Bergendal is Burning
Lucia trailed behind Soren, who rode Volomite and Lucia’s horse senseless. The guilt nearly burned a hole in her chest, and now it was official: she was a fraud of a woman. They stopped only occasionally for water for the horses and nothing else. Silence burned her ears and not even the pounding hooves of the horses drowned out the annihilating blizzard she felt coming from him. She suspected he wanted to hear nothing from her, yet she wanted to confess to him everything that had made her come to the decision to deceive him. Volomite seemed to be trained well, but Lucia’s horse had a hard time keeping up with the fast, furious pace Soren was setting, panting and sweating, nearly stumbling forward.
In front of them, in the moonlight, another rider stood on the side of the road. As they approached, she saw that it was Silya. She did not want to face her—not at all.
Silya looked as if she was waiting for something or someone, or as if she was uncertain of what to do.
Maybe she is waiting for us? she thought.
“What brings you in this direction?” Soren asked as they neared her, their breaths now mingling in the dark, smoking up the chilling air.
“I was following you. There has been a severe violation of trust, an illegitimate theft of identity—” Silya looked at Lucia sternly, her eyes piercing right through her. “Lucia is—”
“Yes, Lucia told me everything,” Soren said plainly and without even a hint of emotion.
She cringed at his words.
“I am heading back to Ailia. Have the Vikings entered Bergendal?” he asked.
“Not that I know of, but I did see some traces of other Viking activity nearby,” Silya said.
Lucia’s arms folded tightly in front of her chest as if that would protect her somehow. Suddenly, she heard a sound. “What is that?” she asked surprised. “It sounds like a crying baby.” The helpless screams came from the woods.
“It is a Viking child,” Silya said coldly. “His mother died.”
“You already checked on him?” Lucia asked. How could she be so calloused? She hopped off her horse.
“Leave him be,” Silya said more coldly this time. “He is a Viking.”
“We cannot just leave him here to die. It is not his fault his parents are Vikings,” Lucia said.
“Never mind that now. He has no right to live, a babe with Viking blood running through his veins,” Silya said angrily, though not quite convincing. “It is hard enough to listen to the incessant cries without you complaining.” She rolled her dark brown eyes. “Fine, you go get him, but I want nothing to do with him, you hear? He will be your responsibility and yours alone.”
“I am amazed that you have such a hard heart for this abandoned, vulnerable creature,” Lucia snapped.
“You are not one to speak,” Silya said, moving closer to Lucia.
Soren stepped between the two women. “There is nothing we can do now to change what has happened.”
Lucia headed as quickly as she could toward the screaming child, stepping in the tracks Silya had made before her. She heard Soren speak to Silya as she walked off.
“I need to get to Ailia so I am going to leave Lucia with you. I will meet you back in Bergendal,” he said.
The closer Lucia came to the infant, the less she could hear Soren’s voice beneath the cries. Between the snow-covered trees, she saw the wagon and, then, the moving bundle on the mother’s stiff corpse. Her heart ached for both of them.
“There now, sweet one. I am here,” she said kneeling down beside the babe. His hands were flailing, and he had almost kicked his blanket off. He is so small an innocent. How could Silya leave him here to die? She scooped the infant up and swaddled him in the blanket. Pressing him against her body, she rocked back and forth.
“I will not abandon you,” she whispered. Her heart warmed at her own words, and she suddenly realized that this was why she had to leave Bergendal. Finding the child—saving this boy—it was her fate! Had she not come here, she would not have discovered the child. The gods have brought me him, she thought. It is a sign from the gods! A new beginning. Her new life would start now, she decided. The babe fussed for a while longer and then he settled into a low whimper. Looking back toward the road, she thought, I could leave now. Run into the woods and never come back. However, she felt the risk was too great now that she had a child to look after and with the Vikings still raiding the area. I will wait to leave until I am back in Bergendal.
When she arrived back by the road, Soren had already disappeared. Lucia was both relieved and disappointed.
“So, you got hold of the Viking?” Silya said.
“Yes.”
“He is all yours. Do not bother me with him.” They mounted their horses. “What will you name the berserker?” Silya asked before they rode.
“A name fit for a king.”
Silya scoffed. “The mother was a bloodthirsty Viking named Ava, and she told me before she died that the child’s father is a king. Probably a king of the Vikings.”
Ava? Lucia had recently heard that name before. Was that not the name of my father’s mistress, the one Vilda spoke about? The babe cannot be his. And there were many women named Ava, she knew. However, she could not help but wonder.
“His name shall be Harald.” My little ruler.
* * *
Thick, black smoke and orange flames rose above the Bergendal skyline. It was a savage yet beautiful sight, Lucia thought, riding toward the devastation, as the wind carried the scent of burnt flesh and ashes. The closer they came to the city borders, the more people lay slain, their fresh blood blemishing the pure snow. Clamoring voices abound—cries of war, of mourning mothers and fathers, brothers and friends. Bergendal was burning like it had never burned before.
Snow descended heavily from the heavens, mingling with floating cinders. Lucia could hardly bare to keep her eyes open as they rode past fallen Bergendalers—men, women. The children were the worst to see, their small bodies lying lifeless in the snow, stabbed through and through. Eyes open, vacant expressions. Small hands and feet and bodies that should be about playing, laughing, and making mischief, not waiting to be thrown into a mass grave, which there surely would have to be after this slaughter. How could the Vikings have done this? She searched the streets and the fields to see if she could spot one of the barbarians. There were no Vikings in sight, but the trail they left behind could not be missed. She squeezed the bundle in her arms. At least she had saved one.
Harold had slept the entire way, which she was grateful for. Though he weighed hardly nothing at all, still Lucia’s arms had begun to tire shortly after they had started the journey back. Now, hours later, her arms felt as if they would fall off, and she had not breathed a word of it to Silya. The hateful Sami woman would never know what sacrifices Lucia would make for this child. She did not deserve to know and she would never understand how Lucia could love this babe with all her heart and so soon.
Once they were well within the city limits, Silya jumped down and took both horses by the reigns, guiding them forward. The creatures neighed and flicked their tails, and Lucia felt the beast’s muscles tense beneath her legs.
“Whoa, boy,” she said, stroking the beast’s upper back to try and soothe him. A stallion galloped toward them at full speed, its eyes shining with terror. Silya raised both hands up into the air, and when the horse slowed, a young man fell off with a thud. The man’s white tunic alb was soaked with blood at the waist, and he moaned as he slowly turned onto his back.
Silya rushed to the man and knelt beside him in the snow. “I heard there have been local Viking attacks. Is that what has happened here?” she asked, lifting the young man’s head and placing it on her lap.
“The church—they are burning down the church,” he said, his voice labored and panting. “I am a deacon of the Lord. Save the church!”
Then something occurred to Lucia. Bergendal was being attacked because the people had let the Christian faith take root in their hearts. Of course the gods would be furious and eradicate the blasphemous religion. They would not allow such deception to flourish ad so they had sent the Vikings to cleanse the evil out of their midst. In a way, they had become the gods’ army in Midgard. But they should have spared the children.
“Come with me.” Silya started to lift the man up onto Miika.
“No, no, do not take me back to that place. Oh please. They will kill me!” He gripped Silya’s arm. “Please, I do not want to die today.”
“We will take you to Brandersgaard with us then,” Silya said.
“Thank you,” the deacon said, his voice whimpering.
After Silya had helped him onto Miika, they continued toward Brandersgaard. On their way, Harald started crying, but no matter what Lucia did to try and make him stop, he would not. He is hungry, she concluded. She needed to find milk for him soon.
Riding into the street leading up to the place she had spent the last several months, her breathing turned shallow. They hate me. They hate me. They hate me! When they arrived, Silya secured the horses to a nearby tree, and helped the deacon off the horseback.
She helps him, a man of God, but not me, the queen of this land? Lucia thought. She struggled to climb off the horse, her arms exhausted—shaking—from holding Harald for so long. Gripping onto the reins, she eased off the saddle, but she could not stop herself from falling when her hands slipped, and feet hit the ground. In the fall, she must have squeezed Harald, because now he was screaming at the top of his lungs, crying as if he were dying. Lucia stuffed a finger into his mouth, and he started to suck on in right away. But when there was no milk, he began to fuss.
Silya walked right past them without so much as a glance, leading the deacon toward the longhouse.
Lucia trailed after them. Her clothes and hair were wet, and her stomach felt as hollow as the empty barn to her left. Arriving at the entrance, she noticed that there no longer was a door. All that was left was an open space with deep axe-like gouges on the doorframe. Stepping inside, she shivered just as much as she had outside. The abode did not look at all like Brandersgaard. A portion of the roof had been torn or burned off at the front of the room. Snow entered through the hole onto the loom, turning it white where it stood as beams of subdued moonlight streamed in through the gaping hole. The longhouse was still standing, regardless of all the fire damage to it, despite the fact that it look like someone had taken a hundred axes and chopped the walls to smithereens. It was unusually murky inside and Lucia coughed as she entered the smoke-filled room.
“Hello?” Silya’s voice sang, sounding muted and hesitant. She helped the deacon sit down by the hearth. Its crackling sound permeated throughout the main room and its flames rose twice as high as they usually did.
They walked slowly to the back of the longhouse. Shelves and cupboards were tipped over, but there was still no sign of Ailia or the others.
A voice could be heard in the dark. “Silya?”
Lucia followed Silya back into the main room, and just as they arrived back at the hearth, Sigrid peeked her head in through the front door.
“Sigrid!” Silya ran across the room, between the rubble and ashes, and threw her arms around the thrall. “Are you well?”
“Yes, I’m well, but they’re are dead,” she cried.
“Unni and Brander?” Silya asked, her voice cracking.
“They haven’t returned from their travels, but Ailia is gone. The Vikings took her,” Sigrid said, her face twisting in agony. “The Vikings took my Ailia.” She buried her face in her trembling, soot-covered, bloody hands and cried.
“Many souls will return to Valhalla tonight,” Lucia said, coldly. “All because of this new God.”
Silya scowled at Lucia and then she turned her attention back to Sigrid. “Did Soren come back yet?”
“Yes. He took Ivar with him to go after Ailia,” Sigrid said. “Though, they didn’t know where to start looking. They thought maybe they’d head to the Viking settlement south of here.”
“Strange, we did not see them on our way,” Silya said.
Harald began to fuss again. “I need to find milk for my child,” Lucia said.
Silya glared at her. “Do you not remember what I said?”
Lucia gasped. “How dare you treat me, a queen, this way?” She would not take this blatant contempt for another moment. She secured her grip around Harald, stormed outside, and started walking—to where, she did not know. All she knew was she could not stand to be near that coldhearted Sami woman any longer, and she refused to stay in a Christian household for even another second. If she remained, the gods might become wrath with her, and if that happened, it would be better for her if she were dead.
The snow came down heavily, splotches of white fluff falling and sticking to her clothes and hair and face. Arriving at the street, she saw Bishop Peter heading toward her in the distance. She wanted nothing more than to get as far away from the heathen as possible. I have to get away. There are too many Christians in this wretched town!
She took a left and headed toward the Fest Hall, hoping perhaps she could stay there. But when she was almost to the hall, she saw that it had burned to ground, nothing but ashes and embers remaining of the gigantic longhouse.
Where should she go now? Her feet were frozen cold and caked in snow. Harald had not stopped crying since she left Brandersgaard, and no one had approached her and offered to help her. Many were dead, but those who were not were either mourning the loss of loved ones or trying to clean up what little was left. She still hadn’t found a drop of milk for the baby, and he would starve soon unless she fed him something. She knew no one in Bergendal and if she kept wandering the streets, she would surely freeze to death and the babe with her.
She wandered in circles, just trying to stay warm, bouncing the child up and down even though it was useless trying to cam him. The longer she walked, the angrier she grew. They did this to me—the queen! I should have their heads for this! Her heart leapt at the thought. Should she kill them?
Yes.
However, she did not want to return to that wretched place no matter the reason. If she did not kill them, what could she do to punish them? She thought long and hard, and then the answer was revealed. If she killed herself, they would regret how they had treated her. Their guilt would eat them alive, and would be a constant reminder of how horrible they had been to her. And not only that, this way, Lucia could take her power back and refuse to be the victim, refuse to be used by her parents and by Ailia and Soren. Ailia did not deserve a sister like her, who would risk her life to protect her. And so she would end her own life so no one would ever have power over her again.
On a mission, she searched among the bodies, looking for a dagger or a knife. It was an honorable death—was it not? Will the gods accept me into Valhalla? They would, because she had died to honor them.
She pulled a dagger out of a dead man’s chest and found a forlorn, halfway burned down barn. I will do it in here. She tried not to think about what she was going to do, but her body nearly convulsed as laid the screaming child onto the floor. She knelt down on the floor and took her mittens off. With shaking hands, she held the dagger up high above the infant.
“Odin. Thor. Freya,” she said. “I offer this child’s and my soul to you as a blood sacrifice. Please accept this act as proof of my devotion to you.” She sucked in a deep breath and held it, letting the dagger hover above the babe’s heart.
Is this my destiny? To die instead of rule as queen? To be made a fool of by my sister and her lover? She gasped as she clutched the dagger’s handle, as she squeezed her eyes shut.
She let out a scream, wrestling with herself whether she should see this through or not. Once life has been taken, it can never be given back. Was this her fate? Oh, Odin! The wisest of all gods. Tell me what to do! Tears streamed down her face.
“This is not why I was born,” she said out loud. “This is not why I was born!” she screamed as loud as she could. I am queen! I am queen! I am queen! Aesira blood runs through my veins!
Her eyes popped open and she flung the weapon aside. Yes, Aesira blood runs through my veins. There was someone who might want her: Eiess. The empress might now see the value in her. Eiess was her enemy, yes, but so were her parents. They betrayed me! My sister and her lover betrayed me! Together, Eiess and she would be unstoppable. Had The Empress of Darkness not thought of that? Perhaps if she suggested it. Perhaps…
Would Eiess imprison her if she returned to the castle? She might, and then it would all be over. But return to Brandersgaard? Never. And if she stayed out here, death would take her and her child soon—even tonight perhaps. But if Lucia went to the empress, suggesting a partnership, like Vilda had done, perhaps…