Oskoreia Chapter Two

Oskoreia

Chapter Two

##############################################

Randvi had been right, of course. The mere suggestion that Eivor intended to go a-viking, never mind hunt down Kjotve himself, had led to a strict command that she stray no more than three miles from the walls of Fornburg by any means or for any cause. That edict had led to a rather heated argument, but in the end Eivor had little option but to obey, if only for the moment.

Instead, after a good night’s sleep, she decided to explore the ‘Pocket Apartment’ that was accessible through the portal that only she could see and summon in her home in Fornburg.

The ‘apartment’ itself was nice enough, resembling a larger version of her own small house, with two bedrooms and a common area, and closets filled with a variety of armors and clothing in a variety of styles, but it was the ‘bathroom’ that made her fall in love with the place. The ability to take a shit, press a button, and have it all disappear? She wished she understood the method in which it worked, introducing such a thing to Norway would make her richer than the gods themselves.

Several of the armor sets and clothing sets caught her eye, things that she would assuredly wear in the future, but would regrettably have to put aside for the moment. There was no feasible way that she could explain away their existence here. Better to wait until she had gone a-viking again, then claim that they were treasures recovered during the raid.

She also took the opportunity to learn more about the ‘system’ which now governed her life. The transfer from the former Contractor to herself had changed a few things in her ‘build’ and left her with two-and-twenty ‘credits’ to spend. The Catalogue recommended several companions, male and female both, for her to purchase, but an annoyed swipe banished the ‘window’. Purchasing men and women did not suit her tastes. Better to seduce them for herself, to win them to her side and to her bed on her own merits, not buy them like one bought a sheep or sword.

Likewise, she ignored the ‘Defenses’. Those that seemed immediately useful had already been purchased by the former Contractor, and (despite how powerful and useful some of them seemed) she didn’t need any of those that remained any time soon.

No, it was the ‘talents’ that drew her eye. Specifically, the Communication, Athletic, and Wild Talents. The ability to have a clever tongue, to recognize lies, to know when best to speak and what best to say. To quickly learn and master any physical skill before her. To be able to identify safe food, shelter, to track animals, no matter how far from the familiar lands of her home she might travel.

Their purchase left her with but two credits left, yet she could not bring herself to regret the choice despite that.

She was about to close it again, whether to investigate the ‘apartment’ further or return through the portal to her home she didn’t know, when she caught sight of a section called ‘Missions’. Several of which were already labeled as ‘accepted’. Narrowing her eyes, she started reading. Most of them were fairly benign, the sort of thing that she probably would have ended up doing anyway (Killing faction leaders, having sex, and the like), but there were some that would clearly take deliberate effort on her part to carry out, like forming a whole new faction or being worshipped as a god.

Though the most interesting one was a ‘Level Four’ Contract Killing with Dag as the target. Reading the reasons listed by the one who had requested, she frowned. Apparently, sometime in the future (there seemed to be many details missing, with words or entire sentences blurred out. Likely due to involving places and people she did not yet know) he would repeatedly question her decisions, costing lives and weakening the Raven Clan’s position, before finally challenging her to a holmgang in the middle of the night and killing her. Apparently, this had made the one offering the contract ‘rage quit’, and they wanted revenge.

She hesitated briefly, considering the matter. On the one hand, Dag was a shield brother, Sigurd’s oldest friend, and a valuable warrior for the Raven Clan. Killing him would be a great betrayal, a sin by any measure and according to any man’s god, and would break Sigurd’s heart. Yet, it had always been clear that he resented her, even hated her for taking what he saw as his place at Sigurd’s right hand, as his closest confidant and most trusted advisor. All of Fornburg knew it, save Sigurd himself, and that resentment had only grown strong when she, not he, had been invited to accompany Sigurd to Miklagard.

Not that their father ever would have permitted the both of them to go together.

So was it really a great sin if she knew that the man would betray her himself, given the chance? Was it treachery to kill a man you knew desired and plotted for your death, was it a betrayal to kill the murderer behind you before he could draw his knife? Especially when you knew that innocents, those under your protection, would be killed or endangered because he pursued his vendetta against you.

No. Not it was not. Sigurd would be sad, she knew, even angry, but it was the best course. Indeed, she arguably had a responsibility to deal with him before he could bring harm upon their clan. But how to carry our the task?

She couldn’t exactly ask him to accompany her into the woods, cut him down, and then return without him. It would be obvious to even the meanest intelligence what had happened. The easiest way would be to ensure his death on a raid, but how could she ensure one happened now, bound to her home as she was?

Perhaps it would be worth pursuing her goal all the same. She knew where Kjotve currently was staying, and she knew her crew would join her, come what may. And Dag’s apparent dislike of her would actually favour this goal, he would support her efforts simply so he could watch her taken to task and lessen her in the eyes of her father and brother.

Nodding to herself, she opened the portal again and passed through it. She had a crew to gather and a raid to carry out.

##################################################

Eivor could barely restrain her grin as she ‘struggled’ against her binds. She hadn’t expected Kjotve to be ready for her, though perhaps she should have, but the fact that his little ambush had ended in the capture of her entire crew for sacrifice (and herself stripped of armor and shackled as a thrall) instead of the deaths of her crew was better than she could have ever asked for. If Dag died here, well, her brother would be furious with her, but if she brought back Kjotve’s head in the bargain, perhaps with a story praising the jealous bastard? Well, that should smooth things nicely with her king and prince both. With only the useless Gorm to lead the Wolf Clan, the Ravens would finally have their revenge, and the peace that would come with it. All it would require was patience, of which she had plenty to spare now. Her people would be safer, her revenge would finally be realized, and she would be 24 credits richer into the bargain.

“How many years have you been chasing me, Wolf-Kissed? How many winters have I had to deal with your pathetic attempts at avenging your wretched kin? Seven-and-ten? Eight-and-ten?” Kjotve mocked, slowly circling her, tone a mockery of a chastising father. “Do I haunt your dreams, or do I warm your loins? Is that it, merr, the reason you so doggedly nip at my heels? Your cunt grows warm and wet at the thought of me?”

He laughed, his sychophants laughing with him, and Eivor spat on the ground in front of herself at the very idea of this old, rotten, oath-breaking ledrhals being attractive to anyone, never mind herself. The only increased the laughter, and he mockingly patted her head as if she were a dog, before gripping her hair tight and tilting it back. Forcing her to see the axe he pulled out from behind his back, and her breath froze in her chest.

“Ah, I see you recognize this. Your father’s axe. The weapon of a coward, a scorn-snake. A man who would not even die in battle, leading his clan to Valhalla as they died, but threw it away to try and bargain like a Girskr merchantman!” The Cruel ground verbal salt into a wound twenty years festering, and Eivor nearly launched her attack then. But the blade of her father’s axe was on her throat, and even as enhanced she now was, she was not so swift as to free herself and strike before he could slit her throat. After a moment, he pulled it away and resumed circling again. “Ah, few things would please me more than to kill the daughter with the father’s axe, but why would I usher you into Valhalla? No, I shall sell you to the distant shores of Ireland, where you will be worked to a humiliating death. A foreign whore for some flaccid Saxon prick until your cunt rots and seeps and festers and your whore-monger cuts your throat and dumps you in the nearest gutter. Forever denied the paradise of the corpse-hall.”

He tossed the axe to one of his officers with another laugh, starting to walk away. Her wrists began to flex in her bonds, testing the strength of the iron.

“Slaughter her crew and send her off on the first ship. The tragic tale of Eivor Wolf-Kissed has come to an end! That name is dead to this world!” he declared, turning to give her a mocking wave farewell. That was when she moved, surging into motion as the chain between her cuffs shattered under the pressure of a sharp, brutal yank. His eyes widened as she nearly flew towards him, the guards shouting, all reaching for their weapons, but she passed him by entirely. The first guard, the rightmost, died as her fist shattered his ribcage. As he fell, deft fingers drew his belt knife and she spun, ducking under the wildly-swung sword of the second guard, before punching it straight through his armpit and severing the veins there.

She darted backwards, two steps taken with inhuman speed, as the third guard’s Danish axe whistled through the air where she had been standing not a heartbeat before. She side-stepped his follow up kick, grabbing his leg by the greave and breaking it over her knee, sending him screaming to the ground. Scooping her father’s axe off of the ground where he had dropped it to draw his own, she stomped on his throat, a crunch heralding the crushing of his windpipe, and his screams became choked gurgles and he struggled to breath.

“You…what manner of monster have you become, girl? What beast, what monstrous spirit, have you allowed to take possession of your body? You would turn yourself into a draugr simply for the chance to kill me? To avenge a worthless defeated clan?” the massive man breathed, sounding as unsure as Randvi had, and Eivor grinned a savage, fanged grin at him. Him and the two slave-traders cowering behind him.

“A monster is what is made by a matter of choice, oath-breaker. I accepted no wicked bargain, made no deal with demons or devils. I claimed this power with my own two hands, torn from the hands of a wicked man who, like you, wished to make a thrall of me.” She responded, heart pounding and blood running hot from the excitement, the physical and emotional thrill of finally, finally avenging her parents, her clan. “I use it to avenge my father, avenge my mother, avenge my clan-kin and every other man, woman, and child you have slaughtered. I use it to prevent others from suffering the same fate of those I loved, and I use it to bring justice to you. Draw your axes and fight, miklimunnr.”

He snarled, reaching to his back and drawing the two Danish axes that rested there, easily hefting their length and weight as if they were nothing. It was then that it occurred to Eivor that, enhanced reflexes and preternatural speed or not, she was still about to fight a man three times her age, a dozen times her experience, and at least twice her weight in single combat while wearing nothing but thrall rags and broken bonds. Not that armor would be of much help to her, a direct strike would cause significant wounding or outright kill her, whatever she was wearing.

He charged, his right axe resting on his shoulder, braced for an overhead swing, and she had to make a frantic dodge with a swear as his passively-held left-hand axe made a sharp, quick upwards cut towards her gut that would have spilled her belly across the stone of the dock if she hadn’t moved when she did. Even then, it grazed her hip, leaving a shallow but blood groove across her flesh.

“And first blood goes to me, Wolf-Kissed. Perhaps I should not have been so startled by your unnatural display. Without surprise on your side, you are as much of a skreyja as you have always been. Eager to bring the fight, incapable of following through!” he chuckled darkly, some of his confidence returned, darting forward again with speed surprising for a man of his size, and Eivor had to scramble backwards as he sent right-hand axe cleaving down towards her. Far from being undeterred or unbalanced by his miss, he turned with the momentum of the swing, using it to help him turn as his left axe screamed through the air at her waist in an attempt to cut her two.

Twice more he spun, axes a blur of silvery steel, and she continued to retreat and watch carefully for the most opportune moment. A gap, a moment of timing, that she could use to strike back. Then it arrived, and she darted forwards with every ounce of gifted speed, stepping inside his defenses and slamming her axe into his right wrist as it came around his body. Though dull and worn by lack of care, her father’s weapon was not without it’s might, and a sharp, loud crack heralded the shattering of his wrist. His axe clattered to the ground, dropped by fingers that no longer had the ability to grip and hold, and she elbowed him in the gut, encouraging his slight stagger of pain to combine with imbalance from the interrupted attack, sending him to one knee. A second crack echoed as she broke his other wrist, and she took a moment to look up to see the fate of his slave-traders.

“It seems cruelty and wealth beget only just so much loyalty, Kjodve.” She chuckled, a bit out of breath, as she saw the two men rowing a small boat as quickly as they could directly away from her. They hadn’t even taken their own longship, simply finding the fastest thing to put to sea and fleeing. “It seems your allies abandon you quickly, or perhaps they are simply as cowardly as your son. After all, buying thralls from you rather than taking their own is hardly the most impressive performance.”

“Cease your meaningless prattle and finish it, Wolf-Kissed, before I figure out if I can kill you with naught by my skull and my feet.”  The jarl of the Wolf Clan growled out, and Eivor looked back at him with a frown, somewhat annoyed (even if unsurprised) by the attitude in the face of his death and her vengeance.

“Fine, then. Your death will wipe clean the pain of my past, sear that wound, and secure the future and safety of my clan.” She voiced, walking around behind him, sliding her father’s axe into her belt once she was out of his sight. A quick motion of her hands and a loud crack, like a tree-branch exploding in the depths of a harsh winter, heralded his death by a broken neck. A mercy, perhaps, compared to the other methods she had contemplated killing him. Draining every ounce of blood from his body as he still lived or beheading him with the blunt blade of her father’s axe had come to mind…

The world distorted around her, and she found herself standing in a shallow pool, stretching as far as she could see, her vision limited by a wall of fog. A low mist crawled around her feet, and as she looked around a forest of leafless, skeletal trees sprouted from beneath the still waters.

“Rise, Eivor, and awaken.” A voice, old and stern and wise, spoke from behind the trunk of the largest tree, and a cloaked figure holding a long spear stepped out of the shadows and faced her.

“Odin? Mighty Odin, what do you want from me?” she asked, as ravens took flight around the All-Father. There was no answer, her god turning his back and pacing away, only for Kjotve to appeared from the mists beside him.

“You have won your prize, Wolf-Kissed. The glory of my death.” The spirit mocked her, axes in hand, strolling casually past the tree. Odin, seemingly aggravated by the arrogance of a man defeated and slain, slammed the pommel of Gungnir on the ground beneath their feet, sending Kjotve’s soul to his hands and knees with a cry of pain. He staggered upright again after a moment, waving his now-empty right hand to the strange vision around them. “All for what? A cowardly father and his empty, pointless sacrifice.”

Odin certainly didn’t appreciate that, slamming the ground twice more, forcing the oath-breaker down once again, causing him to writhe and shout in suffering. When he rose again, he rose again, holding a small tree sapling, and Eivor swallowed as she saw that the roots were tangled into and through a man’s skull.

“Heed the price of our war, our hatred, Wolf-Kissed! The harvested dead of three generations, their names lost to the same dust as their bones! Unknown, unremembered! All of it, meaningless!”

“NO!” Eivor snarled, incensed by the implication that her mother, her father, her clan new and old, were forgotten. Meaningless, worthless. Grabbing Gungnir from the All-Father’s hand, she slammed it onto the ground with all of her might. “My clan will never be forgotten!”

Another tree sprouted, piercing through Kjotve’s chest, leaving him dangling from a high branch like a puppet on a string, a spray of blood flying from his mouth.

“Haha…I fought as hard as I did, as hard as I did, to survive. For I know what it is that awaits us in the end. Darkness, nothing more.” He chuckled darkly, breathlessly, before choking and gagging as a dark, feathered shape forced it’s way up his throat and out his mouth, holding something. A raven, carrying a silver medallion of an ash tree, which it dropped into her hand.

Then she was back on the dock, kneeling over Kjotve’s corpse, which was now lying on its back, with rumpled clothing indicating he had been search, holding the medallion. Somewhat shaken by both the vision and the fact that she had, apparently, rifled through Kjotve’s clothes while in it’s grip, she quickly stripped all the finery from him, stuffing his rings and torques into belt pouches, which were slung over a shoulder. She fed from him quickly, the hot tang of his blood far more enjoyable than her previous meal, and she absent-mindedly marveled at the difference between blood drunk minutes after death, and that drunk after nearly an hour.

When she had finished, she claimed one of his axes and removed his head, wrapping it in his cloak, and set off to find and rescue her crew. She briefly considered laying claim to the armor and shield of one of Kjotve’s guards, but in the end she opted against it. Stealth was more her ally now than armor, at least until she met back up with her crew, and her current garments (such as they were) benefited her more in that sphere than any of the armor the dead men were wearing.

Moving away from the corpses, she inhaled deeply through her nose, picking up the scents of her crew and mentally parsing through them to isolate Dag’s. The fact that she could track like a wolf, now, was almost as incredible as the strength and speed. Once she had him, she set of in his direction. The closer she got, the richer the smell became, sweat and blood and fear and fury, and soon enough her enhanced ears picked up shouting and the clashing of steel. So, Dag had broken free and managed to escape, gotten his hands on some weapons, and was fighting Kjotve’s men. Well, whatever else she might think about him, she had never thought him a coward or incompetent. Just an arrogant asshole who would, apparently, stab her in the back because he got fed up with Sigurd’s trust in and reliance on her.

She cut her way across country, avoiding the roads (or what passed for roads out here) and the guards that were sure to be patrolling them, immensely grateful for Wild Defense as she ran, walked, or crawled through snow, ice, and water in little more than rags and bare feet. Nordic constitution or not, she would have been risking the loss of a toe or two to frost-rot without it. Only two guards, encamped in a hilly area precisely (she imagined) to spot and confront anyone avoiding the roads like she was, impeded her progress, and she took the opportunity to claim the longbow and a full quiver of arrows off of one of them. Stealth archery wasn’t typically her preference for how to handle things, but she wasn’t foolish enough the charge head-long into melee without armor or shield.

Finally spotting Dag, where he was brawling with three of Kjotve’s men, two more dead on the ground nearby, and she took a deep breath to settle herself. She knew that what she was about to do was for the greater good of herself, her clan, and her brother…but it still sat ill with her. Notching an arrow to the string, she took aim at the first Wolf fighter. An instant later, he was down with a shaft through his eye. A second, startled by the sudden, unseen threat found the bitter steel of Dag’s weapon buried where his neck and shoulder met.

Eivor’s next arrow took the black-haired Raven warrior in the small of his head, sending him to the ground, killing him instantly. The remaining Wolf turned and tried to flee, throwing down his axe and shield in an effort to give wings to his feet, but all it did was give Eivor a more vulnerable target. Her last arrow went into the small of his back, and he fell with a cry. Ignoring the chiming from her ‘smart device’, informing her of her success in the Contract Killing no doubt, she slung the bow across her back again before picking up Kjotve’s head and making her way over.

The Wolf was trying to crawl away, a thin trail of blood staining the snow, and she ignored his scream as she kicked him onto his back and drew his belt knife.

“You…you’re the Wolf-Kissed! You murdered your own clan-kin?” the man choked out, looking up at her in mingled fury, fear, and bewilderment.

“I killed a man who plotted treachery against myself and my clan in pursuit of his own ego and bruised pride.” She corrected, before cutting his throat. Turning back to Dag, she rolled him over and clasped his axe in his hands, cradled over his chest. “I’m sorry Dag, but I had no choice. For Sigurd, for the clan, I couldn’t let you live. When you reach Odin’s Hall and greet our ancestors, regale them with the tales you so often shared with our crew.”

A eulogy, brief as it was, properly given, she set off again. Rescuing her crew was all that mattered now, then she could return home to receive her scolding, receive her due praise, and get some gods-damned sleep.

#############################################################

Randvi waited anxiously by the dock, surrounded by the drengr her father-by-marriage had ordered to accompany her when the message had come from the watch towers that Eivor’s longship was leading two Wolf ships with capture-streamers towards Fornburg. The possibility that it was a trap was small, Kjotve had never had much need for sneak attacks or disguising his motives. As treacherous and brutal as the oath-breaker was, he was also a very direct man. More inclined to smash those that crossed his path rather than wait for them to pass so he could slide a dagger into their spines.

If it was a trick, the men and women around her and those on the roof-tops with bows would but a quick and fatal end to things. She didn’t want to believe that Eivor was dead, didn’t believe that Eivor was dead, but she could approve of the desire for caution despite that faith.

There was no way the brute had actually managed to kill Eivor, though. Not after nearly twenty years of the two of them clashing, playing out their rivalry and hatred across the width and breadth of Rygjafylke, and that was before she became a ‘vampyr’ and a ‘Contractor’. No, Eivor was just fine, and seemed to have stolen two of the bastard’s ships into the bargain, which might blunt Styrbjorn’s wrath somewhat.

Of course, that wrath was also somewhat blunted by the fact that they had received word that Sigurd would be home within the next two days, if the winds were favorable. That spawned confusing feelings in her heart. For her so-called husband to return within a half-week of her confessing her feelings to Eivor…were it not for that confession, she would fear that the Norns were weaving their threads apart from one another, but now she only felt nervous excitement. The moment he returned, the proverbial candle would begin to burn, marking away the time before she could finally be truly happy.

A horn-blast heralded the arrival of the longships, and she felt and heard the drengr around her rustle into alert readiness. The ships approached slowly, manouvering with little of the swift, precise handling commonly found amongst even the greenest of vikingr. That made some sense, if Eivor had had to stretch the crew of a single ship across three, and the two Wolf ships headed straight to the shore while Eivor’s aimed for it’s usual slip at the end of the pier. A gesture from her had a large portion of the waiting troops going to meet the Wolf ships, and she felt her face break into a relieved smile as she spotted the familiar form of her crimson-haired future standing at the stern, holding onto the dragon’s tail, as was her wont.

She started down the dock, a crowd of Ravens beginning to gather now that it was clear this was a victorious return and not an attack, as Eivor disembarked. Her armor was stained, as was her skin, and she had an unfamiliar axe on her waist, but she moved smoothly and unhindered. If she was injured, it was minor enough not to hamper her in any noticeable way. She was also holding something in her right hand, a bloody cloak wrapped around something large and round, and she frowned curiously.

Then they met in the middle of the gangway, and she found herself strongly embraced by the returned raider. Surprised by so public a display of affection, she nonetheless happily returned it, breathing in the musk of a victorious warrior with a mental purr of approval.

“That is quite the welcome for me, beloved sister, and a great deal of happiness given how furious your father, our king, is with you for disobeying him so flagrantly. Surely not even capturing two of Kjotve’s ships could engender so fierce a delight?” she teased, and Eivor gave a bark of laughter, giving her a look with such heat to it that Randvi felt her cheeks flush and her heart-beat quicken.

“Oh, my Randvi, it is not just the boats that I claimed.” Eivor assures her, taking her by the arm and leading her down the dock to stand before the gathered members of the Raven Clan. Holding the bloody cloak in both hands, she spoke loud and clear. “Ravens! Brothers and Sisters, clan-kin young and old, birth and marriage alike. Today, I and my crew raided the Wolf encampment of Avaldsnes! Today, we killed dozens of Wolf bastards, claimed two of their ships, absconded with their treasures!”

There was some cheering at that, many eyes turning towards the two Wolf longships, which were indeed holding no small amount of silver, gold, gems, armor, weapons, and fine furs within, but Randvi’s eyes stayed on Eivor, and the bundle in her hands. A bundle that she was slowly unwrapping as she spoke, and Randvi heard an incredulous, wondering voice in the back of her mind insisting that the idea she had just had of what it might be was madness, insanity, but explained everything.

“Yet despite this great victory, I am sorry to tell you that a member of my crew perished! Dag Nithisson, loyal childhood friend of myself and our beloved prince, Sigurd, died in that blighted land! But not before he battled five Wolf bastards alone! Injured, surrounded, he slew three of them before he fell!”

Randvi was sure her heart would have sank somewhat, as she was sure many hearts in the crowd were sinking, for it was never easy to lose a clan member, no matter how glorious their death, but the voice was growing louder and more excited as enough of the cloak fell away to reveal silver-streaked raven hair, long and messy and matted by blood, and Eivor wound her fingers through it and gripped tightly, while her free one left Randvi’s arm to grip the unfamiliar axe.

“Yet do not despair, for though we have lost another brother in Wolf lands to Wolf-forged steel,  though Dag now enters the corpse-hall of Odin, feasting even now besides our ancestors, I bring news of a victory that makes the pain of any death, even one so mournful as his, sooth to bliss!”

The cloak fell away, Eivor thrust her hands high, and Randvi gasped, hands going to her mouth, as the severed head of Kjotve the Cruel was displayed for all to see. A grimace of suffering on his blood-painted face, a vacant stare to his eyes, his skin grey with the pallor of death.

“Behold the head of Kjotve the Cruel! Butcher of our mothers and fathers, slaver of our daughters and sons, the man who stole so many of our brothers and sisters from us for more than three generations! Dead at my own hands, with the axe of my father, reclaimed from Kjotve after eighteen long winters! We are avenged, Ravens, we and so many hundreds of others! Let the word go out from Fornburg to all of Rygjafylke: Kjotve the Cruel is no more, and the rest of his clan shall yield or else follow him into death’s embrace!”

There was a moment of absolute, shocked silence, then the crowd erupted into a cacophony of delight. As men and women began to race through the village to share the news with those not present, Eivor turned to her crew and instructed them to bring Dag to shore and prepare the spoils of her victory to be taken to the long-house.

“Come, Randvi. Let us go to our father and give him the good news. Justice has been found, and all before us is peace and plenty.” Eivor encouraged, holstering Varin’s axe on her waist again and offering her now-empty hand. Randvi took it without hesitation, and wouldn’t have imagined resisting as the woman she loved led her through the village, her concerns and fears over Sigurd’s impending return banished as if they had never been.

##################################################################