his wife’s barb. “The coward wouldn’t fight me, so I took the head of his rassragr instead.”

A smile twitched her lips, “I hope he was a favorite then.”

She eyed the monk and went to sit on the other side of the bench where her slave lay. The cot next to hers was occupied by a large slave whom she ignored as she looked closely at Tora. She could see some of the injuries and she grit her teeth. Her green eyes flashed as she stroked the girl’s dark hair back from her face.

“Rest now, we need you healed, the children miss you already,” she said quietly.

Tora nodded and blinked back tears, she was embarrassed at being the center of attention, especially for such a reason. Sigrid spoke to the monk without looking at him.

“Is there a reason you sit with my slave?” she asked. “Hallerna? Who treated her wounds?”

Anndrais looked up at Sigrid “I sit, because she is under my care. I am the one who found the poor girl in the snow, and I would not leave her save God himself asking.” He did the sign of the cross at his blasphemy but it was none the less had to be said.

He looked down at Tora her hand still clasped in his and quieted himself.

Hallerna was surprisingly relieved when the monk’s words didn’t result in the loss of tongue, much less his head. Thankfully, Ragnar’s rage was disarmed handily by his wife, and the very air felt lighter, as if they stood in the wake of a passing storm.

“We both treated her, Sigrid,” she replied softly, “And yes, the monk was the first to find Tora, and then tended some of her wounds as well. It is his man Orran, who accompanied Svala and Eyja to your home - they arrived safely, I can only assume. And your own little ones? I’m sure Tora would love to know how well they’re doing. It would lift her spirits, I imagine.”

Perhaps not the subtlest words to change the subject at hand, but it might do. Nothing good could come with a similar battle of words in the healing house, as she’d had when she first met the Christian man. Not with the fiery Sigrid at least.

The redheaded Dane woman looked over the monk, “Your kindness is appreciated, Christian. Hallerna, your girls arrived safely, they remain under the watch of the painted man.”

She turned to Tora, “The children are fine, they do miss you though. Especially Dagny.”

Tora tried to smile but it hurt, her mouth was swollen. Sigrid patted her arm gently, “Rest. You can stay here if you wish, so that Hallerna can tend to you. We will sacrifice to Thor for protection.”

She reached into the pouch and fished out a silver coin, flipping it at the monk, “For your help.”

Anndrais looked up; letting the coin drop to the floor and he scowled at the woman “I do not need your money, this was not done for coin… It is done out of love.” Anndrais resisted the urge to say more “No need for a sacrifice, she is under the protection of MY God.”

Anndrais looked down at Tora before returning his gaze to sigrid “If her health is worth silver, than I pity you… The woman is worth more than coin, it is a child of God, the cost of a soul is priceless.”

Sigrid looked from the fallen coin to the monk with an amused smirk, “Love doesn’t feed the belly or clothe the back. Take it.”

She stood up and came around the side, standing close to the monk, “Her body and soul belong to her master and I. Remember that. And for a sacrifice we were going to offer bread and mead.”

Leaning a little closer she looked at his cross and back up at his face, smiling a little, “What did you think we were going to do?”

Anndrais glared up at her but his face softened into a smile “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” He straightened and looked up at her “That answers your first question, I do not need coin.” He breathed deep again “I find it a pity, that your heart is so black… So lifeless, that you no longer feel for a woman. A fate, that could fall upon you as well. Have you not a shred of humanity?”

Ragnar stepped forward, growling deep in his throat. “Mind your tongue, christian,” he spat, raising the hand that held the severed head and pointing at Anndrais with it. “Your kind have waged wars aplenty, and killed kinsmen of mine, so don’t pretend that your faith in a coward god makes you so pure.” The Thegn crossed his big arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at the monk.

He looked up at the man his face still keeping the calm “I do not pretend or fein myself to believe I am perfect, and I have my own vices, anger being one that I have to control.” He looked back at Tora “Anger against the man who did this to a woman, the want to see him drawn before a crowd and gutted like the coward he is.” He looked up and met the gaze of Ragnar “So calm yourself, I am just as upset. Maybe even more so than you, in my lands it is a crime punishable by death to assault a woman in this way.”

“He’ll die,” Ragnar, grumbled, glancing down at his thrall’s battered form. “He hasn’t given me proper cause to take his life yet, but he will soon enough. He’s a coward and a schemer, and it won’t be long before I sheath Skull-Taker in his guts and plant his head outside my hall.” The warrior rested his hand affectionately on the pommel of his sword as he spoke, imagining the keen steel splitting Harald’s spine like so much dry kindling.

Anndrais rolled his eyes and tended to Tora, speaking softly “I feel for her suffering, the meek have a place at the seat of our lord.”

“Really?” Hallerna asked with a small, sharp bark of a laugh, shaking her head with yet another grand rolling of her dark blue eyes. A farmer’s widow, she was no grand theologian, learned of letters like the monk, but the dark humor of the moment didn’t escape her at all. “Don’t you followers of the dead god think you should be like him too? Meek and gentle, soft spoken and kind? I doubt calling a woman’s heart black, or her husband’s defense overblown, is going to win you converts, hmm?”

Anndrais looked up at Hallerna “Yes, to be like him… And it is a something I work on everyday, to pray for the strength to temper anger, the will to continue to spread the good word, even though at times I feel unworthy to…” He looked his head down “And I have been kind, my outbursts may be short, but they do more damage to me than you realize, I feel for all the injured here.”

“I am not perfect, but I try more than any to be like him. Salvation is not easy, my Salvation is not easy..” He glanced up again at Hallerna “I may not be perfect, I am like you… Different culture, different race. But flawed, just because I am a Christian does not make me immune to being a man, and making mistakes as all men do.”

He looked at Sigrid “I am sorry, for the words I have said against you. I care for this person very much, even though I have known her for little more than a few hours… And I am sure in your own way, as shown by your anger you do too.”

Sigrid brushed a strand of red hair back, “I’ve known Tora since she was a child, don’t tell me what I might feel or not. She is a valued and valuable member of our household. Tora is quite expensive and now she’s damaged. You dislike hearing a person described as such don’t you but it is the way of things here. Some are born to be slaves and some are not, our fates are not our own. If you are done, there is something more important that needs to be discussed.”

Anndrais Looked at Sigrid “I pity that you put a value on someone so close to you… No amount of coin will ever bring back whatever innocence this girl had before it was ripped away from her. I pray for your soul, in the hopes that one day you will understand why my people, not just Christian’s but those that reside in Alba, my homeland view this practice as cruel.”

He looked down at Tora speaking again “And we are not bound to a fate, never to this one especially… I can only pray you see the folly, before the people you grind into dirt, force to toil in your fields, wait on you. Rise up and take their fates back from those that would oppress the soul. Because if they do, they will have no mercy.”

Her eyes flashed at the monk and she spoke in a low, hard voice, “If you think I cannot see how she is suffering you are a bigger fool than I thought. I’ll let you stay, because you seem to provide Tora with some comfort but do not presume that gives you leave to fill her head with nonsense.”

She walked away from him toward Ragnar, touching his hand that lay on the hilt of his sword, “Harald must be dealt with. This was merely a game for him, a cruel jest and insult towards us.”

Ragnar nodded, well aware of the situation. “It was an insult, but you know as well as I do that I can’t challenge the worm over a thrall. I’ll continue trying to provoke him, but if he does nothing, all I can do is kill his men one by one.” He reached out and placed one of his large, calloused hands against her cheek.

“This will be handled, rest assured,” he rumbled. “In the meantime, I don’t want you going anywhere alone. You’ll take Haakon or Ivarr with you, and I’ll brook no argument on the matter.”

“Of course,” she replied, pressing against his hand for a brief moment. She looked up at her husband, flushed with the warmth and security she felt when he was near and gave him a slight smile. “I trust you will handle him, despite him hiding in his hole like a rat.”

Anndrais frowned at the Sigrid as she turned her back; Horrid woman he thought and looked down at the poor woman in the cot She would not be saying such things if she saw her lying in the muddy ground, bloody and broken; how fragile the girl was, she flinched at him out of fear that he would harm her… Only then would this witch realize how bad it truly was for the poor girl how broken she was.

Tora still held the monk’s hand, it was hard and calloused unlike the man’s heart. She had never heard a man talk like he had, especially not to owners. His words were strange but comforting, though he was wrong about her. Tora was a slave, the Norns had spun her thread and it was her destiny to be a drudge. To be used, to work and die. If she was lucky, her masters would free her before she was too old so that she may marry and have a child or two. They had never spoken of it nor given Tora her price so she could buy her freedom but then the young woman had not brought it up. Being free had not been something she had thought long on, unlike her fellow slave Faolan who brooded on his old life.

She turned her head and tugged his hand, whispering to the monk, “Don’t make them angry, they mean well. They are good masters.”

Anndrais leaned down and spoke gently to her; he whispered in her ear “But they are still Masters, good or bad, they have no right to treat you like they do; You are worth more than coin, you are a person Tora, a beautiful woman worth more than money, priceless would be the apt term.” He patted her hand gently “But rest, you need your Rest… Do not worry, I will be going nowhere. I will be here when you wake.”

She smiled slightly at his strange ideas but it was a comfort. After what Harald and his men had done she had felt like dying but the monk was kind and she clung to his words as much as his hand.

Wilfred had remained ignored through the entire encounter, listening closely to the exchanges and fitting rank and importance to each of those involved. It was clear that the brute of a man who had walked in with a severed head was no friend to the Christian people but Wilfred had always come to accord with warriors; it was in his blood. Slowly rising, the others couldn’t help but turn their attention to him; even injured and slightly bowed to stop his wounds reopening Wilfred was a large man by any standard, even standing over Ragnar’s considerable height.

“I am not skilled in the customs of your people but I can count well enough; if you tackle Harald head on his men will slaughter you by sole virtue of their superior numbers. I would not be so hasty to rush headlong to death.” His eyes twinkled darkly as his gaze fell upon Ragnar and Sigrid. He had quickly established the woman was the schemer of the two; the dagger in the night. “I have some interest in seeing his remains feeding the crows. As a cleric it is not seemly for me to contemplate vengeance for it is a sin but I believe God would forgive me for ridding the world of a devil such as this.” He could see some confusion on their faces and realised he had not yet introduced himself. Dipping his head the slightest bit, acknowledging their elevated rank grudgingly, he spoke again.

“My name is Wilfred, a former priest from Northumberland. Harald took me as a slave as punishment for distracting him while my congregation fled the church I ministered to. I am in here for returning alive from that little supply run which he was too cowardly to go on while better men died for others.” He sat down, no longer needing to force their attention and also due to the roaring pain searing through his back. “I would set myself free from his clutches even if I were to be a slave for another; in this corner of the world being a free Saxon is probably more dangerous than being an enslaved one.”

Sigrid looked up at the big slave who had lay in the bed next to Tora. Another Christian, of course,she thought to herself as she listened. Her hands were on her hips and she glanced at Ragnar to see his reaction to the slave’s speech. The slave was out of line and his words dripped with Christian imagery, it bothered her but she could also see an advantage. He was a strong man and she could feel the hatred of Harald coming off of him in waves.

Anndrais looked up at Wilfred and nodded speaking in Latin to the man to keep it out of the prying ears of the danes. “You speak true Brother Wilfred, I only pray we do not have repercussions for the death of the man whose head was once attached to his shoulders, I hope Orran is alright with the children.” Anndrais looked back to Tora and continued to clutch her hand in his.

Hallerna frowned, disapproving of Wilfred’s willfulness, and ill-pleased with his disregard for the seidrmadr’s kindness and the expensive materials spent in repairing the flayed meat of his back. She scowled at him crossly, like a mother toward a stubborn child, but held her tongue as she crossed her arms over her chest.

And she listened, not to the strange garbled Christian talk, but to every sentence, every last word concerning Harald and his men and all the evil they’d done, the stern look on her face giving away nothing of the genuine worry that was beginning to twist her gut.

Ragnar was silent throughout the encounter, his eyes unfocused as his mind worked. Despite his brutal appearance and warlike demeanor, he was by no means stupid. A Viking did not live long or attain as much status as Ragnar had by being a fool, and though his muscles bulged from twenty years of pulling oars and swinging weapons, the mind lurking behind his ice-blue eyes and wind-weathered face was as sharp as Skull Taker at his hip. He assimilated Wilfred’s words as he spoke them, ignoring the impropriety for the moment in favor of tactical thinking. Wilfred would be valuable to have on his side when the time came for confrontation with Harald and his men, and to discount a potential ally was foolish, even if the man’s faith stuck in Ragnar’s craw.

Sigrid watched her husband’s face and held her tongue, her own thoughts churning. If she could use the slave to get close to Harald and kill him, it would save much blood shed on her side. Ragnar and his men were proud and fierce warriors but they were few to Harald’s many, though most of them looked like scoundrels and nithingr. Her cat like eyes raked over Wilfred’s large form and a plan began to sprout in her mind. She would leave it though until later when she could mull it over in privacy.

collab between Constable Walrus, Igraine, and idlehands

Trelleborg, late afternoon, House of Ragnarsson

“He’s my brother, I can’t let that son of a whore take his head and not seek revenge,” Amund swore, his fist pounding the earthen wall of Harald’s longhouse. Rain had begun to fall and the men were swathed in moth eaten woolen cloaks over their patchwork leather and cloth armor. They passed around a flagon of ale, they had been drinking most of the afternoon as they kept watch over Harald’s longhouse. The slave girl had been a nice diversion but the appearance of her master had been sobering.

“Your brother had a big mouth,” grunted Knut, one of the older guards. “I saw it. He should have kept his temper and he would have kept his head.”

Amund glared at him, “I’ll make Ragnar pay, if Harald will not. He sits in that house and allowed this to happen.”

“Hold your tongue,” another guard replied. “He’ll get his soon enough. Thegn Harald will see to it.”

“I can’t wait for that,” Amund tucked his axe into his belt and drained the last of the ale before tossing the skin down into the mud. “If you are not cowards you will join me.”

Knut pulled his hood lower against the rain as it began to fall harder and sighed, “What did you have in mind?”

“He has a wife and children and a house to himself,” Amund said, “He doesn’t have but a few men. While Harald waits, he could be gathering alliances of the missing Jarl’s warriors. I don’t want to wait for that. We kill his family, loot his home. Then force him before he’s ready to face us. We’ll break the man.”

The older guard rubbed his beard, the young man spoke with ambition and he was unsure if Harald would appreciate it. Still, his idea was sound, though his bravado increased with the ale. Ragnar had not the numbers they had and eliminating him quickly made sense. Why Harald was waiting was beyond him but then Knut was not a politician, he was a raider and the thought of what the thegn might have horded away in his new house was appealing.

Knut raised his shaggy eyebrows and belched, tossing aside the empty mead flask, “I’ll go, what about you lot? Want to hang around holding your dicks in the cold or have a little fun?”

In the end, three more men accompanied Amund and Knut as they made their way from Harald’s longhouse to that of Ragnar Ragnarsson. Amund smiled grimly at the sight as they walked into view. He saw a handful of children playing and a young pretty blonde woman watching them. Only one warrior was there, a short dark foreigner bearing a sword, his face painted as if for battle. The five men fanned out, moving in like a wolf pack.

Orran smiled, his sword still in his hands and was using a finger to draw into the mud circles and larger circles each coming to form a picture; a small boar. Orran looked up at the children his eyes resting on Eyja, and he spoke softly “Now just keep spinning the circles in the same pattern to make it bigger and bigger. These have to be drawn on the skin with very sharp tools, they prick to put the color in.” He looked at the boys “Little ones it hurts, more than any blade.” He looked down at the girl and smiled “So I’ll teach you to draw it on paper.”

His head cocked up at the noise of boots on the soft ground and his hand gripped his sword tighter; he turned to see the men standing quickly he yelled at them “Announce Yourself! And halt.”

Though she knew Orran was only doing this to entertain the little ones, Svala was as engaged in his instruction as any of the other children, fascinated by the spirals and the strange, foreign sound of his voice as he spoke. Eyja was still just as awed by the fact he’d allow them to draw such things on paper - real paper! And the sisters’ quiet, enthralled enthusiasm pulled all of them into the circle of the painted man, whorls and wild animals running through their imaginations like waking dreams. And Svala even managed a smile, a true one, a wide one, bright and almost carefree, such as had not been seen for many days.

So when Orran shouted, she leapt in fright, startled from where she leaned against the Ragnarsson’s home, dark blue eyes wide as her gaze darted all about them. Sigrid’s instructions before she left to the healing house ran through her head, and Svala moved instinctively to snatch up Dagny from where she stood, the littlest child among them.

The boys looked up and both of them took deep breaths at the sight of the armed men rapidly approaching. Their parents were gone and neither of them had ever faced strangers without them present. Ragnar the Younger snatched up his small shield and his practice sword and his brother did the same out of instinct. One had seen only eight winters and the other seven and neither would be much help in the defense of their home. Dagny clutched at Svala and Ranulf stood defensively in front of Eyja.

Amund and Knut lead the men and in a normal raiding situation they would have shouted war cries to frighten those that stood before them but they were wary of the close quarters and the possibility Ragnar could be alerted. One of the men, a tall stout man with unusually dark hair and a scarred face grinned wickedly at Svala.

“Take what you want, that one’s mine,” Geir boasted to the others as they moved toward Orran and the children. “Pretty little thing.”

Amund ignored him and stared right at Orran, noting his armor, “Step aside, Christian, this is not your business.”

Orran watched the man carefully noting their positions quickly in his mind, their weapons armour, all categorized in his head; he turned to the side slightly. “Inside… Now. Boys the bravery is noted but get inside now.” he spoke quickly never taking his eyes off the men; and he scowled at the scarred one before his eyes moved to Amund meeting the gaze.

Orran rolled his shoulders moving his blade out in front of him; readying his stance. “You made it my business.” He spoke as well as he could muster in the tongue of the danes, “When you took that girl’s innocence you made it my business, and when you threatened these children you have made it my business.”

Amund laughed, “The slave girl, she was far from innocent. Why defend Ragnar’s brats when he would cut you down for being a Christ’s man?”

Orran's eyes shone darkly looking at the men “If you seek hell so quickly then so be it… I will send you all there, and you will burn in fire forever, the wolf will not back down.” He changed his stance letting the cumbersome cloak drop from his shoulders and rolls them again free from the confines of the heavy cloak. and he cursed at them in pictish taunting them with his body language “Come then! and I will send you to your face your false Gods in hell!”

“Raudr,” Svala hissed, as she beckoned toward the would-be warrior boy with her hand. Dagny was in her arms in an instant, hiked up on one hip as she back away from the vicious men assembling around Orran, intent on killing Sigrid’s babes. “Please, come away. Ranulf, Eyja - inside! Quickly! Go!”

Sigrid’s words before she left, her order to run for the keep: the words rang through Svala’s head, but there was simply no help for it. They’d never get past all five men with only Orran to keep them at bay, no matter his battle prowess. For all her wisdom, all her far-sighted and cunning ways, she doubted even Sigrid could have foreseen five men descending on the house from all directions - and if she had, she never would have left.

She shot Orran a quick glance, as awed at his transformation from man to wolf as she was horrified by the words of the scarred man. Svala was no warrior, but she was sick at the thought of leaving him with alone with five armed men, as if she’d failed some test of courage. But there was Dagny clinging to her neck with all the strength in her little arms, her small body shaking in her grip. The children, she had to protect the little ones and there was no fleeing through this pack of rabid animals. Not unarmed and vulnerable as they were.

Ranulf grabbed Eyja’s hand and pulled her toward the open door, Raudr hesitating for a moment wanting to stay by Orran’s side. He waited until his younger brother had made it to safety before he retreated himself. He ran back and held up his small round shield as he put himself between Svala and the door.

“They have to get by me first,” he said to her but his normal arrogance was tempered with real fear.

Amund ignored the children, his axe now in his hand and his black and yellow quarter painted shield up on his arm. His pale eyes focused on Orran and he began to approach him, studying his stance and the long sword he held. His axe was a plain but sharp and well cared for and he was eager for blood.

“I tell you once more, Christian,” he said as he began to circle Orran. “Back away and live. This is not your fight. I’m here for Ragnar Ragnarsson’s blood.”

Knut was just behind the young man and he held a large axe, gripped with both of his hands. It was a massive deadly weapon and he grinned at the lithe Pict.

“Listen to him if you wish to live another day to worship your ergi Christ,” Knut spat on the mud and flashed a gap-toothed grin.

continued collab with Idlehands, Constable Walrus and Igraine

Orran shook his head “I am not moving anywhere, and I will not be the one to die today.” He glanced at Knut as he spoke “As for you, I will send you to meet my Lord, so you can grovel at his feet for forgiveness before he sends you to burn in Hell.” And Orran swapped his stance, adopting a more subtle stance and watching them his blade out and ready.

“Raudr, you can… Best defend from in here, just past the door…” Svala pleaded. Honestly, she hadn’t a clue what she was saying, only that she desperately needed to sound like she did, to bring the brave child to her side, out of reach of axe blade and spear for precious moments longer. And with those words Svala somehow managed to set Dagny to the ground, a gentle kiss to the little girl’s forehead, fingertips wiping away great large tears from her pretty pale cheeks.

“There now… Here sweet girl, don’t you move. I’ll not leave you, just stay still a moment longer,” she whispered, her voice surprisingly level, low and calm. She spared a glance toward Ranulf and Eyja as the boy held her little sister protectively in his thin arms. The sight broke her heart and then hardened her resolve all at once. They could not stay behind these walls, but they couldn’t leave either, not until…

Svala moved swiftly, dark blue eyes searching for the glint of metal, for… Yes! Exactly where she’d seen it last, Sigrid’s great spear was propped against the wall beside the sleeping bench, alongside the proud row of shields. Svala hefted the spear in one hand, a feat surprisingly easy for a woman of her natural strength, and then took up the smallest of the shields, letting its unfamiliar weight rest on her other arm. There was no great skill in the way she handled either, no knowing, no learning beyond what she’s seen here in Trellesborg among the fighting men. But there was determination, and a welling fury, and the start of a very desperate plan.

“Raudr! Can you carry your shield, and Dagny too?”

Raudr looked over at Svala and reluctantly tucked the wooden sword into his belt and took Dagny’s chubby hand in his own. “I can.”

He did not argue, even Ragnar the Younger’s courage was tested at the sight of the men circling Orran. He tried to ignore the tremor of fear that went through him and he wished his father or even his mother were there. Ranulf pulled his small quarter painted shield up protectively over Eyja and smiled slightly at her.

“We’ll be alright, but be ready to run,” he said, watching the men focus on the Pict warrior. They stood no chance against the raiders and flight was their best choice for survival. Eyja did her very best to return her dear friend’s smile, though the corners of her mouth likely shook as much with impending tears than any kind of reassurance.

But Eyja could run. She’d run when her big brother Tore told her too, and she’d run with her Madir and Svala through the woods to Trelleborg, and they’d been all right too. She trusted Ranulf, and she could run when he said, and if he said they’d be all right, she believed him. And she’d run.

Amund and Knut closed in on Orran, the older man striking first as the younger smacked his shield with his axe. Knut swung the two handed axe at the smaller man’s midsection, hoping to lay a crippling if not fatal blow with the first shot.

The dark haired man watched the other two circle around and he looked at the house, meeting Svala’s eyes. He grinned and hefted his bearded axe, twirling it in his hand as he made a cautious approach. The girl had a spear but he was not too concerned, she was still very young, just a maiden.

As the man with the axe reared back for a swing Orran glanced at him quickly moving low and back; the axe swinging harmlessly over his head and he used his smaller stature and speed to rush forward after the large swing and bury the blade of his sword into the chest of the larger man dead center in his diaphragm piercing his lung and running him through.

Orran pulled his sword from him quickly springing up and turning to look at Amund, he sidestepped to rearrange his position putting all the men back in front of him and grinned; bouncing the blade in his hand and using his speed to continuously make Amund change his body orientation.

“Well done Raudr,” Svala said swiftly, nodding toward the young boy, and then to Ranulf and Eyja. She somehow smiled at them all, the children she loved, and would have been glad to know her smile carried warm reassurance and confidence. This, even as her insides turned to ice water when the dark-haired man’s gaze was on her again, and she knew there were only seconds left to get them out of here. Orran was breathtaking to watch, agile and quick, but even he was in no position to stop the intent she saw in those feral eyes.

“Raudr, Ranulf - get the girls to safety - there’s no time to wait! When I step out, go behind me and you run to the keep! Run and protect Eyja and Dagny and don’t look back. And don’t you dare stop ‘til you’re there! Raise the alarm, send for the Jarl’s men!” Svala frowned, shaking her head curtly at the protest Eyja was about to make, the sudden fear in those pale eyes bright and unmistakable. “No arguing! GO! I’ll be right behind you!”

Svala stood swiftly, her inexperience with spear and shield evident with every awkward movement. But the young woman was no thrall, to be beaten and violated without a fight. She was a free woman, and a Dane, and she would give them a battle to make the Valkyries take note - anything it took to get the little ones past these animals to the safety of their mothers’ arms again. Svala stepped just beyond the doorway, leaving room enough only for the children to get past her and away.

Amund grunted with surprise at the speed the man moved with and he took a defensive position at once when he saw Knut run through. As Orran spun back around Amund moved at him, his shield held tightly against his body covering him from his lower jaw to his abdomen. He pushed forward, trying to knock Orran off his balance and at the same time he swung his axe down at the shorter man, aiming for the base of his neck.

Raudr and Ranulf eyed the man approaching them with fear and caution, they heard Svala’s words and remembered their mother’s instructions but they hesitated. Raudr lifted his three year old sister and propped her on his hip, she would never keep up with them on foot. His gaze fell on Orran as he stabbed the man with the big axe and faced down the man who seemed to be the leader. The painted man moved with a swiftness and grace that he had not seen before, he fought differently than the Danes and part of him wished he could stay and watch. Ranulf gripped Eyja’s hand and shouted to his brother, “Run now, we must find Fadir!”

The boys ran, Ragnar the Younger weighed down by his little sister and Ranulf clutching the redheaded girl’s hand, not letting her go. Eyja made no further protest at all, yanked along suddenly by her friend, thin legs stretching for all they were worth as she sprinted beside Ranulf.

The dark haired man ignored them, if Amund wished to slay Ragnar’s children that was his problem that they were escaping. Geir, the scarred man with the nearly black hair, had his sights set on Svala. With the plague of draugr and winter approaching there was no telling how long they would be behind the walls of Trelleborg and he was not keen on spending it alone. A pretty young wife to warm his bed would be nice and if Harald took power her mother could not stop him. It was only a matter of time before that happened and Geir reasoned he could take stake his claim now.

“Come pretty one,” he chuckled at her clutching the spear. He could see she was unfamiliar with the weapon and he moved with practiced ease, lifting his shield defensively. “Put down that spear and come with me. Don’t make me take you by force, sweetling.”

Orran watched as Amund raised the shield and the axe, and was directing the swing downward. Orran quickly ducked and rolled at the apex of the blow beside quickly scampering to a knee as the roll finished. Using the soft mud he turned himself to slash at the back of Amund’s knee cutting the fragile tendons making it buckle underneath the weight of the swing and fall to a knee unable to stand sturdy.

Orran quickly stood and put his back away from the other two blade still in hand and spit in Amund’s direction sneering at the two left. “Come then.”

From the corner of her eye, Svala saw the shadows of the children pass by, small and swift and away from this place, to the keep, to safety. Another man fell to Orran’s quick blade, and so now there were three. All that was left for her to do, was to keep their escape clear. The young woman’s lip curled back in disgust at the scarred man’s words, eyes narrowed with rage. “I’m going nowhere with you, coward! You’d probably have trouble forcing a sheep!” she growled as she thrust Sigrid’s spear toward what she could see of his head, a move far too ungainly to do the least bit of good.

Geir let her thrust forward with the spear, the point biting into his wooden shield and he yanked it back. Depending on how hard she gripped the spear she would either fall backward as it was torn from her hands, or if she had enough strength to keep her grip? She’d be dragged forward by the force. Either way, she would be off balance and easier to subdue.

He chuckled at her ferocity, this one had spirit. “I don’t think I’ll have much trouble with you little lamb.”

When Amund felt the stinging pain of the sword he swore loudly and hit the mud. The rain that had been falling was turning to sleet and as he tried to push his way up he could see the tiny beads of ice bouncing on the ground. He shoved his axe forward and rolled over, wanting to face his attacker rather than die with a blade in his back. The other two men now circled Orran warily, one bore a shield and axe and the other a spear.

He glared up at the painted man, his leg was useless and in the slippery mud he had not the traction to stand up on one foot. He put his shield up and held onto his axe, expecting no mercy from the Christian. His comrades hesitated after watching the smaller man cut down two in a matter of minutes and still remain unscathed.

Orran looked around for a moment, using this time to watch the two who still circled their faces worried if ever so slightly and he took a step forward towards them “I said lets go then, or had you expected some monk, someone defenceless?” He stepped forward again moving towards the one with the spear but he kept on his feet moving and making them adjust their position as he kept them in front of them.

Svala damn near fell flat on her face, her white-knuckled grip on the shaft yanking her completely off-balance. Instinctively she raised her arms with a shout, releasing the spear and burying her face behind Sigrid’s shield as she plowed forward into the scarred man’s shield, a small prayer to Freya herself to knock this man off-balance. She just needed to buy a little more time, a few more precious seconds to see the little ones safe. Svala might be young yet, and only just shy of her mother’s height, but there was all Hallerna’s strength in that lithe body - for whatever good it might do her now.

When she released the spear, Geir staggered slightly, she was stronger than she looked. Her shield and his slammed together as she charged forward and he dropped his axe. His hand reached out, seizing her golden braid, yanking her backward against his body.

“Now, see, you’ve gone and pissed me off, you little whore,” he growled in her ear as he clutched her slender form. “Be good now or I’ll invite my friends to have you once I’m done.”

Sigrid’s shield was dead weight on her arm, and she let it fall as her stomach turned, the combination of the man’s words and his foul, hot breath and the stink of his body so close she retched. He was strong, stronger than she could have ever imagined and fury turned to panic as Svala’s hands flew first to the anchor he held, the braid of her hair, and then almost as quickly to the slim wooden handle of the seax at her waist. Without a moment’s hesitation or thought for a plan anymore beyond escape, she raised the blade waist high and buried it in his leg. Svala tore the blade free, a sickeningly hot shower of wetness coating her hand and the seax hilt. With a choked scream, the young woman yanked herself from his grip with all the desperate strength she had left.

The dark haired man shouted with pain and surprise, the searing sensation of the iron blade stabbing deeply into the meat of his thigh made him let go of her hair.

“Little cunt!"

Continuation of Collab with ConstableWalrus, Idlehands, and Igraine

Limping he charged after her, snatching at her arm to try to catch her but also prevent another attack. “Drop the fucking knife or I’ll make sure we catch your mother too.”

He yanked her back, clutching at her waist and grabbing her slim wrist with his rough hand. “We need a new whore for the rest of Harald’s men.”

Unfortunately for Geir, it was exactly the wrong wrist, and precisely the wrong thing to say. Svala didn’t pull away this time, but shifted limber as Eyja’s kitten in his grip, her blood-soaked hand rising up, only to flash downward in an instant, the seax blade buried to the hilt in his neck. And as he slid to the ground beneath her, choking and sputtering on his own blood, Svala rode to the cold mud with him. Her little knife flashed again and again, the blade finding its sheath in his throat until he finally stopped moving, and then some seconds longer still, only to be sure. She had to be sure! Svala’s blood mingled with his as her hand slipped along the hilt, biting into her flesh - not that she noticed in the least.

Orran continued to approach the last standing men holding his blade outward and he kept his feet light making them shift and turn to him as he moved around them. He smiled. “Beasts wearing the skin of men, that is all you are.” He sniped at them trying to goad them into attacking “Dogs, a bunch of mongrel’s who can hardly hold a blade let alone take down a Pict, your false gods have abandoned you, and you will die here.”

Amund cried out at the crippling strike, feeling his leg crumple beneath him. He staggered, trying to get up onto one leg in the slick mud. He shoved himself upward, hopping on one foot and he still held his axe. He could not run nor would he lay there and wait to be executed, if he was to die then he would go to Valhalla. The two men who accompanied him stood back, not wanting to close in on the dangerous foreigner.

The crippled warrior hobbled out and waved his axe at Orran, “I want you to know something. I raided your lands and I raped your women. I killed your holy men. I fucked a nun until she begged for death. I took your gold and burned your homes. Come Christ’s man, send me to Valhalla!”

He laughed, his eyes shone with agony and fury.

Orran did not glance at him and kept his eyes on the two but he smiled “You will go to no such place, only torment and death await you, you might want to cling to what life you have left.”

And Orran ran his sword along the ground “Do you wish to join him in such torment!? There is no Valhalla, you will go nowhere but suffering eternal, and you will all deserve every last second of it you monsters.” He goaded the other two to try to attack “Your gods are weak, nothing… You cannot match the might of my God, your Odin is but a groveling dog to the almighty.”

Geir grasped his throat as the blood shot out and he gargled, his eyes wide with surprise and fear. He snatched at Svala, trying to grab her around her throat, but his life bled out quickly and he collapsed in the icy mud. In his last gasps he glared at her, frothy blood bubbling from his mouth.

Shaking, Svala rose to her feet, eyes wide as she stepped away, unable for a moment to tear her gaze from the dead man’s face. She’d killed a man. More dumb luck than any semblance of skill, or maybe it had been the grace of the gods - she’d never know. It didn’t matter. The sleet coming down plastered the blood-tinged lengths of stray hair to her face, giving her a wild, feral look in her blood-spattered clothes. Her blank, stunned gaze turned toward Orran, toward the painted man who had already downed two of their attackers, the other two warily eyeing the foreign warrior.

But there was no time no time to stop now, no room to fall apart. Svala couldn’t spare another moment for the dead man at her feet, her thoughts running only to the children who she could only pray were well beyond the animals come to kill them, to the keep and the Jarl’s men. Svala’s eyes swept the ground, ignoring the spear she could not wield and the shield she could not properly use beyond some clumsy battering ram, and fell to… The axe. The scarred man’s axe lay in the mud nearby and she stepped nimbly over his body, taking it up.

Svala might know nothing at all of swords and spears and shields, but a farmer’s daughter knew more than a thing or two about swinging an axe. Blood-spattered and grim, the young woman watched Orran and the two animals he’d left standing. Seasoned raiders both - she could tell by the look of them, the way they held their weapons, and Svala was torn. She hesitated, knowing full well she was no match for either, and yet nothing in her wanted to leave this brave man’s side.

Orran continued to move around in the mud away from Amund knowing full well there was no way the man could keep up with him; and out of the corner of his eye he spotted Svala bloody and he glanced quickly “Svala, go to the children, I’ve got these two… Run.” He turned quickly back to the men and moved towards the one with the shield quickly as if to attack.

She didn’t hesitate this time, not for a moment. The dead man’s axe still clutched in her hand, Orran had decided her mind for her, and Svala dashed after the fleeing children through the half-frozen mud, blood-stained skirts now spattered with long gouts of dirt as well.

The man with the spear shot a glance at the young woman who had just managed to stab Geir to death, but ignored her in favor of facing the menacing tattooed man. His cousin stood with him, a young man of only sixteen, he clutched his shield and his knuckles were white as he gripped his axe. They watched Amund limp toward the Pict, his axe held up and his shield discarded in the mud.

The boy stared in shock as Amund kept challenging Orran, despite being crippled. He was drunk but he seemed almost like a man touched by Odin. The spear bearer hesitated, he could step in and help but after watching the man fight he was unsure. They were not here to do justice for Amund’s brother, they had only come for possible loot and that opportunity was rapidly disappearing. The children had run and no slaves were in sight, pickings would be easy if the Pict were distracted.

Amund spat at Orran, his eyes wild now with pain as he lurched through the mud. He swung his axe in a wide downward swipe, aiming to split the chest of the Christian.

“You hide in your pretty armor,” he panted, his free hand yanking at the woolen tunic now soaked against his skin. “Odin’s men need no armor.”

Orran laughed watching the man “Neither do my people, if you ever took the time milk drinker, you might find that the Picts prefer to fight with little but they were born with.” Orran stepped back, reaching for the split in his leather pulling back to unravel it quickly, moving it off his chest with ease; The swirling lines went down from his neck and up his arms into brilliant patterns of blue.

Up his arms the lines swirled into less detail, but more bolder lines; some offshooting as they hit his shoulders and around his back into stag’s; but the largest feature was that of his torso, a wolf can be made out in the swirls, large its face heavily detailed with the space and it’s visage a snarl; Orran rolled his shoulders he was glad to be free of the confines of the armour.

“So now, are we done with the insults then? Is this what you wanted.” He glanced at the three moving quicker no longer so encumbered by the weight of the armour. His face scrunched up in a snarl, and he brandished his weapon towards the three.

Amund’s leg throbbed where the tendon’s had been cut, crippling him. If he survived he would be useless, rendered a beggar, it was better to die with his axe in hand. He wasted no more time and pushed off his good leg.

“Odin!” he shouted the battle cry and threw himself at Orran, his axe flashing in the sleet.

The spear bearer held his ground, his eyes widening at the sight of the strange markings that did not run in the downpour. What magic held the paint to the man’s body he did not know but it made him tremble. His young cousin too was awed by it, their war paint would wash off in rain or by sweat but Orran’s seemed to be a living part of him. He licked his lips nervously, perhaps he was even a shifter without his wolf’s skin. The markings on him seemed to leer and snarl as his lithe body twisted away from Amund’s strike.

As Orran twisted away from the reckless strike; he thrust his blade upward, piercing Amund through his gullet; Orran met him shoulder to shoulder as his strike ended and spoke to the man “It is over, may God have mercy on your soul, for I have none to give.” And he pulled the blade from him roughly and gave Amund a hard shove; Orran’s body tingled from the cold and the sleet and he let out a large breath, watching the mist with a stony gaze; the blood washed quickly off his blade in the heavy sleet as he stared at the two left quietly as the ice fell around them.

Amund gasped and met Orran’s eyes as the sword ran him through. He muttered through clenched teeth and smiled, “...piss on your mercy.”

His knees gave out and he slumped down, the fiery pain in his leg and guts spreading through his body as he groaned. Amund coughed and rolled his eyes, death was coming and he waited for his Valkyrie.

When Orran turned his body to stab Amund, the spearbearer saw his chance if he was fast enough. He aimed at Orran’s exposed side, seeking to run him through his liver. But as he charged forward but the ground was slick with mud and ice pellets and his leather shoes lost traction. He slipped falling onto his back; landing hard on the ground with a thud.

Orran wasted no time in rushing towards the fallen man taking advantage of the slip quickly, as he leapt on top of the spear bearer and sank his blade keep into the man’s chest. The spear bearer’s body twitched then went lifeless, the thrust just below his left breast managed to break through the rib and pierce through his heart killing the man instantly.

Orran has ripped his blade free and stood gazing now at the final standing his blade still coated with fresh blood that slowly was cleaned with the sleet and he eyed the boy and snarled at him loudly a challenge, a threat.

The boy gaped at the sudden realization he was the last one left, his cousin was dead in a blink of an eye. His knees shook as he watched the bloodied man. He never had been in combat, he only came because he needed new boots, for his own were worn down and torn. It was not worth it, he had not come on his master’s orders but on some drunken whim and he regretted it. Throwing down his shield and axe, he backed away. Shame made him blush but the fact was he did not want to die, not yet.

Orran watched as the boy threw down his arms and backed away slowly before turning quickly and sprinting back deeper into the fort. He smiled slightly as he looked about him, three corpses within a small square of area and a large trail of blood washing away from where Amund dragged himself into a frenzy. He walked over slowly to his body looking over it for a moment before dragging it next to the spear bearers; doing the same with Knut’s large form with some effort.

Having lined up all three, he stumbled around searching for the one the girl had slain. He mused to himself girl must be damned good with a blade, she was covered in blood holding an axe. Snooping around he eventually stumbled upon the body of Geir, and he dragged his corpse along with the others taking note the stab wounds in the neck. The girl must have fought like a cornered animal. His face darkened for a moment as if a sudden sadness struck him. She was a cornered animal he thought to himself, finally setting the corpse of Geir next to the others and gave the body a hard kick in the ribs before backing up.

With the four corpses lined in a grim row; he grabbed Amund’s axe and went towards them, chop by chop the heads were severed from their shoulders until Orran had heads severed and grouped; a grisly show but a needed one. His people were never above head hunting, it tended to prove a point although the practice had died out considerably. This he mused was a show for the Vikings, if the words of the children did not provide enough proof, the heads would plenty.

Orran grasped the heads by the Danes’ long hair and he went towards the healing house in a sprint after the children watching his footing to not slip, leaving his cloak and armour behind he had no time to carry them and be swift and would return for them later.

Harald had been brooding beside the fire, plotting his next move and going over his schemes relentlessly when the young lad rushed in. He was about to have his Housecarl beat the unfortunate boy to pulp before recognition dawned on him; the lad was one of his men albeit one of the newer ones. He gestured irritably and had the boy wait a moment while he slowly drank from the tankard in his hand; taking note of the boy's blanched face.

"Well?" He demanded, staring up at the boy's face. He had deliberately not risen so as to retain some small excuse for the height difference.

"...They're dead!" The lad blurted out making Harald scowl. He reached up and slapped the boy hard across the face.

"Be more specific! Who and why should I care?" Stunned, the boy rattled out the story while he quaked under Harald's increasingly murderous glare. The dwarfish man hurled his tankard across the room as he swore before leaping to his feet and storming outside into the cold air. He had partly hoped one of the offenders might be nearby to exact immediate punishment upon but alas there was none. He rounded on the boy angrily.

"You morons! Now Ragnar can demand a fee of me for this attack as it wasn't on his slaves and I don't like parting with my valuables." A cold gleam entered his eyes. "Luckily there's another route to make up for your idiocy." The boy looked hopefully. What a fool he was.

---

Harald strode towards the healing house having heard of Ragnar's presence there and called out.

"Ragnar, I know you are here! I have come to pay the blood price!" The young lad was forced towards the house. He was bound and naked, relieved of everything including his own weapon; the latter being the most terrifying aspect of the situation as he realised his own fate. Harald nodded and his Housecarl stepped forwards with a newly whetted axe as two other men held the lad down to stop his struggles. The axe descended and the man, barely beyond boyhood, died instantly; his head bouncing into the healing house before rolling to a stop with its eyes staring gruesomely up at the occupants in apparent disbelief.

"And it has been paid!" Without waiting for a reply Harald turned on his heel with his men in tow; discipline had been restored and he was no longer at a disadvantage.

(Evening, outside of Trelleborg)

The draugr seemed to melt out of the trees, shambling in the icy rain toward the warm living beings that stood on the trail near the river. Einnar cursed under his breath for not posting a guard, that he had allowed the men to huddle in a bunch to stay out of the weather. He was unused to commanding a group and normally only had himself to look after. He drew back on his bow, firing an arrow at an approaching draugr, hitting it in the neck. The shot would have dropped a living man but it hardly made the creature flinch as it lurched forward.

The young trapper pulled his bow and his father held out a spear, as his eyesight had faded to where he could not use the ranged weapon anymore. They followed Einnar’s command and attacked. Arrows rained down at the draugr but it did little to impede their progress. The younger trapper managed to hit one through the eye and the creature dropped to it’s knees, collapsing in the mud. His father slashed the neck of another and it grabbed the shaft of the spear, hauling itsself towards the older man. He managed to get away from it as it clawed at him but lost his spear in the process. His son shot another arrow at it, hitting it in the forehead and it stumbled to the ground.

“We’re wasting arrows,” Einnar growled as they backed up, drawing back another arrow, targeting a draugr that looked vaguely familiar. The thing that looked like a fisherman who had a distinctive scar and a missing ear from a drunken brawl.

His squinted in the cold misting rain, “Aim for their faces.”

Vigi’s heart was beating rapidly inside of his chest as he tried to push the walking corpses back. He called upon the long buried memories of combat practice when he was young to help him.

“We can’t kill all of them!” Vigi grunted, driving his spear into the head of a draugr that lunged at him. “We have to cross the river!”

“Do you see any bloody way to cross it!?” The older trapper shouted at him.

“We have to go through the water!”

“You’re mad!”

“It’s either that or be eaten alive by these demons!” Vigi said, backing up to the river and entering into the water. The near freezing water instantly chilled his feet to their very bones, but he ignored the needle like pain of the cold to more further into the water.

Einnar nocked another arrow, covering the hesitant retreat to the river’s edge. He could feel his bowstring starting to become slack in the rain. His arrow lacked the punch it should have when he released it, clattering into a tree trunk harmlessly. The draugr howled and gnashed their teeth, the one that looked like the scarred fisherman lunged at him and Einnar struck him across the face with his bow before turning to run toward the rest.

“Do it, cross the river!” he shouted at them, sliding in the mud as he went down the embankment, “There’s too many...shit.”

He felt his ankle turn, a sharp pain shooting up his leg. He stumbled and limped down to the water, plunging into the river. He waded forward, holding his bow above his head until he was thigh deep in the swift moving current.

“Freya’s cunt!” He shouted as the cold hit him and he grit his teeth. “Those things better not be able to swim.”

Vigi hung toward the back of the group in case anyone needed help, the others were trudging through the water as best they could. The current was fast and the water colder than an ice giants heart but they dug their feet into the sand and rocks to make their way through.

The draugr followed them without hesitation, but when they got up to thigh deep water they started to stumble and falter. The current was too great for their rotting limbs and one of them even fell, being swept away quickly by the raging river.

Einnar sucked in a breath, the cold searing into him like knives of ice and it felt as if his balls had jumped into his stomach. The party trudged across the river, the two trappers bringing up the rear. Once across they could see a few draugr left on the shore but most had been carried away. They paced back and forth but made no move to cross. The hunter picked up his bow, looking wearily at the soaked string that rendered it useless.

"Let's get some shelter, we need a fire and to try out or we won't make it back ourselves," he said, heading toward a mixed stand of pine and beech trees.

The younger trapper crouched and pulled some of the branches out from beneath the pines. His teeth chattering he said, "There is always dry kindling under the pine tree."

He snapped a few more branches free and began to build a fire as the others shivered. Einnar moved around despite the pain in his ankle, debating whether or not to take his wet pants off. While he stalked around he noticed the older trapper gripping his arm.

"You...what is your name again? What is with your arm?" he asked, squatting down.

The man's face was pale and drawn under his greying beard, "Ulfr, and nothing's wrong with my arm. Just pulled it when I threw the spear."

He cast his glance away from the hunter's gaze and at the fire pit his son was building.

"Vigi, could you come look at it?" Einnar asked after a pause. He was not good with people, but even he could see the old man was reluctant to tell the truth.

His son struck his flint iron and sparked a flame, blowing on it to give it life. "Father, if you have been hurt, let the seidrmadr tend to it."

Ulfr frowned and snapped at him, "I said I'm fine, I'm not an old woman needing to be coddled. Go back to your firemaking, Leifr."

Vigi approached the stubborn man, willing to take any distraction from the cold he could get. "If you're injured, show me." Vigi demanded, giving him a look that showed he would not allow any argument.

Ulfr looked away from him, clearly trying to ignore him but Vigi did not waver in his gaze. "Freya's tit." He grumbled, moving his hand aside to reveal the large bloody wound on his arm. "One of the demons took a bite out of me." He said in a low voice so his son would not hear him. "Say nothing of it, I don't need my boy nagging me over it."

Vigi nodded in understanding. "I'll work quickly then." He said, moving aside his soaking coat to dig out the sopping wet bandages from his bag.

(( Collaboration with Idlehands, RoadRash, ConstableWalrus and Igraine ))

Eyja’s lungs burned with the effort of running, her little hand turning hot and sweaty in Ranulf’s tight grip. She tried not to look back, tried to do exactly as Svala told her, but she just couldn’t help herself. And every last time those pale grey eyes started to peer over her shoulder, her heart dropped a little further when she never once caught a glimpse of Svala or Orran following. But Ranulf wouldn’t let her go, the surprising strength in his small body all unspoken insistence she keep going - and she did. But Eyja really couldn’t help the tears anymore, hot and stinging against the ice cold of the sleet.

But she was there, Svala was there and the young woman raced after the children, her grip on that axe never loosening for an instant. She wanted to shout with relief when she saw Raudr ahead, brave Raudr still hiking his baby sister in his arms as he struggled to run. The icy mud had long since turned slick and treacherous, but the sight gave her legs a burst of speed.

“Raudr! Raudr!” There wasn’t time to think how she must look, blood-spattered and with a warrior’s axe in her hand as she snatched at the boy’s shoulder. “Here,” she offered quickly, breathlessly as she bent to gather Dagny from his arms and into her own. She hushed the frightened little girl gently, sighing painfully when she saw the raw fear in those wide eyes.

“You’re faster than me Raudr - go!” Svala hissed softly, taking a deep breath as she readied herself to run.

Dagny clutched for a moment at Raudr’s shirt, her blue eyes wide with terror, then let go as Svala pulled her to her hip. She clung to her tightly, watching her older brother run away.

“I want Fadir,” she sobbed, clinging to the young woman.

“I know Dagny, I know,” Svala choked with a small, light kiss to those soft, tear-stained cheeks. Svala wanted her Fadir too, now more than ever before in all her life. But at the very least, if nothing else in this world, this sweet little girl would have her father again. The icy mud seemed to want to cement her in place, but the young woman still lifted one leg, then another, falling into a loping run after Ranulf and Eyja. “We’re going to find him sweetling, right now… Going to find your Fadir right now, you’ll see… “

Ragnar the Younger pushed himself to run, his lungs burning as his feet churned the mud. He passed by Ranulf and Eyja, dropping his small shield to reduce the load. He knew vaguely the way to the Hall, it was upward, toward the back of Trelleborg and on a slope. He looked around, noticing a few people staring in their direction and exchanging glances. As he ran forward he spotted some familiar figures standing near a doorway. It was Faolan, who leaning against the wall, his eyes half closed and Haakon and Ivarr, his father’s trusted men, guarding the front. They were armed, thank the gods, and it meant his parents must be inside.

“Haakon! Ivarr!” he gasped, his red hair plastered with rain and sweat. “Where is Fadir? Men came to the house!”

Haakon’s eyes snapped to his Thegn’s son, and in an instant his sword was in his hand. He rushed towards Ragnar the Younger, his eyes looking past him as Ivarr rushed to his side, his blade drawn as well.

“Go inside, Raudr,” Haakon snapped. “Get your Fadir, tell him what’s going on.”

“The painted man stayed behind,” Raudr said as he obeyed them, pulling open the wooden door and rushing into the warm dark room.

Faolan glanced up. Orran had gone with Hallerna’s girls and there was no mistaking who the painted man was. He glanced at the men pulling their blades and his jaw tightened, there would be more blood shed this night.

Raudr blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light and he saw his mother’s copper hair and his father’s familiar bulky figure. He hurried to him, ignoring the injured men in the beds. He caught sight of Tora, she was alive at least.

“Fadir, you must come. Men came to our house, they were looking for you but they tried to kill us,” he said, his breath steadier. “The Christian guard, he stayed behind while we...we ran.”

Ragnar eyed his son with a confusion that quickly hardened into rage as the boy spoke. His eyes grew flat and distant and he snarled, dropping the head and stepping past his son to fetch his shield from the wall beside the door.

Sigrid’s head snapped up as her son came in and his words sent a shot of fear through her heart. Her face went white and then flushed with anger. That someone would dare attack their home, their children, and when they were gone? She saw Ragnar react and she wished for her spear to join him at his side but instead she went to Raudr and looked him over, cupping his chin a moment in relief that he was unhurt.

“The others?” she asked sharply.

“They were unhurt, behind me,” he replied and she gave him a brief but strong hug before heading out the door.

Anndrais raised his head, and looked at the boy and his grip tightened slightly on Tora’s hand; with his free hand he made the sign of the cross on himself, praying for the protection of his friend, and thanking God that the children were alright, Orran would have thrown himself into any blade to save those children. And he dropped his head and clenched his eyes keeping silent.

All the blood fled Hallerna’s face when Sigrid’s boy showed up, the hurried words from his lips turning her stomach to ice cold liquid. “Raudr, where’s Svala? Eyja?” She didn’t wait for an answer, dashing toward the door to the sleet-filled skies and the muddy roads.

“They were behind me,” he said as Hallerna rushed off, “We made it away from them. They were looking for Fadir...”

He paused as he caught sight of the head his father dropped and pushed it with his foot until he could see the face and it clicked into place. Amund, the drunken leader of the pack, had demanded blood for blood, this must be why.

As the others spoke the Thegn stormed out of the house, his eyes speaking of immense violence just barely held in check. Stepping past Faolan without a second glance, he pushed between his two men and stared in the direction of his family’s hall. He spotted Ranulf and the others coming towards them at a run, and he raised his shield to meet anyone who might be pursuing them.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but carried the same edge it did before every raid. “We meet them here,” he grumbled, gripping his blade. “Anyone we don’t know dies. Anyone we know is with Harald dies.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see Sigrid in the doorway. “Get inside, woman! Things have moved beyond you,” he bellowed, his tone brooking no argument. He understood she was worried, and as furious as he, but this was different. Things had gone beyond mere squabbling, and he’d not have her in the midst of a melee.

Ranulf still clung to Eyja’s hand as he slipped in the mud, quickly pushing himself back up. He spotted his father and his men, armed and outside the house and he felt like shouting for joy if he was not breathless. Eyja was not quite so breathless, a small, inarticulate cry of relief on her lips as she saw Raudr disappear into the healing house, and then her Madir’s unmistakable figure emerge. Hallerna heard Ragnar’s snapped order to Sigrid behind her, but the thegn was no husband of hers, and he could go straight to Hel if he thought she was going anywhere without her babes in her arms.

Swiftly Hallerna snatched up Eyja from the ground and pulled her close, terror and relief in equal measure in her eyes as she took Ranulf’s hand in her own too, pulling both the younger children safely away though her eyes never stopped searching the road they’d come for Svala.

Sigrid heard her husband and she stayed put, her green eyes flashing with fear and rage, “Where is Dagny?”

She stood up on her toes, pushing past Ivarr’s shoulder and spotted Svala running, clutching her daughter, “Hallerna, there they are! Ranulf, get inside the house.”

The redhead’s focus was on the small girl with strawberry blonde curls who clinging to the blood and mud spattered teenager. She rushed out, nearly slipping on the icy ground to relieve Svala of her precious burden. Dagny cried when she saw her mother, wrapping her little arms tightly around her neck and Sigrid hugged her fiercely.

Hallerna’s blonde head shot back up from the tangled mass of her ‘baby’ girl’s coppery curls, back to the road, following Sigrid’s line of sight until she saw the pair, the little girl and the young woman. The statuesque blonde woman only just barely kept back a shout of relief as she hugged her youngest child so tightly, and then swung Eyja to the ground. “Go, get inside the healing house with Ranulf,” she whispered before racing after Sigrid, who was already bundling her own little girl in her arms.

Somehow Hallerna managed to choke back the cold fear at the sight of her daughter, all the blood, mud-spattered and gripping a strange axe in her hand. But Svala’s eyes met her mother’s, and she only shook her head quickly, almost impatiently. The younger woman wore the strangest, sweetest smile when Sigrid had Dagny in her arms again. ”It’s not my blood, Madir,” Svala whispered softly into her mother’s shoulder, her one free arm wrapped tightly about Hallerna’s neck. She had no intention of letting that axe go.

And though Hallerna had no intention of letting her daughter go, those strangely comforting words ringing in her ears, Svala looked up, back toward the way they’d come as she took a step away. “Orran… Orran should be… He said he would follow…”

Sigrid was hustling back to the door, looking back over her shoulder at the mention of the Pict. The monk’s guard had stayed behind to defend their children’s retreat, it was surprising and commendable. She caught a glimpse of a lone, dark figure on the road as she moved between her husband and Ivarr. The overcast sky was darkening with dusk, no bright sunset to mark the end of the day only a dimming of the world.

collaboration between Igraine, idlehands, RoadRash, and ConstableWalrus

Orran stepped forward; his bright woad tattoos came into view as he drew near coursing bold lines along his chest, shoulders, and face, his long hair was matted and clung to his shoulders and face as he approached. His eyes were shadowed by the hair, and his face was blank he wore no satisfaction, as he trudged up the hill; in his left hand his blade the right hand clung to hair of four severed heads at his right; he rolled his shoulders and looked up at the figures by the door they were silhouetted and he could not make out exactly who was in front of him.

Orran had suspected another ambush; more men to attack the children and he pointed his blade at the group saying loudly “Speak, announce yourself. Or I will be forced to take more heads than I possess already.” His grip tightened on the blade as he awaited an answer, narrowing his eyes to try to peer at the figures only able to see vague outlines, of men in front of him.

He could see the shimmering of steel faintly, and clenched tightly on the hilt ready to drop the heads and fight again.

Ragnar held his ground with his men, eyeing the silhouette before him. The others had mentioned the “painted man” helping them, and he growled in his throat, restraining himself from attacking out of sheer rage and instinct.

“If you’re a friend of Harald’s you’ve chosen as fine a night as any to die, but if you’ve taken heads as you claim, I doubt you’re with that coward,” the Thegn rumbled, slowly lowering his blade. “Sheath your weapon and we’ll sheath ours, but if you come at us armed, we’ll cut you down regardless. Tonight isn’t a night for guesswork.”

Orran growled out rolling his shoulders “That is why I said ‘announce yourself,’ not threaten me… I will not sheathe my blade for any save the monk, or the children. Once I know they are unharmed I will gladly put away the weapon.”

“I cannot trust you, you are not worth trusting in the darkness, So I decline the offer, until you announce yourself, whom is with you, and where are the children. Those are my terms, either take it or be silent and move on.” Orran glared up at the silhouettes readying himself for an attack.

Svala gaped at the heads gathered in the painted man’s grip, but the relief at the sight of him was near palpable. “Orran wait! We’re safe, we’re fine!” she called, stepping away from her mother before the armed men to the painted man, beckoning him closer still. “It’s me, it’s Svala! There’s no enemy here - this is their father, Raudr’s and Ranulf’s and little Dagny!”

Orran’s blade lowered slightly as he eyed the figure carefully, he spoke loudly taking a step forward “Svala, if it was anyone elses voice, I would not believe their words, that they were being held against their will and forced to lie, either by pain of torture or death.” He approached slowly, “But I doubt they could take you so easily, and that makes me happy. You should be proud.”

Orran stepped closer able to start seeing details of the people in front of him, armour and weapons, until he laid eyes on Svala, unharmed and he finally relaxed fully.

Svala smiled brightly, even beneath the blood and the mud and, were the light just a little better? The young woman’s cheeks might be seen to blush happily with the painted man’s praise. The scarred man’s head was there in Orran’s grip, and the strangest thrill of pride ran through her as she allowed Hallerna to guide her back behind the wall of armored and armed men with Sigrid.

Orran stepped closer until he could plainly see the men, and sheathed his blade in its scabbard, his blank demeanor and tattoos even more vivid and colorful as one got close; and he watched the three men closely; the blank face turning into the scowl. “Where are the rest of the children? Are they alright?” He stated plainly not wanting any more run around from the men in front of him. “And be upfront, we are not in a battle for words, plain answers.”

Ragnar growled, shoving his blade back into the sheath. He disliked Christians and foreigners as a rule, and had spent enough time shedding blood that this one’s attitude and body adornment didn’t impress him. Nevertheless, Harald was his target. This man wasn’t on his list as of yet.

“They’re fine, and they’re inside,” the Thegn rumbled, his eyes leaving Orran to sweep across the area he had come from, searching for potential foes to vent his wrath on.

Sigrid held Dagny close and kissed her cheek before stepping quickly into the house, giving her to Raudr. “Go sit with Tora, do not move from there.”

She went back outside, standing behind the men and she glanced around, spotting Faolan. Moving swiftly, her beads clicking together in the quiet dusk, she grabbed the slave and spoke in a low voice,“Go get Loker at the Jarl’s Hall, tell him to bring as many armed men as he can. Harald’s declared war and we’ll need his aid. Bring back torches, we’ll need fire. And bring me a spear, I’ll not stand empty handed.”

Ragnar beckoned to Faolan as Sigrid left him, waving him over to him. The Thegn reached to the seax hanging from the small of his back and removed it, sheath and all, from his belt, holding it out to the slave.

“They know you,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Harald’s hall. “You should be able to get there and back unnoticed in the dark, but take this in case. You’ve my permission to carve their guts out if any of the fools try to stop you.”

He nodded, glancing at Ragnar before turning to sprint off up the slope toward the Hall, the long knife gripped in his hand. Sigrid looked at Orran and met his eyes, giving him a nod of appreciation for saving her children.

“I’ll be inside, Ragnar,” she said, finally obeying his command.

((Collab between igraine, idlehands, roadrash, and constablewalrus))
Orran walked past the Danes speaking a curse in his pictish tongue at them and smiled; not caring the insult involved in it. And went towards the healing house doors; opening them and stepping inside the heads still clenched in his fist by the hair. And he inspected the room carefully seeing all accounted for; He approached the two mothers and dropped the heads at their feet.

“Four accounted, one scampered away…” And he kicked the head of Geir away from the others “Three are mine, and one is the girl’s… She should be proud taking down a full grown man.” He glanced at the two women his chest still bare and he was soaked to the bone. He rolled his shoulders “The children are safe.” and he gave a quick look towards Hallerna.

Hallerna smiled softly, adrenaline and relief still flooding her though a wave of incalculable gratitude threatened to overtake all those emotions. When the painted man had offered to watch her daughters to Sigrid’s house, she could have never in her most hellish imaginings have conjured up of this moment. “They are, Orran,” she said with a nod of her head, her eyes falling to the ground for a moment to linger over the heads before rising once more to the Pict’s face, the magnificent whorls of tattoos. “Thank you… I don’t… Thank you Orran.”

It was Eyja though, in all her child’s innocence, who gave fuller voice to the gratitude of their small family without a single word. After all she’d seen to this day, the horrors from her farm to the supposed safety of Trelleborg, the sight of the severed heads barely registered at all in her mind. It was her painted man with Geri and Freki come to life on his cheeks, who had promised to teach her to draw on real paper, who filled her world - and he was still alive! Thank all the gods, but he was still alive and returned like her big brother never did despite his promise! She let go of her mother’s skirt, running to wrap her arms tightly about Orran’s waist, eyes squeezed tight to keep back the tears that big girls shouldn’t ever shed.

Sigrid entered the healing house, picking up Dagny who ran to cling to her skirt. She raised an eyebrow at the tattooed Christian and nodded again, “Of course the children are safe now, they’re with their parents. And you have our gratitude. We will see you compensated for your bravery.”

She kissed her daughter’s hair and for a moment her cool demeanor melted as she sat on the edge of Tora’s bed and her sons stood on either side of her. She murmured a prayer of thanks to Thor and Friga who guided the man’s sword to protect their children. She put her arms around them, squeezing them, and for once they did not squirm away embarrassed.

The young mother held her brood and watched the Pict before she glanced at the monk who still held her slave’s hand. Tora looked even more pale as she listened to the events unfolding outside and saw the children so frightened. Her eyes kept darting to the door, anxiety clear on her bruised face.

“Mistress,” she said softly through pained lips, “It was him, wasn’t it? It was Harald.”

Her voice was strained and the underlying panic made the children tremble. Sigrid held them and Dagny clung to her as she replied to the thrall, “It is uncertain but likely. But Ragnar and his men are at the door with swords and...Orran here has his blade as well.”

Orran looked down at the young girl with a smile, genuine and full, a smile not seen often from the Pict but the little girl had the knack of bringing it out of him. His hand reached down and patted her head gently. “I am very glad to see you are safe little one. When things get settled, I’ll show you how to draw those okay? Just don’t look at the things I brought in and keep your eyes on your mother.”

Eyja nodded her head enthusiastically, pale eyes shining with promise as her painted man turned toward her mother and her older sister. Orran bowed his head accepting the thanks from hallerna and wrest himself gently from the little girls grip; and he glanced at Svala with a smile “You mother must be proud of you Svala, you did fantastic. You should train with me sometime. Physical exercise is good, and we can work on some things. I’m very impressed.”

Svala’s grip on her hard-won axe tightened just a little, the pleased grin on her lips about ready to split her face in half as his pretty words once again stole her words away. She could not know if Orran’s promised offer was true or no, but the attentions and kindness nearly overwhelmed the young woman.

Orran rolled his shoulders and walked past the heads towards the monk and Sigrid’s family; he moved past them and stood beside Anndrais.

They spoke in the Gaelic tongue to keep the close Danes out of the conversation “So, you are back then…” Anndrais spoke pointedly, and kept his eyes down at Tora patting her hand. Orran huffed “Of course, you did not expect me dead did you? The children are safe and so am I.”

Anndrais sighed and looked up at him with a smile “I’m glad you are alright, so very very glad my friend… Prayer does wonders.” He chuckled slightly putting his gaze back downward to Tora; and Orran simply nodded “Well, I’ll be outside… Keep an eye on the children, and the poor girl.” Anndrais nodded “And you keep your eye on yourself around the Ragnarsson.”

Orran nodded and walked back towards the front door, glancing at the children in Sigrid’s arms and gave them a nod; as he strode to the door he eyed Hallerna closely, his eyes lingering on her golden hair before making it towards the door and exiting back into the dusk.

“Eyja, come away sweetling,” Hallerna called gently, Orran’s bold gaze not lost on her in the least, and she chuckled softly under her breath, one eyebrow raised curiously. She wrapped her arm around her youngest girl’s thin shoulders, beckoning Svala closer as well, eyeing her eldest from head to toe, still not completely convinced in her mother’s heart that all the blood really did belong to the dead man.

“I’m going to join Orran and the men outsi- … Svala, stop. There’s nothing to argue about now. You’re not the only one with an axe, little Swallow. Eyja, fetch me that bowl of water… There, that’s my good girl.”

Hallerna pulled her daughter to one of the few open benches nearby, tenderly prying her daughter’s fingers from around the axe handle, setting it to the side. She winced as she looked at the deep gouges in Svala’s palm, a long sigh escaping her lips. “An axe didn’t do this,” she said finally.

“No, it was the seax… I… That’s what I had to use to… “ Svala glanced up at her mother from beneath long, golden eyelashes, before she spoke again. “He said he was going to… He said he was going to make you a whore. That if I wasn’t ‘nice,’ he was going to give you to- “

“Shhh… Don’t fret little Swallow,” Hallerna whispered tenderly, her fingers tucking a stray lock of hair stiff with mud and blood back behind her daughter’s ear. “He won’t be doing anything wicked, ever again. You saw to that, and I am proud of you Svala. So very, very proud… “ Hallerna’s voice trailed off for a moment, studying the face of the woman her daughter had become. Love and concern in equal parts were writ large across own face, and she wished for perhaps the thousandth time this very day that Sven still lived, the man who’d been her love and her shield from the time she was Svala’s age.

A small breath of a laugh escaped as Eyja approached, oh-so-carefully balancing that basin of water in her two small hands, and Hallerna helped her set it to the ground beside them as she stood. “Well done sweetling, and here… “ Hallerna handed the little girl some of the precious bandages left by the seidrmadr, sure that Vigi would not mind so much the use she put them to.

“Help your sister clean up as best you can, and be sure to dress the cuts on her palm,” she instructed her youngest daughter, delighting in the proud light that shone in Eyja’s pale eyes. “I’ll be right outside the door.” Hallerna stooped to kiss both girls on the forehead before taking up her own axe, the woodsman’s blade leaning against the healing house hall and following Orran into the failing light behind the Thegn and his men. She lifted her chin proudly, dark blue eyes scanning the road ahead of them for whatever might come. She was still the head of her own family, however small and broken it might be.

Dusk, The Jarl's Hall, Trelleborg

Faolan kept to the shadows of the longhouses as twilight fell, hurrying along in the slick mud of the trampled grounds of the fort. He saw few faces even though the sleet had softened to an icy mist. None of Harald's men tried to stop him as he approached the Jarl's hall, trudging past the smoke houses where men still worked on preserving the meat. One of the men who stood outside the hall had the look of a guard, he wore leather armor and had a long knife and axe.

"I need to speak with the Housekarl, Loker," Faolan announced as he stood at the foot of the stairs. He looked right at the guard rather than humbling himself. "It's urgent."

The guard spat down toward him after hearing his Irish accented Danish, "Who sends you slave? And you'd better drop your eyes before I cut them out."

The Irishman glanced to the side but did not look down, "Thegn Ragnar Ragnarsson sent me and he needs Loker and his men immediately unless you want a war to break out within these walls."

The guard's interest was piqued and he ignored the insubordinance, "Wait there."

He went back into the hall and Faolan waited, crossing his arms against the cold, Ragnar's ornate saex on full display. The hall's servants and slaves looked at him with curiosity and suspicion as he waited. He hunched his shoulders under his cloak, his hood hanging over his face, hiding his collar and short thrall hair. When the guard came out he gestured towards the back of the hall.

"The housekarl went to visit someone, you can wait in the back near the kitchen for his return," he ordered and went back to his post.

"This is urgent! You have blood already being shed in these walls," Faolan told him, before muttering, "Fool."

"What was that, slave?" the guard put his hand on his long knife.

"Nothing, sir," Faolan replied tartly and walked quickly to the back of the hall where the smoky kitchens were.

The slaves belonging to the Jarl were huddled near a fire, eating their bread when he approached. Rather than enter the building he squatted down with them, recognizing the features on some of them as being from his home. An older woman wore a cross and a man had a tribal tattoo on his neck that Faolan knew to be Irish.

He looked up at them and spoke in Gaelic, "Have you seen the housekarl? That thickheaded guard will not tell me. He is needed urgently for the Danes are at each other's necks, including my master."

"What do you care if they spill each others blood?" the tattooed man asked, casting a tired look at him.

"I don't, but truth is what is outside these walls is worse. Whatever hellspawn is out there is more dangerous than even the sword Danes that squabble over their petty thrones," Faolan replied. "Any word of the search party?"

"Nothing, and the weather has turned foul," the man replied, tugging on the heavy leather collar out of habit.

"You've seen the demons?" the woman asked, speaking Gaelic as she clutched at her simple wooden cross.

"Aye, seen them, fought them...I'd say I killed some but I don't know for certain. If my master and this Harald spend the lives of their men fighting each other that leaves us with less swords to face the draugr. We have a long winter ahead, winter brings hunger, and hunger brings the wolves to the door," Faolan said in a low voice, the firelight flickering off his face.

They were silent a moment and the woman spoke up again, "Housekarl Loker went to visit his former in-laws. He doesn't like people to know when he goes but that is where I saw him. It's the last longhouse to the east of the Hall, near the wall. God speed to you, mac hÉireann"

Faolan stood up, pulling his hood back up, "You should all take cover, put away any supplies you have, in case Loker cannot reason with them."

Quickly he jogged away from the slaves' fire and headed in the direction the Irish woman had given him. He finally came to the last long house, at the opposite end of the fort from his master's home. The night was approaching and the house had torches lit, the door closed against the weather. The Irish slave knocked on the door in a rapid staccato and stepped back as it swung open, the worry creased face of the tall redhaired Dane looked down at him.

"You're Ragnarsson's slave? Felon?" he asked, with a sense of foreboding in his stomach. Behind him an elderly couple and a boy looked on curiously from the warm interior.

"Faolan, sir," he replied, tugging his hood back enough to look at him despite the impropriety. "You are needed at once, my master and Harald are circling each other and blood has already been spilled. A group of Harald's men attacked my master's children though they made it to safety...not to mention they brutalized a woman...a female slave of Ragnar's. You must get down there and call them off if you can."

Loker's jaw clenched. Damn that troll spawned Harald and his itchy palms! He looked down at the slave and gripped his shoulder roughly, "Watch your tongue, lad. Do you not think I don't understand the urgency of this matter? We will leave at once, we need to gather the men. Why haven't I been told of this?"

The last part he muttered as he turned back inside, leaving the door open as he belted on his sword. The boy, who Faolan judged to be about ten or so, grinned widely at Loker as he handed him his cloak. He could see a resemblance to the housekarl in the smile and the deep auburn hair and the already broadening shoulders of the lad. The boy spoke, his voice garbled and the words unclear, causing the slave to pause and notice. He could only make out the familiar term "Fadir".The older couple spoke to him quietly and the boy sat back down with a disappointed expression on his round face.

Loker caught Faolan's look and when he exited he seized the slave by the arm, ducking his head to whisper harshly, "I trust that a slave knows when to keep his mouth shut."

The Irish thrall blinked and merely nodded, surprised at the easy going man's sudden ferocity. It must be a shame to have a son that was not normal, as the Danes saw deformations of any type to be a sign of ill favor for the gods and a burden on their society. He trotted to keep up with the housekarl's long strides, following him back to the hall. Loker ignored him as he ran up the stairs, taking two at a time.

"Gylfi, get the men together, we have to stop those two dogs from ripping out each other's throats," he rumbled, "Make sure they're all armed, we have to have a show of force. Especially against Harald. And why had no one told me of the attacks on Ragnar's property? And on his children!"

Gylfi shook his head, "We heard nothing about it, the Thegn's longhouse is on the far western end. I'll go at once."

He rushed off to round of the men who served the Jarl and Loker entered the hall. He went to the armory and began taking out axes, spears and bows.

"My mistress requests a spear, sir," Faolan spoke up.

Loker glanced at him with a raised eyebrow and muttered, "Does she? Far be it from me to deny a lady anything."

"And they wish me to have a bow and arrows," he lied.

"Odin's eye, things are so bad that he is arming his slaves and women?" Loker looked at him sharply. "Take what you need but keep in mind they belong to the Jarl."

Faolan grabbed a bow and as many arrows as he could before Loker glared at him. Before he left he took the shortest spear he could find, one that would suit either him or Sigrid. When he exited the hall he could see at least a dozen of the Jarl's men gathered, dressed in a mix of leather and Loker himself wearing a chainmail shirt. They bore their colorful shields and the slave felt a chill that was not caused by cold wind. There was much resting on whether the housekarl could make Ragnar and Harald stand down, too much that filled him with dread and he pushed the thoughts aside. Burdened by the weapons he lead the way as Loker and his men marched toward the healing house.

collab between idlehands and Jinxer

Nightfall, Healing House, Trelleborg

Ragnar stepped forward, already irritated by the mouthy Pict and Harald's arrival with a small force made him hungry for a fight. He was still outnumbered but not by much and he knew his men were better warriors and he could likely win. He held himself in check however because the children and women were just behind him in the house. With blue eyes bright with hatred he watched as the false thegn offered him compensation for the attack on his home.

Sigrid stood behind the men, next to Hallerna and she struggled to keep silent. She wanted this man run through, skewered on Ragnar's sword Hausstaka, the Skull Taker. Her hands itched to grip her own spear, to watch the pointed tip of Issvigr penetrate Harald's chainmail covered chest. She entertained such thoughts briefly as the dwarvish man had the young raider executed. Sigrid looked away from the helpless young man's terror, despite her hatred for any who would harm her children, she found it hard to watch the boy be executed.

The big fair sword Dane was still flanked by Ivarr and Haakon, and he glared down at head that rolled to his feet. The face was young, even younger than Ivarr, but that did not matter to the seasoned warrior. The payment of the boy's life was to be even for the attack on his home, an acknowledgement that it had not been Harald's orders. The big Dane clenched his jaw and when Harald turned his back on him, he spoke up in a deadly calm voice.

"You still owe me for my slave," Ragnar said, stepping forward, standing ahead of his men, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Harald stopped at the Ragnarsson's voice and craned his head over his shoulder; not even bothering to turn around. It was clear that the man was spoiling for a fight, as were his men. While Harald had the numerical superiority it was not a situation too great for his liking. Even with the men he had hidden in the shadows with readily strung bows he disliked there being any chance of defeat.

"For a slave?" Harald repeated, his mouth working the words slowly as if he did not comprehend them. What stupidity! When did any man of station bother to demand compensation for a slave? They were objects, commodities. Harald had not stolen them nor permanently damaged them; merely used a single slave before sending the girl on her merry way. He turned around although he stayed where he was; plenty of his men in between himself and Ragnar's party.

"She can still work, can she not? She is not... spoiled goods; no more spoiled than when she found her way into my bed in any case. So tell me, Ragnar, what compensation would you want? I have not stolen your slave so I cannot give her back to you and the only action I took was to honour her use as a woman." His eyes glinted with a dark humour and pleasure. "I have merely broken your slave temporarily, she will be able to work within a day or two if you bothered to instill some discipline in her like I do with my own possessions."

Ragnar's eyes flashed dangerously, the sound of his chainmail rustling as he shifted his weight audible in the silence that followed Harald's words. He trusted his wife to keep her mouth shut for the moment but without looking he knew her face was as red as her hair. The big thegn cocked his head slightly, looking pointedly down at the stocky dark haired man.

"You damaged her enough that I demand compensation," Ragnar said, his voice steady and deep. "It is my right as her owner to ask for this. She is useless right now and unlike you I don't like a woman, slave or not, who is afraid of her own shadow."

Sigrid's face was indeed flushed pink as she glared at Harald. She bit down on her tongue to try to keep the flood of angery words in check but the last part about set her off. She had a right to speak up, Tora was hers, a gift from Ragnar when she became pregnant with Raudr. In many ways, the young woman was family, as close to her as her sister had been despite her status.

"You are a troll of a man," she said, her voice tight with rage. "You waste good slaves on your sick desires. Because of your inability to control yourself you have put three in there that cannot work. What you did to Tora was -"

"Enough," Ragnar said sharply without looking back, "This man knows what he did. Offer me flesh for flesh, and perhaps I'll call it even."

Harald's gaze moved towards Sigrid at her outburst and an amused grin spread across his face, revealing odd and misshapen teeth that were eerily clean despite their deformation. He had assumed the woman to be the brains of the couple but she had revealed a surprisingly obvious weakness; at least obvious to a lifelong misogynist such as Harald.

"Call it even, Ragnar? I still see no real reason to grant you anything in return for compensation I do not recognise as valid." He could see the anger build up the big man and both sides braced for an imminent fight. The small, cruel dwarf of a man waited until he felt the precipice of a blood bath's beginning and spoke up again; making many men gasp for breath they didn't realise they were holding.

"Still, I happen to have two troublesome slaves who have no concept of their station and I would be glad to be rid of them. I believe that they are in there; the giant Saxon and the Pict thief. Take them in payment for your perceived insult and to wipe clean the slate of my men's stupidity." Here he nodded pointedly at the decapitated corpse of the young boy still lying in the mud. "As our feud has been buried. I do not expect any of your men, slaves or family near my longhouse. If I do you'll find their corpses nailed to your door in the morning." With that final threat he span on his heel and walked away with his men forming up around him; leaving the body of their former brother in arms to rot.

From inside the healing house Wilfred appeared, ducking under the low entrance and emerging into the rain. He had heard enough of the confrontation to understand the change in his fortunes, although hitherto the Ragnarsson's attitude towards Christians had not been particularly inspiring. Seeing the body of the young lad on the ground his lips twisted in distaste; execution had never been appealing to him, not without a legitimate trial in any case.

"With permission I would cremate the body. I understand that by your faith he has no entrance to Paradise now but a corpse will breed disease and honouring the dead, no matter the manner of their death, will do no damage to your reputation... master." The final word was spoken grudgingly but spoken nevertheless; he had made a point of never addressing Harald as such. It was certainly in Wilfred's best interests to serve his new masters well, from what he had seen they recognised worth and gave respect where it was due; even if they were pagans.

Sigrid shut her mouth, gritting her teeth, her hands clenched at her sides. How she loathed the nithingr and wished nothing more than her husband lop off his ugly head but it was not the right time. She had said too much, she had let her temper get the best of her and her face burned with anger and shame. Ragnar would be angry at her but she was overwrought with emotion. From Tora's abuse to the attack on her children, she was wound tight.

Ragnar kept his hand on his sword, "You see no reason? You damage another man's property, you cannot control your rabble who attack children and yet you see no reason for compensation?"

His big hand flexed on the grip of Hausstaka and spit down at Harald's feet. Ivarr and Haakon both tensed, their eyes focused on the men around Harald and they readied themselves for combat. When he offered the slaves he recalled what the big Saxon thrall had said and decided to take Harald on his offer. Coin had little use as they were trapped in the fort for the winter but two more men who could handle a weapon, albeit Christian slaves, were more valuable. At this point, Ragnar would be pushed to take any help he could get with Harald's superior numbers.

The Dane stared down at Harald, his blue eyes dark in the dim light, "Two injured slaves for the price of one? You are too generous, False Thegn."

He snorted with derision at the man's presumed title he had not earned from Jarl Helge as Ragnar had. He was a pompous upstart but a dangerous one too, he recognized the cunning in Harald's dark eyes as the man played his superior numbers against Ragnar's proper authority. It galled him to have to hold his rage in check, to not take his skull for a mead cup.

"Your men stay away from any who call me their thegn," Ragnar said, "If I catch any of them around family I will give them the blood eagle."

He glared at Harald's back as the man left, noting the movement in the shadows of his archers. When Wilfred emerged he turned his head slightly and heard the slave speak, "Do what you wish with the body, I care not."

Haakon watched the dark anger on Ragnar's weathered features and he felt it himself. Their most deadly enemy was not only outside in the mindless horde of draugr but in the wicked cruelty of Harald. The younger warrior had no lack of blood on his hands but not from children. He glanced at Ivarr, his youthful face serious for once as they watched the men retreat back with their leader.

Haakon breathed out, "Get some torches, Ivarr, we don't want them sneaking back in the dark."

Ivarr went inside to fetch fire from the hearth, he saw the children waiting with the monk and he flashed them a dimpled smile, "Your Fadir chased him off, don't you worry, little ones."

---

Loker walked with determination, his mind going over what he might find and his ears listening for the distinct sound of battle in the silent fort. As they rounded the bend, he saw what looked like a raid party ahead. Men with axes and bows and Harald right in the middle of them. He drew his sword, a sign of his temporary authority in place of the Jarl.

"Halt, Harald," he said, his voice booming in the dark, "What is going on? I've heard much about your doings this evening."

The Jarl's men numbered over a dozen, stalwart veterans who defended the fort rather than go out on raids. They made a decent showing, dressed in better armor and with better weapons than many of Harald's warriors. Faolan watched, ignored as usual, and he slowly let the bow slide from his back down his arm until he gripped it, the arrows tucked into his belt. Just in case.

Loker stepped forward, squinting in the dim light, "I hope you are going back to your home, we have had a long day. Some of us longer than others."

He threw out the barb, knowing how Harald had not sent but a token man and two slaves to aid the supply run. Perhaps if he had sent more then Bjorn might not have disappeared.

　

Wilfred nodded and slowly knelt in the mud to slid his huge arms under the boy's headless corpse before lifting it as if it weighed the same as mere child; although he muffled a grunt as the wounds on his back threatened to reopen so soon after being bound. First he wrapped the boy's corpse in a damp and mouldy sail cloth; no longer fit for its intended use nor even as a blanket to warm the cold. The rain showed no sign of stopping so a cremation was no longer feasible. Instead Wilfred found a shovel left carelessly out in the elements near the palisade and set to digging a grave. He had left the head for his new master to find a use for; no matter what culture, displaying the head of an enemy on a pike sent a clear message to everyone.

　

Harald looked up from his own dark thoughts as he heard the booming voice of the Jarl's hound ordering him to stop. Rather than obeying he let his men continue on for a bit before calling a halt, as if in surprise.

"Loker, why do you stop my evening stroll?" He demanded, ignoring the obvious knowledge of his activities the older warrior had. "I was merely returning to my own home after restoring the peace; something that the Jarl should be doing, or at least his stand-in." His eyes flashed dangerously at his implied cowardice but instead he spread his arms in a helpless gesture.

"I was charged with defending those here since I have the largest following, that and I have the ability to count to a higher number than my fingers and toes allow; a rare skill here which I have employed to ensure we have supplies enough for a harsh winter." He nodded to his men and they began to carry on with Harald striding along in their midst.

"Get some rest, old watchdog. Tomorrow may be an... eventful day for us all."

Loker watched him narrowly, he did not believe for one moment Bjorn had left that trollspawn in charge of anything. But it was the nature of the Dane to take what he wanted and strength often prevailed over right. His men fanned out, making sure all of Harald's warriors left with him and did not try to double back for treachery. When they had disappeared, Loker followed Faolan to where Ragnar and the small knot of people stood. The torches were lit and everything was touched with orange light, he could see the strain and wear on their faces, reflecting his own.

"Thegn Ragnarsson," Loker greeted the big viking, as he sheathed his sword. "I caught Harald leaving, I hope what trouble you've had is settled."

Ragnar crossed his arms across his broadchest, his long braided beard resting on them, "For tonight, perhaps. It is far from over, though. He has too itchy a palm, that one. He's close to crossing the line and when he does, it'll be the island walk for us."

He looked pointedly at the housekarl. They had known each other for many years, even raided together when they were youths before Loker decided to become the Jarl's man. The housekarl nodded slowly, "I know. Perhaps that will be for the best, I cannot see how he could stand against you in a duel. Though knowing him, he'll have a string of champions to throw at you first."

Ragnar grunted and waved Loker over, stepping away from the people in front of the healing house and they spoke in private. Sigrid watched, wanting to hear but she stayed put, she had made enough of a mistake earlier without adding to it.

"What of the search party, Loker?" he asked when they were out of earshot.

"Nothing," he sighed, rubbing his thick red beard, "I can only hope Odin watches out for Bjorn, the young man is smart and capable but...the weather is now cold and foul, and those things...those draugr. They are as relentless as winter."

Ragnar watched the housekarl, his blue eyes keen, "If they are not back by tomorrow, what then? Who will sit in the hall?"

Loker took a breath and watched as it curled into feathers of steam as he exhaled, "Harald made a comment, about tomorrow being an eventful day."

"He is probably right," Ragnar replied, his mind wandering to the time aboard the ship, when the man bitten by the saint died. And then did something incredible, he came back, but changed, possessed by some evil spirit. He recalled the vote to keep him bound and take him to a seidrkona. They should have just drown him. The man had become like a berserkr, mindless in his thirst for blood. Somehow it had spread and he was not sure what would happen to the men injured, they had not stayed long enough to find out when their own farm was attacked. They had left behind the slaves and men too hurt to run, they would have slowed them down.

Ragnar shook off the memories and continued, "He wants the Jarl's chair but he is not fit for it, Loker."

Loker looked at him sidelong, "And you are, Ragnar?"

"Of course I am, who else among us could be? Or did you think to take it for yourself?" he asked, curious if the housekarl was suddenly ambitious.

"Not me, of course not," the housekarl said, "I hold it for Jarl Bjorn Helgesson. As I am sworn to."

Ragnar smiled a little, "Good old Loker, always loyal. If the Jarl is not back tomorrow, you may be forced to take sides. Who do you chose? That false thegn, the lying nithskald with no honor?"

Loker paused, he was being put on the spot he did not want to be on. He would be betraying his Jarl if he chose before the confirmation of his death but he did not want to make an enemy of Ragnar. They had known each other too long and if Helge would have been the one to choose, he knew he would have picked Ragnar as well.

"Only when I have proof that Bjorn is dead, then I will publicly support you, Ragnarsson," he said quietly. "Until then, keep away from Harald, stay at your home and gather your strength."

Even in the semi-darkness of the healing house, Svala could see the water in the basin was already tinged a pale pink. She'd unbraided the lengths of her hair, washing her face and what she could see of the tendrils awkwardly with her uninjured hand. The long, slender fingers combed her dampened hair as best they could, smiling thoughtfully as she watched her little sister settle in beside Dagny to play some small game they'd made up on the spot, something with rhymes and small clapping hands and childish giggles that brightened the somber mood in the healing house like summer sunlight.

Teeth ground together in concentration, and then frustration, she had tried to braid her mostly-cleaned hair once more but soon gave up her efforts all together. Svala looked down at her bandaged hand, flexing the fingers slowly, a little painfully for all of Eyja's careful wraps. Her little sister had taken to instruction well, a healer born it seemed, even if this was merely the estimation of a sister who loved her dearly. But with a few moments rest all the adrenaline had passed, come on its heels the pain and stiffness she would just have to bear out 'til all was healed up once more.

Svala's eyes glanced upward as the giant blonde slave stood up and walked past them to the door and then out into the sleet and the dark, wincing at the bloody, stitched meat across his back before glancing down at her own hand again. No, no - if this thrall could bear so well what was done to him, she'd no cause to sit here and nurse a couple cuts, and besides...

Her eyes looked to that dark sky before the door shut once more, sleeting and frigid. 'Madir has no cloak, nor covering... ' Svala's eyes fell to a corner, where Hallerna's wraps remained carefully folded. Leave it to Madir to leave with her axe in hand, but no thought to her own comfort at all... Svala stood and took up all those wraps in her arms, and made to run them out to her mother - no matter the dark look she'd likely earn for her troubles - when she was all but bowled over by the young man who burst in with some of the very best news she'd heard all day. Well, at the very least since she'd seen her Madir's face, returned from the supply run to the draugr-ridden village.

He had stood with Ragnar when they'd escaped inside the healing house, Svala was sure, though there'd been no time to pay him much mind at the time. But now so close, Svala couldn't help but realize how very young he was. Even if he raided with the thegn, he was surely no older than her brother Tore had been, and Svala's heart ached when he smiled, those impish dimples still visible beneath a young man's sparse growth of beard.

But his news and that laughing smile could not be denied, and Svala found herself grinning right back. By the hearth she could hear Eyja cheer loudly, taking Dagny's hands in her own and clapping her approval, though Svala was fairly sure the little girl wasn't entirely sure what the happy commotion was really all about. Cradling her mother's wraps to her chest, she made to pass by the young man and outdoors to her Madir, bowing her head before the cold and the sleet, pulling her own wrap about her head with her good hand.

"Thank you," Svala said softly, "I don't think more welcome words have been heard tonight."

********

Standing still and dangerously silent in the sleet, a carven statue of carefully-controlled rage, Hallerna watched helplessly as that treacherous little animal stalked off, free to wreak whatever havoc she knew would descend on them all soon enough. She glanced toward Sigrid who, at the very least, had the freedom to speak as she wished alongside the shield of her husband and his men, and suddenly despised her own silence even if she knew it had been the wisest choice. Harald was a cunning creature, a hateful, wily beast who would gladly strike whatever spot he knew would bleed the most.

But that didn't make her silence gall any less, particularly when whatever had passed for 'reparations' between the thegn and this would-be upstart were over without the least mention of the attack on her own children. Only Orran's skill and Svala's courage had seen them to safety, and this? The execution of a man - no... No, a mere boy, no older than her own sweet son had been. So this boy's severed head and the reluctant transaction of two thralls to the Ragnarsson household was suddenly meant to make all things right now?

Hallerna could not remember a time she'd been so exhausted, so bone-deep tired and hungry, taking neither food nor rest since they'd left for the village and that ill-fated supply run this morning. Only that smoldering fury kept her upright in the sleet and the frigid cold as she stalked toward Loker and she clung to it tightly, waiting only for the instant Ragnar had stepped away before she approached the housecarl herself. Anger and exhaustion, and the passing terror for the lives of her only living children made her bold as she glared up at him, her own face mere inches from the housecarl's.

"I demand... Satisfaction," Hallerna hissed, lifting her arm with her axe in the direction that Harald had long since disappeared. "My children aren't the get of a thegn, I'll grant you that, but they would have died all the same behind these walls. Eyja ran for her life, same as Sigrid's boys, and Svala? Svala had to kill a man! Do you understand me? Kill a man!

"And were it not for the blade of the painted man, the Christian foreigner? Not a single one of them might have made it here alive - and you just let that bastard walk away, as if all is settled and done!?"

Hallerna knew well she wasn't being the least bit fair, though not a single other soul but Loker could hear the angry whisper of her voice. But the tall red-headed man seemed broad and strong to her, not likely to wilt at the assault of a woman's furious words. And though the sound of her voice never rose above the hiss of the sleet that fell over Trellesborg, Hallerna was helpless to stop the torrent once it had begun.

Nightfall, Trelleborg, Healing House

Loker felt the woman's righteous fury deep in his heart, she had every right to demand justice for her children. She was a free Dane woman and entitled to compensation for the insult. If it were a normal time, if the Jarl was there, he could call a thing and put Harald up for judgment by the free people of Trelleborg. That Ragnar's and Hallerna's complaints could be heard and redressed properly but these were not ordinary times. The peace was tenuous and he knew Harald enough to see him as a coiled adder, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

"Hallerna," he said, recalling her name from their introduction that morning."You are right, your children were threatened and your family insulted by Harald's men. If I could make this right for everyone involved, I would."

His dark blue eyes met hers, his face lined with worry and frustration, "The peace in Trelleborg balances on a knife's edge, anything can set it off and we will have a war within these walls and no one's child will be safe. If you demand it, I will take you to Harald with my men and you can ask for compensation. What he might give you is anyone's guess but it would certainly put your family in his thoughts."

Loker looked at the axe she gripped, it was a farmer's axe not a warrior's bearded axe and he closed his eyes briefly, huffing a breath through his mustache, "His men wanted Ragnarsson's blood, your children merely happened to be there and they were nearly killed. Do you really want him to focus any attention on you and your girls."

The auburn haired housekarl glanced over at the healing house, he had not forgotten Faolan's words about the slave girl being assaulted. Loker pulled up his cloak against the cold, "Hallerna, Svala did what she had to do, what you would have done. I am sorry for it but I would be much sorrier for the results had she not been strong enough to take a man's life."

He looked down at her face, the wrath of a mother was a powerful thing and he had the utmost respect for it. "As housekarl, I invite you and your girls to stay at the Hall. Freya also tells me how much help your children were in the kitchen today and that the bread received many compliments.

Loker resisted the urge to reach up and brush a damp lock of golden hair from the woman's face and he bowed his head slightly, "I am yours to call on for aid, Hallerna Halfdanesdottier. You will be protected by myself and all the Jarl's men, no one will touch you or your daughters."

Hoping his assurances had calmed her down so she would not go storming after Harald, he asked, "You said it was the painted man who stopped the raiders that attacked the children? You must mean that mouthy Christian Pict. I thought he had gone with Einnar's search party."

Loker recalled his last conversation with Orran, how through his broken Danish he had explained that Bjorn had run off followed by draugr to pull them away from the supply wagons. He sighed, "You should get out of this weather."

Ivarr lit the torches and when the door opened and Svala stepped through it and spoke to him, he gave her an impish smile, "And you are the most welcome sight I've seen in long time. You are fair as Freya herself and just as deadly, I hear."

Despite the somber mood, Haakon could not help but notice the lovely young woman. Haakon watched Ivarr and rolled his eyes slightly. The maiden was no meadhall trollop that would be impressed with such speech. He was silent until she passed to go to her mother and he shook his head at the twinkle in the younger man's eyes.

"Don't even think about it," he muttered, pushing his damp dark hair out of his face when the young man joined him again.

Ivarr shrugged, "I can try, can't I?"

"Don't bother the poor girl, unless you want her axe buried in your neck," Haakon replied, nodding slightly at the weapon gripped in the girl's hand.

"I like them feisty," he said, raising his eyebrows with a cocky smile as he watched Svala.

Sigrid half listened to the young men and she turned her attention to Ragnar who had come back from speaking to Loker. She felt her shame at her outburst anew when he made eye contact, she knew she had disappointed him. He said nothing and when she walked up to him, he touched her arm briefly, not to stop her but to assure her that he was not angry. After being married for nearly a decade they knew each other and Ragnar saw in her body language how upset she was with herself. Nothing he could say would make her feel worse and he needed her strength. She knew they would talk about it later, when they were alone, away from the ears of strangers. Together they stood in the torchlight, away from Loker and Hallerna's intense discussion.

”Ragnar, I’m sorry I shouldn’t ha-” she began, ashamed to look at her husband.

”Not now,”he said.

"Will you speak to Orran?" she asked, after a moment, feeling his thumb graze her wrist.

"Didn't you thank him?" Ragnar grumbled.

Sigrid glanced at the door, "He saved our children's lives, perhaps something more than just words?"

Ragnar glowered and snorted, letting go of her hand, "What do you suggest?"

"If he were not a Christian, you would have given him a ring off your arm already," she observed, speaking in a low tone. "You cannot deny he is a mighty warrior to have taken on so many and prevailed without a scratch."

"Drunken louts with shitty weapons," he growled. "Any warrior worth their salt could have done the same."

"Ragnar," she looked up at him, her greyish green eyes dark in the dimlight, "You're better than that."

"And have him reject my offer and insult me? I'd rather avoid the whole mess," he replied, looking away from his wife's lovely face before she could convince him otherwise. "If he is like the monk and will not take coin, then a ring would not do either. I'll make the proper gesture, rest assured."

"I trust you will," she said. "I'm going into check on the children, we should leave soon to our home and make sure it's still standing."

Sigrid went into the house, pulling down the hood of her cloak and felt her cold hands tingle as they began to warm up. Inside the longhouse, the benches were full of wounded men, at least eight that had been injured bad enough to stay. There were two others who were refugees like them, sick from eating foul food on the way to the fort. Then there were the injured slaves. All of them belonging to the Ragnarssons now. She pulled her cloak from her shoulders, hanging it on a peg on the wall to dry, and she went to where the children sat near Tora's bench. She cuddled Dagny and pet Ejya's fiery curls before looking over at the beaten Pict. He reminded her of Orran and she looked to where he stood with the monk.

"Christian," she said, standing up, her back straight and her chin held up with pride as she looked him in his dark. "I want you to know you have both mine and Ragnar's gratitude for saving our children. I know...it is the will of your god, but thank you."

Ragnar watched her go and then turned his attention back to the darkness of Trelleborg. It burned in him that Harald was still breathing. He wanted nothing more than to call the man out for a duel, he was confident he could quickly handle him and end the trouble making false thegn. He could see spots of fire as people lit torches outside their homes and the tension was still thick in the air. He was tired but it was nothing he could not power through. Ragnar was used to the physical and mental strain and exhaustion that came with battle. What concerned him more was the unknown, about the men who had been injured in the supply run. He was uncertain so he did not want to raise a panic but it nagged at him how quickly the people who had been around the cursed man they brought back had become cursed themselves. Even the seidrkona. He felt his scalp crawl at the thought of the magic powerful enough to do that.

He walked back over to the healing house, catching Haakon and Ivarr's glances at Hallerna's daughter, "Watch yourselves, lads. I saw her mother fight against the draugr, she could probably make short work out of you both."

Ragnar caught sight of Faolan, still armed with the bow and spear. He frowned and went over to him, "You won't be needing those this time, return them to one of the Jarl's men and then go find that Saxon slave. Have him go to Sigrid once he's done burying that body."

Svala’s cheeks reddened beneath the cowl of her wraps, words stunned from her lips by the young man’s easy compliments, both pretty and unexpected. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t pleased. She was, if only for that infectiously happy, dimpled grin.

But the young woman was also keenly aware of eyes turned on her now, and the judgment of her family that would certainly come by her actions, her honor a reflection on her father, her brother… Svala was no wanton, and she bit her lip softly as she moved past the elder of Ragnar’s men. She glanced up from beneath her hood as he swiped the dark hair from his face, and found much to like in those solemn, thoughtful eyes.

Though Svala found much more to appreciate in his words, spoken low, softly, though she caught them nonetheless. She stopped for a moment despite the sleet, and glanced over her shoulder to the elder of the two men. A wide sweet smile graced him, grateful and genuine though she could not know if he noticed or no. Svala had reason to be out in this weather at any rate, and flirting was assuredly not that reason.

She turned away once more, and trotted toward her Madir who seemed engrossed in some intense conversation with the housekarl Loker.

Hallerna never once expected to be so handily disarmed by words alone. Like a petulant child she'd been spoiling for a fight, furious she'd been so utterly helpless to keep all the little family she had left safe from harm. But the first words of danger to all the children in Trelleborg stopped her cold, like a much-needed slap to the face though Loker had done nothing of the sort. No, it was his words, reasonable and assured, the calm acknowledgement that her family had been wronged, insulted, but that exacting her rights could only call down pain and blood on the heads of innocent and guilty alike...

Like a torch tossed into a bucket of water, all her fury was extinguished in an instant. She could see full well how ridiculous she was being, that she should in no way invite Harald’s notice, for the sake of her girls if nothing else. The realization left behind something far smaller and colder in her chest than her righteous fury, not much more than a lump of ash in its wake. Hallerna's axe-wielding arm fell back to her side and she wrapped her arms about her chest almost protectively, though she still clutched its handle.

Loker’s thoughts moved as swiftly as his words. Hallerna did not miss the layers of worry that weighted the housekarl’s voice and creased his otherwise handsome face, and she instantly regretted adding one more care to his already heavy load. The young Jarl had still not returned, had he? Nor had any one of the search parties, the seidrmadr among them - and still Loker found the wherewithal to offer her family protection, an unexpected sanctuary though her pride prickled at the thought this might be something like… Charity.

“Madir? Madir, you are soaked right through! Ah! Where would we be if you were sick, hmm?” It was Svala’s voice that snapped her from her reverie. Hallerna glanced up at her brave, beautiful daughter as she approached, unfolding her cloak with one hand as she made to wrap it about her mother’s shoulders, pulling the hood carefully about her mother’s face.

Hallerna was chilled to her very bones, but the wraps were warm, and warmer still from being held dry beside her daughter’s beating heart. So like a little mother she was, her pretty Svala. She should have a babe in her arms one day… Perhaps she should have had one already, but there was no changing what was past. Only what was to come.

“Tomorrow,” Hallerna said finally, her mind decided in that one tender gesture by Svala. Dignity be damned. If anything should happen to her girls, there would be no comfort found in her pride. There would be no comfort found in this life ever again.

“Tomorrow morning we will all come to stay at the Hall. We’ll just need some time to gather our things.” The truth of the matter was that packing all their worldly goods, all they had fled with from the farm or scavenged from the village this morning, would take a total of ten minutes at best - but Hallerna refused to appear a beggar before the housekarl.

Svala’s eyebrows lifted in surprise though she wisely said nothing. She’d not forgotten the conversation overheard that very morning, but there was something in the housekarl’s gaze as he looked at her Madir that struck her as… Interesting. That he seemed near reluctant to turn his gaze away.

“We’ll not be useless mouths to feed though, nor cause Freya a moment’s regret for your offer,” Hallerna continued, the very act of making that decision seeming to sweep away any remaining doubts. “It seems your bread Svala, was well-received. And Eyja is a hard worker, only young enough to still need some direction. Even that kitten of hers will learn to mouse for his meals… “

Hallerna smiled, truly smiled as she wrapped her arm about Svala’s shoulders and pulled her close, kissing the top of her daughter’s hooded head tenderly before looking back to Loker once more.

“Thank you,” she breathed softly, not realizing the words came out a sigh of relief. “And yes, it was the painted man, the Christian who fought the raiders. Orran is his name, and he forsook the search party to… To watch over my daughters. Far more than ‘mouthy’ to me and mine, I’m sure you’ll understand. I owe him a great deal as well – at the very least, a hot meal.

“You speak wisdom, Loker. Let’s all be out of this weather.”

Harald stormed into his longhouse, furious at the night's events. He had been in a position of strength until his men had lost their wits and decided to attack the Ragnarssons. Dimly he acknowledged it was most likely in order to please Harald but that irked him even more; his men were as thick as oxen and they knew not to do anything without his express permission. A slave bowed to him in fear as he entered, tentatively asking if he wished to eat. Eyeing the broken man with scorn, the slave's face beaten and bloody from his assault earlier, an idea bloomed.

"There's food aplenty here that I can fetch myself. You can go to the Healing House in the morning and don't come back until you've found out something useful to me. If you're not back by noon I will nail your genitals to my front door, understood?" The slave nodded mutely and scurried out, too afraid to remain in the longhouse for the night. Harald sighed and collapsed into the mountain of furs that formed his bed, next to the fire of course, and he consumed a quick meal prepared by one of the female slaves. Still furious he dragged the unfortunate girl to his bed and, once satisfied, threw the woman out from the fur fortress and slept.

---

Wilfred laid the boy's corpse into the deep trench he had dug and crossed himself, muttering a few words for the boy's pagan soul, before shoveling the dirt back into the hole. A deep cold was setting in and the rain showed no sign of stopping, drenching his bandaged torso but also washing away the filth of the day's exertions. Finally the sad little grave was finished and the big slave marked it with the shovel, thrust into the mound. His brief act of mercy done Wilfred turned to go but a wave of exhaustion, mixed with roaring pain, washed over him forcing the Saxon to sit at the foot of the grave.

"I have no intention of joining you though." He muttered to the buried corpse, tilting his head back and letting the rain run in rivulets down his face. "Maybe this rain will wash away that satanic filth outside the walls." He murmured before offering up a prayer asking the same before thanking the Almighty for delivering him from the Dane dwarf's control. There was yet hope for freedom.

collab between KuroTenshi and idlehands

Nightfall, the woods two miles outside Trelleborg

The sleet had tapered off to a fine icy mist and the men had a strong fire going. Einnar sat with his back against a tree, his bow string laid near the flames to dry out and he reached to pull out the spear head. He looked at it, noting the dent in the iron tip, and he sighed inwardly making up his mind to call of the search for Bjorn and just try to get everyone back to the fort alive. Who knew how many draugr were in the woods and how the cold might affect them. He wished he knew more about the creatures and racked his brain to think of any stories his mother might have told him involving the draugr.

The hunter watched Vigi patch up the old trapper and he felt the pain in his ankle when he moved his foot. He set the spear head down and reached for his boot, unlacing the waterlogged leather thongs with some difficulty before pulling it off. He examined his ankle, it looked swollen already though the cold would keep it minimal. Slowly he rotated and flexed it, at least it was not broken but it would slow him down.

Einnar pulled his cloak around him tighter, his hair hung in his face as he stared at the flames. Around them the woods were dark and quiet save for crackle of brittle leaves and occasional twig snapping under the weight of the ice. He found himself thinking about his mother, about growing up in the woods as he did under her haphazard care with his siblings and his unpredictable father. He glanced at the seidrmadr who seemed so sane and grounded, other than his appearance Einnar would not have guessed he was a shaman. Thinking about his childhood made him itch for mead and he muttered a curse remembering he had finished the flask he had found earlier. There was no use hunting around in the dark though he probably had some stashed, he thought he recognized the grove they were in but his mind was still muddled from drink and the panic of the attack.

The young trapper, Leifr, rummaged through his pack and brought out some dried fish and hard bread which he passed around. He had seen Vigi bandaging his father but from the scowl on the old man's face he did not bother him about it. He knew Ulfr was capable of taking care of himself, he had spent his years trekking through forests and vast tracks of land farther north. The knowledge did not stop him from worrying about his father's fading eyesight as the seasons passed or his arthritis that was probably causing him pain from the wet cold weather. He pulled an extra cloak he kept aside and handed it to Ulfr who frowned at his fuss but took it anyway, moving stiffly as he shifted it around his shoulders.

Einnar spoke up between bites of the leathery fish, "We will take turns watching the camp, we can't afford not to tonight. I'll take the first watch, the rest of you get some sleep if you can. At first light we'll make our way back toward the fort, we'll go around. There is a game trail that will pass the river at a more fordable area. It's a longer way around but I don't think any of us wish to go back way we came."

He shifted, gingerly putting his damp boot back on and he shivered as it touched his skin. Einnar stood up, gripping the tree trunk and yanked free a limb that was still green enough to exude resin. The hunter stuck it in the fire and watched the end flare up. He gave Vigi a look and began to hobble off, torch in hand.

Vigi frowned watching Einnar limp off into the dark woods, quickly finishing his bread before getting up. "I'll be back in a moment." He said to the rest of the group before following after the bright light of the hunter's torch. "Has the alcohol dulled the pain of your ankle any?" He asked him when he caught up with the dark haired man.

Einnar heard the slight rustle of the lithe seidrmadr following him and when he spoke he did not turn around. He kept the torch up, watching for movement in the woods.

"It does as does the cold from the water," he replied after a moment. "Being numb has it's benefits. You should probably go back."

He finally over at him and thought once again how in this light the man could have been a lovely elf maiden. The hunter looked away quickly and focused on the darkness ahead of him. He both hated and loved the forest at night. It was peaceful and silent but in that silence strange noises could send even a brave man shivering. Wolves and bears he knew and understood but the idea that a hungry troll or one of the draugr could come out of the shadows kept him on edge.

The rain had stopped and the wind had fallen, leaving the woods quiet but for the sound of their footsteps and occasional icy rattle of twigs. Despite his hermit existence there were times even he did not want to be alone, "Vigi, if you want to stay, I'm fine with it. But can I ask you something?"

He glanced at the fair man, "How did you get to Trelleborg? Did you come with a company?"

Vigi frowned at the question and sighed after a moment of debate with himself. "I was with a group of people, for a brief amount of time. During my time with them their numbers were cut in half by the draugr. They thought I might have been responsible somehow, that I was cursed or I was bad luck so they made me leave. Luckily I was only two days away from the fort, so I was able to survive well enough on my own until I reached the walls."

He tilted his head to the side slightly, the beads in his hair clicking softly together. "Why do you ask?" He inquired.

"They blame the gods then and by proxy, you," Einnar mused. "The seidrkona that used to advise Helge died last summer, I know he sent out word for another to take her place. I was curious if you were the one who would have taken the job. I doubt you cursed though, Vigi, I've known those who are cursed by their stars...or the gods, or their own making...where ever you wish to lay the blame. You do not seem as one of those."

Einnar winced when he stepped on a stone, making his bad ankle turn. "Let's pause here. It's blacker than Hel, I can't see a blasted thing anyway."

He sat on fallen log and grunted, "Perhaps I'm the cursed one, eh? This damn ankle...it's a good thing the draugr do not move quickly."

The sky was still thick with clouds, blotting out the moon and starlight and the torch only projected it's warm light a few feet around them. The scent of snow was in the air, the hunter's nose told him it would fall before sunrise. Einnar wished again for a flask of mead, the sweet honey wine like liquid sunshine warming him through. Alas, he could not fumble around in the woods at night seeking out his hiding spots, it would have to wait until there was light.

Vigi stopped walking, moving a bit closer to Einnar as he eased onto the log in case he fell. "I know I am not cursed." He said, brushing a hand through his wet hair. "I did not hear of the passing of the seidrkona, but I was urged to the fort by visions." He mused out loud, leaning back against a tree that was facing Einnar so his eyes were on the darkness behind the hunter should something emerge.

He looked down at the hunter, just able to make out how bloodshot his eyes were and how heavy they seemed. "Do you want me to look at your ankle? Perhaps I can do something to help it?" He offered, motioning down to the injured limb.

Holding the torch out, he shrugged, remarking with a bitter tinged voice, "Do what you wish, healer. Follow your visions."

Einnar was silent for a moment, the mead had loosened his tongue and there was something about Vigi, perhaps the exotic looks or the gentleness in him that made him want to talk. He was unused to the feeling and did not trust it but could not hold back either.

"The seidrkona was my mother," he said, "That's how I know he sent for another. No, keep your condolences. She was a mad woman, some called her a witch. Even among the practitioners of seid, she was feared and pitied. We lived out in these woods, it is why I know them so well. None in Trelleborg or the villages would have my parents among them. They were both touched by Odin, she had her visions and he had his fury. So we lived among the trees, brave people would venture to see my mother, to have her read their runes and my father...he took care of us, in a manner of speaking.

The huntsman fell quiet, embarrassed at his rambling, and wished once again for mead, even a nice strong ale. Awkwardly he shifted on the log and glanced at Vigi,"I apologize for chewing your ear off, mead makes me wordy. And being here brings back memories."

Vigi looked up from tending to the man’s ankle when he began to speak, surprised by the tale he spun. Such personal information he imparted without hesitation to him, a complete stranger. He looked back down and listened to his deep voice as he spoke, the bitterness tainting his words obvious. "You don't need to apologize." Vigi said softly, pulling out some soak wrappings to bind the ankle. "My madir too was a seidrkona and she too served a Jarl...My fadir." He chuckled, a hint of bitterness in his own voice. "Though, I've been told to not refer to him as such anymore." He said, standing up when he finished binding his ankle and turned his attention to the trees around them. "You need a crutch, it will make walking easier and you will have something to knock back draugr."

"So you're a Jarl's pup, Vigi the Bastard," he teased with a slight grin. "I'm sure once he saw you would not be one of his spear hounds he pushed you off to the side. I've seen it before. One last question, was your mother allowed to live in the Hall?

He asked out of curiosity, he had never met another child of a seidrkona and wondered if it was similar to how he grew up. He looked over at his bound ankle, turning it and admiring the job.

"It's good that you are a healer. That is a practical skill, much more needed then reading rune sticks and the entrails of birds,"Einnar said, feeling the headache coming on from the mead wearing off. He rubbed his forehead a moment and tried to make it seem as he were concentrating on a thought then ran his hand down his face, huffing out a breath. He could feel the stubble on his jaw, he had not shaved in a couple of days but no matter, it was time to grow his beard out anyway.

"You will be in demand this winter, that is certain," the hunter sighed.

Vigi did not find the taunting amusing, but he had heard worse so he was able to brush it aside. "Of course she did. Had she not I wouldn't be standing before you." He said poking around in a bush before grabbing onto a strong looking branch to start pulling on it. "My healing skills are essential, but they'll be useless if I end up dead." He grunted, pulling out the sturdy branch from the bush with a soft rustle. He pulled out his dagger and started to carve off the smaller branches. "That troll of a man Harald has a target on my back. I can tell he is afraid of me, but he has devious eyes that Loki would be envious of."

"Harald...ah the one who beat his slaves before we left," he recalled, watching Vigi work on the makeshift crutch. "And you helped them after it was over. I saw that, you were in quite a discussion with him."

Einnar took the crutch from him, fitting it under his arm and handed the torch to Vigi. "A man like that enjoys what power his cruelty brings. Not a good man to have as an enemy...or a friend for that matter. Best to avoid him and his slaves, keep out of his business."

He hobbled less with the crutch to support him as they completed the circle around their campsite. They could see the fire flickering through the bare branches of the trees as they approached. The trappers sat close to the fire, the old man sleeping and the younger dozing off, his chin against his chest.

Nightfall, the woods two miles outside Trelleborg

Vigi took a seat close to the fire, hoping to warm his lithe body before he froze over. He felt a bit anxious after giving so much information of his past to someone he hardly knew. However in a way it felt good to finally get it off his chest, especially to someone that was not so different from himself.

His pale green eyes traveled over the exhausted features of the search party. His own exhaustion started to catch up with him and his eyes started to grow too heavy for him to keep open. With one final look around the campfire he laid down on the ground, trying to get as comfortable as possible before he was pulled into the realm of dreams.

-.-.-

A gentle tugging on his hair aroused him from his sleep. He brought a hand up to grip onto whatever was pulling on his hair and jumped awake feeling feathers under his fingers. The raven cawed loudly in his ear as he released it before flying away. He watched it fly off until his gaze landed on a dark hooded figure standing on top of a grassy hill.

Vigi frowned for a moment before his eyes widened with realization. “Allfather.” He whispered in disbelief.

The raven landed on the figures shoulder as it turned slightly toward him. Vigi stiffened for a moment before getting up to his feet and slowly approaching the hill top. The sound of waves crashing onto shore reached his ears the closer to the top he got. When he reached the top he found himself looking at the deep blue ocean and a norse raiding ship heading toward the shore.

He furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding why he was being shown something such as this.

A hand clasped his shoulder firmly and the world around him changed in a blur of bright colors and gargled sounds. Finally it settled and as it became clear Vigi wished it hadn’t.

His entire body grew rigid as he watched norse raiders slaughter defenseless what looked like Christian monks. The colorful sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows flashed across steal as it sailed through the air to cut into the flesh of a man begging for his life. It was in a foreign tongue, but the sound of someone pleading not to die could be understood no matter the language.

Blood splattered on the ground in front of him as the thin man was cut down and he felt his stomach turn. But when that one voice grew quiet, three more sprung up in it’s place. A loud chorus of voices screaming out to be spared death only to be replaced with screams of agony before falling silent.

He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and put his hands over his ears to block out the chorus of pain and death, but he couldn’t. Odin was showing him this for a reason, he had to keep watching and try to find out what the significance of this was. He clenched his hands into tight fists and continued to watch as men without weapons, men that down to the core were no different from himself, were butchered.

Finally though there was relief, the hand clamped onto his shoulder again and the scenery started to change. His shoulders sagged with relief when the nightmare ended, only to tense again when it started a new.

For a few moments he thought he was staring at the decomposing body of a monk sitting on a bed in a small room. Then it groaned and moved, rising up to its feet and shuffling toward the door.

“A draugr?” Vigi whispered, flinching when he spoke outloud even though he knew that this creature could not actually hear him.

He jumped when loud banging came from the door and watched as it lurched from the force of being rammed. The door finally gave way, knocking down the draugr in the process. Two men rushed in and one of them grabbed onto the walking corpse.

It howled as it turned it’s head and bit into his arm, making him cry out in pain. He hit the corpse with his shield to knock it off, screaming as it tore a chunk of flesh from his arm. He stumbled back against the wall, clutching at his injury.

Vigi looked away from the injured man and toward the door as a large man with his face hidden by a helmet and chainmail entered the room. The hand fell upon his shoulder again and he found himself standing outside of the monestary that was now engulfed in a raging fire.

He turned away from the bright blaze to watch as the raiders left the area with cries of victory and their spoils. Among the men he spotted the man that had been injured by the draugr, gripping onto his injured arm with a bloody piece of cloth.

Vigi tilted his head to the side with a thoughtful frown.

“Thought you could get away.” A voice growled out close to him, he didn’t pay it any mind until he saw a flash of metal and then there was a stinging pain across his face.

“Gah!” He shouted, falling back onto the ground and grabbing at his right eye where the pain was coming from. His good eye snapped up as a large warrior stood over him, raising his sword high above his head with a grin on his face.

“For the glory of Vahalla!” The man yelled before plunging his sword down into Vigi’s chest.

-.-.-.-

“Aah!” Vigi screamed sitting bolt upright, one hand clutching at his chest over his pounding heart and the other grabbing at the area over his right eye.

collab between idlehands and Constable Walrus

Night, Healing House, Trelleborg

Orran walked outside, watching quietly the interaction between the danes; He laid eyes on the young boy that Harald had brought out and felt a twinge of pity; I should have killed him, Orran thought had I known I would have it would have spared him the humiliation. He watched the savage display with a frown, the rumors did little justice to the savagery these people do to their own.

Pictish tribal warfare was long gone, but even when it was apparent it was never over politics, these men are fighting over something that isn't even theirs. he glanced at Loker as he approached and watched them talk as well; listening, watching, much like Anndrais taught him to do. and he rolled his shoulders waiting for the men to finish, none acknowledging he was there.

Loker nodded to both Hallerna and Svala, "The halls doors are open to you, tell them only your name and you will be allowed in."

He turned away, his tired eyes looking toward the healing house and he spotted the wiry tattooed Pict glaring down at them. Loker rubbed a hand down his beard and walked toward him.

"Orran?" he recalled the strange name of the warrior who travelled with the monk, "I'd like to speak with you a moment. I was told you saved the children from those outlaws, what happened when they came, what was said?"

He wanted to know more, to see if Harald was telling the truth about not ordering any attack and the only adult who had any knowledge stood before him. In their world, only free adults could give testimony, Orran was a foreigner and that would be a strain against the word of a Dane but at least he was a freeman. Svala's word would be accepted if she had been at least betrothed but none of the children would have had a voice. In the back of his mind he knew it did not matter, there was no Jarl to call a Thing and to pass judgement but he felt it was necessary to keep to their traditions and as close to normality as they could.

Orran looked at the man up and down; he did not care to speak with any but he nodded and said in his usual slow tone, trying to speak as best he could. "Yes, it was me." He spoke plainly, he did not like discussing it but it seemed without the monk nearby he would have to.

He straightened himself and eyed Loker, "They spoke of revenge, for the brother of one of them... I do not know your ways, but i'm guessing that the one called Ragnar is to blame..." He shrugged, "He killed one, so in blood retribution they tried to kill the children, I thank God that the monk sent me when he did...those kids would have been tore to pieces."

Loker listened and tugged at one of the braids in his red beard. Ragnar had failed to mention it and it irritated him. He was already acting as if he were the Jarl of Trelleborg, just waiting for the moment to sit in the chair. Despite this he would still rather see the raider as Jarl than Harald. The man's casual cruelty toward the Ragnarson's slave, his beating of his own slaves and the beheading of the youth spoke volumes. The quality of men he hired was lacking if they went after children. Damn them both for their ambitions. It was the way of their people but it made his job that much harder not to mention putting people in harms way. He snorted, tugging his cloak around him.

"Thank you for that," he said, "They would have been slaughtered like lambs and you have my gratitude for protecting them."

He looked over the Pict, "Did you happen to bring anything from the dead men?

Loker was curious to see if they were strangers who came with Harald or if they were locals picked up to share in the man's desire for power, hoping for a reward if he was able to secure the Jarl's position.

Orran listened, the expressions and actions of the man's body language spoke volumes more than his words; Orran nodded "There is no need to thank me, I am the sword, Anndrais was the arm it was he who bade me to protect the children..." He glanced behind him then turning back to Loker he smiled.

"Four heads, the boy was the last one..." He motioned towards the headless corpse now lying in the muddy ground."Three were my kills, one was the girl's... Svala's." He smiled suddenly "I'm quite impressed, at her..." It was a deep warm smile and he shook it off returning to that blank furrowed brow of a stare he always wore. "Those are inside... And most likely the bodies are still lined where I left them... As is my armour for that matter."

He chuckled suddenly remembering how they viewed Christians as magical and superstitious "Though I doubt of you would touch the chest piece embedded with a bright red cross."

Loker nodded, "Svala did well to protect herself, she takes after her mother. I've invited them to stay in the hall, the girls are of some help to the housewoman. They will be safe there. I would put no theft of good armor past any of man, no matter what is embedded on it."

He glanced at Orran, with a tired slight smile, "We'll take a look at the heads and dispose of them. The bodies can wait until daylight. We're all exhausted, rest will be most welcome this night."

The housekarl stepped past the Pict, entering the warmth of the healing house. His eyes fell on the cluster of bloody heads on the floor and he grunted a sigh. He looked away, spotting Anndrais next to a girl with a bruised face. Most likely Ragnar's slave. Sigrid was with her children and he gave her a nod of respect before he knelt before the heads, turning them to see the faces.

He recognized none save one, the older man called Knut, he had occasionally raided with the Jarl's men but mostly he spent his time gambling at the horse fighting pens or drinking with his cronies. No great loss. He had once had a wife and children but the woman had divorced Knut when he turned out to be a drunken buffoon. It figured he would be one to tie his future to a man like Harald.

He stood, wincing as his knees popped loudly, and spoke to one of his men to remove the heads.

Orran smiled again at the mention of Svala, he quite liked the girl had she been a year or two older he would have asked to court, but she is just a girl. And Orran brushed the smile away again "She did very well, I was very impressed..." He motioned inside, "It would not fit any of you Danes anyway, to small..." He did not smile at his own joke and simply nodded.

"Do not bother Anndrais, he is with the girl Tora, and he refuses to leave her side; I doubt you will get more than a yes or no out of him, he isn't in the talking mood at the moment." Orran watched the man walk inside and he rolled his shoulders feeling the cold; he wanted to go get his armour, but he would not leave until Anndrais sent him away, he did not trust the Danes to not attack again.

Nor did he wish to abandon the girls, or even the sons of Ragnarson...but especially the girls.

"I would not worry too much about your armor, after that display it would have to be a big fool to steal from you something so precious," Loker commented. "Not to mention that there are not many Christ's men among us would be allowed armor. Thank you for your help, Orran. Let us hope tomorrow things will settle and allow us to get back to the business of surviving the winter."

Loker nodded to Sigrid who sat with her children and his eyes fell on Hallerna’s youngest, the precocious redhead who had charmed him back at the hall. He gave her a warm smile as she played with the Ragnarsson girl. He scratched his head, things were more complex than he had dreaded, dogs all circling to snap at each others throats and still they had the problem of the draugr haunting the woods outside their walls. Winter was setting in and even if they could get the last boat repaired without a shipwright the sea would be treacherous. He watched the children for a few moments more, enjoying their ability to find simple escape in the form of a game. He thought of his own son and his eyes closed for a moment, shaking off the nagging worry.

Faolan trudged around the back of the healing house, spotting the big Saxon filling in the grave. He was without a cloak and the bandages on his raw back were wet. He pulled his hood down, shading his dark features as he approached.

“That’s more than the whelp deserved,” he muttered, looking down at the freshly turned mud and the exertion on the face of the wounded thrall. “Should have tossed him in the trash ditch. It is what they would do for us.”

He referred to a common practice among some Danes to toss the bodies of dead slaves, particularly those killed in punishment or as sacrifice, into the pit of refuse where the discarded carcasses of pigs and sheep and waste would be thrown. He had seen it himself and had been threatened with it a number of times. No Christian burial or even Norse one for them unless they were well loved by their owners. And Faolan was never well loved by any of his masters.

The Irishman gestured to Wilfred, “Come on, Saxon, our mistress awaits. It’s not so bad, not compared to Harald’s treatment and I’ve had worse. Try not to get on Ragnar’s bad side and Sigrid is fair enough, we get fed and you’ll have better clothing.”

In his way, he was trying to comfort Wilfred, whether he needed it or not. Despite the fact Faolan rarely bothered with anything outside orders, he did feel for the big Saxon. He bore scars that would never fade from the hand of a man as cruel as Harald. He hated being a slave and hated his masters, not because of who they were as individuals but as a whole, that they were Norsemen. The ones who burned and slaughtered, who pillaged and stole children and women from their families to be used. Who cared not for a soul as long as they had a strong back to work, they did not care if they ground the life out of them until they were empty husks. Faolan rubbed the stubble of his chin and contemplated for a moment about asking the former preacher for a prayer but scoffed. God had left him on his own when he was taken from that sheep pasture in Ireland, despite what the Pict and the monk said. It was easier for them, they were not slaves, they still could walk away from this place if they could.