No.
The word filled his skull.
No. It strengthened with every whispered echo.
No. He would not succumb to the treachery of Haakon the Good’s sorcerers, whose abominations had slain so many this day. The scion of warriors would not meet Death on his knees. Bard tightened his grip upon his ax, stood, urged his feet forward.
“No,” he growled through clenched teeth. The direction no longer mattered. The familiar swell of the sea had long since faded in the distance. Only the empty gray greeted his senses, and in its embrace, with enemies all around, one way was just as good as any other.
His muscles ached as he pushed on, bones creaking in their joints. The dead grass was slick beneath his boots, and the muffled squelch of his footfalls built to a careful rhythm as he bulled forward. Bard cursed the noise of his passage as only silence came back at him through the mist. Spiders of fear crawled along his spine. A tribe of jötnar might well loom just paces ahead but he would never know it. Not in this murk. He swallowed hard at the thought; set one foot in front of the other.
Bard traveled for a thousand beats of his heart, ax gripped tight, scowling, his eyes narrowed and searching for someone – something – to kill, until a shadow materialized, and another beside it a moment later, and yet another. But this was no enemy.
Runestones.
Bard tapped the first with his boot to test its certainty. He ran a cautious hand across its graven surface. Futhark stood out from its smoothness. The meaning of the script leapt clear to his mind before his eyes could pick them from the stone. The runes read: Honor. Peace. Memory. The words sang against his fingertips in turn. Haraldr Hárfagri ræisþi kumbl þausi æftiR Øyvind eR vaR, he read on the nearest stone, equal in height to himself as it manifested from the gloom.
Harald Fairhair raised these monuments in memory of Eyvindr the Valiant.
His pulse stilled in his veins, a curse withering on his tongue. He’d come to Freiøya’s long barrows. Far from where his fellow víkingr had come aground, the burial site was a grim landmark, and one he had prayed never to visit; still, for all its sanctity, there lurked hope within its hallowed fields.
Who but a fool would seek life in a barrow?
Bard had heard stories some years prior of Eyvindr’s exploits in the west, as well as his hand in slaying one of Harald Fairhair’s own brothers at the behest of the Norse king himself. Bard snorted, but he did not linger – he needed shelter with more substance than these accursed stones, some sanctuary before Haakon’s völur called back their mist and revealed him.
The ghosts of his enemy’s forefathers lingered in the air. Bard could feel their presence bearing down upon him as he crossed the stone boundary. With a willowy breath he muttered apologies, despite his lineage, for his trespass. He’d no intention of befouling this resting place, but it was what the living Bard had to contend with for now. The dead would have their turn with him soon enough.
It seemed an impossible task. The barrow stretched out before him in desolation, but just when he’d begun to despair he might be trapped there forever his outstretched hand struck something solid. A reverberating thump resounded and his hand throbbed at the impact. The cold sent the pain bone deep, but he ignored it and examined the object. Smooth marble greeted his touch. He inched closer and the towering form of a warrior slipped loose of the fog, looming above. Bard’s heart threatened to burst but reason took hold before it could beat its way free of his ribs. The monument of a Víkingr king stood bold in his path. Might this be the monument of Harald himself?
Bard let out a slow breath, choking back a nervous laugh only to go rigid at a muffled susurrus in the wet grass behind him. He ducked as a whirl of smoke and steel hurtled over his head, crashing into the statue with a clang and sending chips of stone flying.
The vague shape of boots appeared and Bard lashed out, driving the point of his ax toward where he believed the enemy came at him. Metal sang out. A sharp gasp followed as needling stabs reverberated up his forearms. His blow had done its work. The boots toppled backward, barely visible, and Bard scudded forward to keep on the move. A pained grunt slipped loose of his assailant as he struck hard earth. Bard closed without hesitation, his left hand seizing the warmth of his opponent’s throat. He growled and hefted his ax to rain down a blow but then his arm went stiff as a familiar face formed beneath him.
“Gods, Hilde,” he cursed. “I nearly killed you.” He released the woman’s neck and lowered his weapon.
“Don’t be so certain,” she answered, grim humor in her voice as two slivers of steel crept from the gloom and wavered before his face.
He grinned as twin shadows took shape – brothers he’d thought dead coalesced from the fog, their own smiles a radiant sight to behold.
“We found her smirking atop the bloodied remains of a great, horned mare, its head split asunder and its brains gouged from its skull,” Devin boasted, gesturing to the woman. “If ol’ Hrimgerd herself couldn’t bring down Hilde, I doubt a fifl like you could.”
“At least that’s how she’d tell it,” Arndt said with a chuckle.
Relieved laughter spilled from Bard’s throat and he rose, pulling Hilde to her feet. He embraced her quickly and did the same to the others in turn.
“We’d thought you dead,” Arndt told him with a clap to the shoulder, his plaited red beard darkened and congealed with blood. His helm boasted a respectable dent, and a shallow cut ran across the bridge of his broad nose but Bard had seen the warrior worse off.
“As did I.” Bard slapped a hand over the warrior’s meaty shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “As did I.” He let his gaze wander over the others; having been separated rather quickly on the battlefield, he reveled in their unexpected presence and found his mettle buttressed by their good company.
Hilde looked much as she had when they’d disembarked: her long blonde hair pulled so tight against her scalp as to appear untouched by chill wind or her wretched battle against the strange beast. Her big blue eyes stared back at him as he appraised her. Her buckler hung on her arm, and her breastplate was painted with the crimson stains of those who’d dared stand before her – only the slight indentation from his own ax marred the steel of it – but no visible wounds other than a shallow cut or two proved she had given more than she got. A subtle flicker of amusement played at her pale lips and a hint of rose colored her freckly cheeks, then she bent and retrieved the sword Bard had knocked from her grasp.
He watched her, grateful he’d not buried his ax in that fair skull of hers, for he was sure that would provoke the goddess not to mention her aunt, Queen Gunnhild. Bard’s gaze flickered to Devin, a wiry Thuringian who stood blade in hand, and gave Bard a solemn nod. The man’s frame made Hilde look almost masculine, but Bard knew deceptive strength lurked within the warrior from his long years as a galley slave pulling oars on a Byzantine dromon before his liberation at the hands of Bloodax’s longships. Dev’s sharp features peered from the gloom like an eagle’s, barely shadowed by the growth of fuzz at his chin. He’d lost his shield somewhere along the way but he looked no less fierce for it.