ONE
With SHIELD
one
The greatest mistake of Fenris Wolf’s life was leaving me alive, even if only barely. Even if he expected me to give up. Even if he thought I was no warrior, that I was weak, and that I wouldn’t beg to the gods or to any entity who would listen to save me and help me avenge what he had destroyed.
From pure hatred and spite, from the ashes left in the wake of his cruelty, and from the flesh and bones of my loved ones, my destiny was spun… and his fate, sealed.
The Ur∂r Clan, Amrok Village
two
On the eve of what should have been one of the most vital days in our lives, Hodor dreamt of our destruction.
My older brother looked pale and haggard as he stood bewildered in the beams of sunlight pouring in through the door. He shrugged on the same tunic he’d worn for the past few days despite the grime it bore and raked nervous fingers through his golden hair before hastily tying it back at his nape. He strode toward the basin where he gathered water in his palms, burying his face in it and harshly scrubbing his skin before gripping the edges of the carved ash bowl so tightly, his knuckles turned white. Hodor stared into the water for a long, long moment.
I wondered if he saw anything beyond his own reflection or if his dream kept spinning through his mind so that it was all he could see.
Sometimes, dreams were just remnants of things that had happened throughout the course of the day, things our minds tried to knit together to make sense of while we slept. Other times, they were warnings sent by the gods.
It was during moments like this that I longed for privacy, for me and for my brother. But the longhouse was built for our needs, not our wants.
I tugged a pale brown apron-dress over my head to cover my serkr underdress, slipped on my shoes, and quickly worked my hair into a long braid, keeping one eye on Hodor, who still acted shaken. He’d let go of the basin and stood in the doorway again, raking damp, nervous hands through his hair. His muscles were so taut, I thought one would snap.
Or perhaps he would.
From the other side of the house, Father combed his beard and barked at us to hurry and let the animals out of their pens and into the pasture to graze.
While Mother gathered the ingredients to make porridge, she yelled for the younger children to wake up. Though they lamented leaving their beds, they dragged themselves out of them and slogged to the table, their pale hair knotted and twisted in every direction. I smiled at them as Hodor waved me outside.
The near mountain was draped in fog, but only to the frost line, where the trees and air became thin.
“What happened in your dream?” I asked as we walked into the chill of the crisp, cold morning air gliding off the mountain and into the valley in which we lived. Winds in this place either came from the snow caps or the fjord, and they often collided and clashed like the blades of two enemies as fresh air met the salty brine of the sea.
Father trailed after us, his steps as heavy and loud as he.
Despite the fact that Father could hear him, he answered my question. “I dreamed I found Tor dead on the near mountain,” he said, jutting his jaw toward the slope our feet had long cut paths upon. Tor was his beloved dog, his friend and companion.
Now that he’d mentioned him, I wondered where Tor was this morning. He wasn’t in the fields or lying near the garden gate like he usually was, and Hodor hadn’t let him outside when he woke. He hadn’t come in to lay between us last evening, despite the chill.
Hodor’s eyes scanned the landscape like mine did, but never snagged on Tor.
He was probably sniffing behind the other houses for scraps. Someone would wake, discover him, and run him off. He’d come home soon enough.
We walked to the pen of lambs and I held the wooden gate open as Hodor shepherded the flock out into the fields. He passed through when all were in the meadow and we made our way to the pen of goats.
Hodor paused at the gate, wrapping his fingers around the top plank. “When I came down, holding his limp body in my arms, I heard screaming. You were screaming, Liv. And you wouldn’t stop.” His haunted eyes met mine and goosebumps slid over my skin.
Father muttered something under his breath as he stopped to toss the pigs scraps from last night’s dinner. Hodor stopped talking, flicking a glare at him.
I was glad Father didn’t see it.
I held the heavy wooden gate open as Hodor held his arms out wide, clicking his tongue while driving the goats out. Once the two herds had joined in the pasture, some lapping at the shallow brook that slid down from the mountainside while others chewed the freshest tufts of grass that remained, I urged him for more details.
“There’s more. I can tell. What else happened in your dream?”
I imagined Hodor’s face when he discovered Tor dead. I imagined him running down the mountain paths with Tor in his arms, my screams echoing over the valley, over the fjord waters. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.
“A thick fog had settled over the fjord, and from the mist emerged a pack of wolves. The largest I’d ever seen.”
My brows knitted. “They came out of the water?”
He shook his head. “They raced atop it, snarling and snapping. You scooped the girls up and yelled for Gunnar to run with you, then you screamed for Mother and Father. You shouted for me, but you were unable to find me. You didn’t know where I was. I dropped Tor’s body and ran, but no matter how hard I ran, I couldn’t reach you.”
“Enough!” Father roared from right behind us, startling us both. “We have much to do, and this nonsense is slowing us down,” he said pointedly to my brother. “Dreams mean nothing.”
Hodor’s dream wasn’t nothing. It had shaken my eldest brother, and Hodor wasn’t easily rattled.
His temper and nostrils flared. “You want to know how the dream ended, Liv? We all died in the end. None of us survived. None,” he snapped.
Father spun on his heel to face Hodor, but Hodor was ready.
He snarled at Father, said words I never imagined he’d dare say to him, and took off toward the mountain. For a stunned moment, Father seemed as shocked as I was. Then his temper flared and he started after him, but stopped himself, turning to me and pointing his finger in my face.
“Finish the chores,” he snapped, turning away from me and stomping back toward the house. “There is much to be done and little time to do it.”
Tomorrow morning, the Jarl would lead a great hunt into the mountains for wild game. But tonight, the whole village would gather for Vetrnaetr, Winternights, and we would slaughter the weakest animals in our herds and smoke the meat to put away for what promised to be a harsh, unforgiving winter. The third in a row. Just as the seer who came this way three years ago told our Jarl, our King.