A circle of stones has been laid out atop a hill, not far from the farm. There are no trees around. I feel exposed. A mousebeing eyed by an owl. Most who see my face turn away. Others nod briefly. Maybe they understand what Ari is doing. Maybe they want a shift in power. This thought gives me hope. We aren’t alone. I’m not hated. Not by all, at least.
Sigurd stands at the circle’s edge, three shields on each side of him. Grim-faced, he avoids my eyes. His trust in me has evaporated. I have caused disharmony. Sown discord. Vidar stands next to him, giving me a severe stare.
I scratch my scalp, harder than I should.
Where is Ari? The sun will soon climb above the edge of the mountains. My mind is split. I hope Ari shows up, so he doesn’t lose honor, but I hope he has fled, so he doesn’t lose his life. Living is more important than glory.
Where is Eidunn? I scan the crowd, the thralls. Nowhere to be seen. She must be the only person missing. Or, Thyra and her girls too.
Njord is already here, towering in the middle of the crowd. With such a broad smile, laughing and joking, you’d think it was his wedding day. Some men thrive on violence, on oppressing others. Some men are beasts.
A magpie flies above us, oblivious to the coming conflict. This day will be stained by bloodshed. I will not be the one to draw the blood, but it will be on my hands all the same. A silly girl trying to make a hard world softer. How had I not seen this coming?
Chatter builds in the crowd. Excited people point down the hill, toward the farm. There he is. The man I have sentenced to death. My hopes spill out of my shattered cup. This is really happening.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, thank Freya. As Ari nears, the crowd goes silent. Yesterday they were excited, but now it’s a destined moment to them. Fate will decide who is wrong, who is right. Not common sense. Violence. All of them, even the ones Iknow support Njord, nod to Ari. He stands for his words. He is brave. A man.
“Skald,” says Njord as Ari enters the circle.
“Drengr,” replies Ari, a term that signals bravery. No more insults. No more fanciful words. A poet versus a veteran, in a ring of death. What a joke.
Everyone is calm, but tension crackles like the air before a thunderstorm. I fidget with my robe, unable to control my own body. My hair feels so itchy, I just want to rip it out.
Sigurd raises his hands, stepping between the men.
“People of Opdal.” He pauses. “Fate has bound these two men. One will die today. Odin watches. Valhalla is your destination.”
Everyone—man and woman, thrall and freeman—cheers at the mention of the All-Father and his fabled hall. Odin will gain another warrior for his army. Sigurd continues.
“Three shields are allowed. Each man wields his own sword. As it has been since the beginning.”
Fucking hair. Eyes fixed on Sigurd, I use both my hands to scrape my skull. My nails dig into dry skin. Brief relief. Let it start for fuck’s sake. Let it be over. I battle tears that press behind my eyes.
“After this,” says Sigurd, “the matter will be settled. No one is to spill blood in vengeance. No one is to defy the will of the gods. This is the law.”
Complete silence.
“Pull your weapons,” says Sigurd.
Njord does so, a shining sword, newly polished. It would reach my chest standing upright.
Ari’s blade is different. I’ve never seen the like. It’s short, almost stubby—no longer than my forearm. What the fuck is he doing? Does he want to die? He balances the orb at the end ofits hilt between two fingers, spinning it, testing its weight. Even Sigurd raises an eyebrow.
Njord laughs, the only sound to be heard. The giant man picks a shield.
“Is this blade for women or for children?” he asks, making the crowd laugh nervously. A slight release of tension.
Ari chooses a shield, turning to his opponent. His face shows no fear, only focus. Like he’s comfortable. The same demeanor he had at my party. Is he really this stupid? Does he really think he can win? He speaks in a light tone, meeting Njord’s joking mannerism.
“It’s for your neck.”
Heavy words, but Njord only grins and slams his sword on his own shield in appreciation. Several men in the crowd whistle. It’s like Njord is born for this. A born killer. A memory flickers—Ari drying me off after he saved my life. Now, my actions will end his. A tragedy of fate.
I fold my arms, forcing my hands under my armpits, so I don’t scratch. I can’t even keep my back straight, looking like a crooked old crone. Is no one else bothered by what is happening? Ari wanted to help a woman in danger—now he must die at the hand of the violator?
“To positions,” commands Sigurd.
Finally.
