“Arms! To arms!” she heard Yrsa shout in the distance. She could picture her mother snatching her father’s sword from where it hung on the wall, and could see the farmhands grabbing axes and pitchforks to defend themselves.
Every child in the north knew their way around a weapon, regardless of gender, even if that weapon was a farm tool. And this was exactly the reason why.
The raiders disembarked before the ship was fully beached. They carried axes, spears, short swords. None but the archer wore helmets or much armor. They didn’t look too different from the men her father had raided with every summer, but they shouted words Oddny understood in a dialect that sounded strange to her ears.
Signy had stopped, frozen with fear, just before the earthen wall of the hayfield.
Oddny finally reached her, tackling her from behind just as one of the men turned in their direction. The sisters didn’t move a muscle, and the raider’s eyes passed over their hiding spot. Oddny stifled a sob as the barking, snarling farm dogs that had run up to defend their home were quickly dispatched, and she and Signy watched as one of the oldest farmhands was slain mercilessly before he could so much as swing his felling axe.
She didn’t know what came over her in that moment, the horrible calm that descended on her as she realized exactly what was going on. The only farmhands still alive, their hands and feet wrestled into ropes, were the two youngest: those who would fetch a good price.
Beneath her, Signy began to weep, and Oddny clamped a hand over her sister’s mouth, the other still clutching her basket.
Slavers, Oddny mouthed to her. Signy’s teary eyes widened and the look that passed between them was one of mutual understanding, of the knowledge of exactly the purpose two young women might be sold for if they allowed themselves to be captured.
They heard screaming from inside the house, heard the wet, muffled sounds of weapons finding their targets. Oddny tried not to picture her mother and Lif bloody and splayed across the floor.
Men exited the hall carrying what little finery the family possessed: Yrsa’s chest, containing what was left of the spoils from Ketil’s raids; the good pottery; the cauldron; Ketil’s heirloom sword. Oddny saw other raiders assessing the livestock, leading the best-looking animals to their ship, scattering or slaying the rest. Her entire body felt cold as she watched.
And then a man sporting a nasty gash in his upper arm dragged Yrsa from the house and threw her onto the dirt, where she fell on all fours, a bloody axe clutched in her hand.
Every bone in Oddny’s body screamed at her to help her mother or she would die or worse, but she found that she couldn’t move.
The biggest raider—the only one in a helmet, the leader, the one who’d shot Vestein—kicked the axe away and said, “Is there nothing else, you sorry old bitch?”
Oddny jolted at the sound of the voice—a woman’s voice—and when Yrsa offered no reply, the big warrior took off her helmet, revealing a brass-colored braid and eyes hard as steel. The man who’d dragged Yrsa out of the house now grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees.
“Don’t make me ask again,” the woman said.
Yrsa hissed, “You raid my farm, murder my son, and steal my people, and act as if I’ve cheated you by not being rich enough to make it worth your while?”
The woman slapped her across the face. Yrsa did not make a sound, but with her head now turned to the side, she caught a glimpse of Oddny and Signy peering at her over the hayfield wall. Her eyes widened briefly in surprise before sharpening into a look that commanded the same respect she’d demanded of the girls since they were very small.
It said, Stay right there. Do not help me.
It said, Save yourselves.
“There’s no sign of them, Kolfinna,” one of the raiders said to the tall woman. “We’ve searched the outbuildings—”
“They must be here somewhere.” Kolfinna turned back to Yrsa. “You and your people are a sorry lot. Where are the rest of them?”
“There’s no one else,” said Yrsa, tearing her gaze from her daughters and staring hard at the ground.
“You’re lying,” said Kolfinna with a hint of desperation. “There are others here. Where are they?”
Yrsa lunged faster than Oddny had ever seen her move, picked up the axe from where Kolfinna had kicked it, and swung it clumsily at the larger woman. Kolfinna managed to dodge in time to protect her flank, but the axe was sharp and Yrsa landed a shallow slice on her thigh.
“Bitch!” Kolfinna howled. She clutched her leg with one hand, and with the other she punched Yrsa in the jaw, causing her to drop the axe. The man who’d been holding Yrsa grabbed her by the hair again and forced her back to her knees.
Kolfinna straightened, scowling down at her torn pants and bleeding wound. In one slow, menacing movement, she picked up the axe, leveled it at Yrsa, and said, “I’ll give you one last chance, woman. Where are the others?”
Yrsa looked up at Kolfinna, bared bloodied teeth, and spat at her feet. “May the dragon devour you slowly in Hel.”
Kolfinna raised the axe and brought it down.
Oddny’s hand slipped from Signy’s mouth in shock.
Yrsa fell forward in a heap, unmoving.
Signy screamed.
And silence followed as every one of the raiders turned to look in the direction of the two women hiding beyond the hayfield. With a sudden lurch in her stomach, Oddny realized just how visible they were if one knew exactly where to look.
“Bring them to me,” said Kolfinna, and pointed the axe—still dripping with Yrsa’s blood—at the sisters. “Intact.”
Oddny dropped her basket and was on her feet in an instant, dragging Signy with her, holding on to her hand for dear life as they sprinted into the pasture, toward the trees. She heard the heavy footfalls of the men behind them, and her blood pounded in her ears, her legs burned, and they were almost there, if they could just get to the woods—
Someone grabbed her arm and jerked her to a stop, and she went flailing off to the side, letting go of Signy’s hand—
The man holding her did not yield as Oddny struggled in his grasp. Behind her, Signy screamed as a larger man threw her over his shoulder and began to carry her off toward the ship.
Someone had set fire to the hall.
“Oddny!” Signy shrieked. “Mother!” And then, when she saw Yrsa’s cooling body tossed unceremoniously into the burning building, her screams became wordless, horrified.
Oddny felt her strength draining as the man who’d grabbed her dragged her toward the ship. This was it, then. This was how her world ended; this, to Oddny, was Ragnarok: Signy screeching, reaching for her over her captor’s shoulder—the burning hall with the bodies of her mother and Lif inside—Vestein’s body, somewhere at the bottom of the fjord—
A shrill, inhuman cry split the air.
Oddny’s would-be kidnapper released her suddenly, and before she knew it she was sprinting for the trees again as fast as her legs could carry her, sparing only one look behind her to see that there was a swallow—the one from earlier?—attacking the man who’d been holding her, its tiny talons wicked sharp, its chirping growing angrier. A whisper-thin thread extended from its breast into the sky, into nowhere.