The Unnamed Warrior Read online

  Some of the common alternative names for these areas can also be found below:

  Gaular: Gaulardale, Gaular Valley, Fosselandet (the land of the waterfalls).

  Götaland: Gotaland, Gautland, Gothia, Gothenland, Gothland.

  Gotland: Gottland.

  Skania: Skane, Skåne.

  Jutland: Jütland, Cimbric or Cimbrian Peninsula, Den Kimbriske Halvø, Kimbrische Halbinsel, Cimbricus Chersonesus, Denmark.

  Zealand: Sjælland, Denmark. It should be noted that Zealand should not be confused with Zeeland, which is located in Holland.

  PROLOGUE

  “Someday you will change your mind about that, Freya,” Loki said. His eyes danced as he waggled his eyebrows at the goddess and Freya felt more inclined to slap the trickster god than ever before.

  “Meddling in the likes of the human world in order to create a hybrid breed of warrior for Ragnarok is something I will never be comfortable with,” she replied. Her words were spoken quietly, calmly. But she felt anything but controlled as she avoided Loki’s cheeky grin and let her gaze settle on the men in front of her.

  Valhalla was boisterous at the best of times. However, there had been a great battle today and now many new recruits joined to feast for their first time in the great hall. For the moment, the men were regaling each other not only of their battle feats but the newcomers were also telling stories about their lives before being chosen for Valhalla.

  It wouldn’t be long, though, before the new recruits lost their memories of their old lives. Treasured remembrances of marriage, of births, of victories in Midgard, would bleed out of them like blood on the battleground, replaced instead by the lust of eternal war.

  “Never is such a strong word, Freya. It is so binding, so tempting a promise to be broken.”

  “Who am I going to tempt? Freya asked as she returned her gaze to Loki and glared at him. “The gods? That is me, after all.”

  Freya may have argued with Loki but she had seen it in the runes. She knew that the offspring of a Valkyrie and a member of the ancient house of Volsung was their only chance at defeat in the end times.

  Many Valkyries were the result of human and immortal blood, even Svafa herself could lay claim to the Volsung clan in her heritage. However, her lineage didn’t seem to be special until it was combined with a human who also shared the same blood line.

  And, it seemed likely impossible that would happen. This blood, which was near extinct now, contained something special, something she couldn’t decipher from the runes. Their combined lineage was deemed to be unique, to be so special that it would combine and create fearsome warriors and a new distinct clan of their people, ones who might be able to bring about a destruction not predicted by the fates.

  Although, to say they had a chance at changing what was already written was not something Freya liked to dwell on for long. It went against everything they believed in. And, for the time being, it was something in which she truly didn’t want to meddle. Although, she suspected now that every Valkyrie born as a result of human blood was somehow Loki’s attempt to create this new tribe, that he had been interfering behind their backs for some time now. Freya narrowed her eyes at him.

  Loki laughed at her. One of the Valkyries passed by with a plate of food and the god snatched a handful of berries. He devoured the lot with one bite and Freya could see the red of juice staining his teeth. It reminded her of when she had once seen a wild animal tearing apart the flesh of a hare. Muscle and blood had collected between the beast’s teeth and she shuddered as she continued to watch Loki chew.

  Odin strode up and Freya was glad for the distraction. He sat down between herself and Loki before he had a chance to swallow his food. Leaning over, Odin kissed Freya’s neck and she leaned into the embrace.

  “Are you harassing my woman?” Odin asked of Loki and the tricker god merely smiled at the All-Father.

  “It is nothing I can’t handle, Odin,” Freya replied. “Loki speaks of many things, few that are actually accurate, so it is easy to ignore him.

  But her words were lies.

  Loki did tell falsehoods. But, more often than not, he told the truth. The horrible bitter truth that no one wanted to hear. And now, his words had rung through with honesty, sliding under her skin and creating an itch she knew someday she would be forced to scratch.

  Chapter 1: SVAFA

  Ravens flew overhead as the sky darkened. Clouds merged in a brooding mass of grey and desolation.

  It was time.

  Svafa mounted her steed, a giant white mare with dapples of grey across its flank. For those that saw her on the battlefield, she would appear to be flying as the animal blended into the thickening clouds.

  Thor pounded his hammer and Svafa could feel the reverberations course through her body. The sound was as life-giving as the blood that pumped through her veins.

  It was always like this before a battle.

  In the distance, the sounds of conflict began. Like tiny mice in a field, their noises drifted in on the winds, brought to her as a reminder of her task.

  Freya stood off to the side, her feathered cape bristling in the breeze as she surveyed the men far below. Svafa watched the tall goddess, with her proudly thrown back shoulders and long, golden hair in tight braids. The Valkyrie wished to emulate Freya, to appear as strong and resilient as her. But, as Svafa sat upon her stead, waiting for Freya’s sign that it was time to descend onto the battlefield and pick only those worthy for Valhalla, she felt inconsequential. Like she was nothing and no one would remember her, a lowly Valkyrie that would be lost to the desolation of time.

  The blare of a horn drifted up. It sounded like the buzz of a bee from this high up, yet a thrill coursed through Svafa.

  Odin appeared next to Freya. He was tall, so much taller than her, as all the gods were. His single-eyed gaze was always fearsome but it worse now as he squinted down at the battle scene.

  Even as he objectively scanned the conflict below, one arm reached around Freya’s waist and Svafa smiled ruefully. She wished for a love like theirs. Sure, she had lovers over the years, but never anything lasting. Freya leaned into Odin as if allowing herself one small moment of solitude before she released her Valkyries down on the battleground.

  Svafa was ready to plunder the men for the best of the group, the ones most likely to bring a more equally aligned battle to Ragnarok, even though all the gods knew it was a lost battle long before it had even started. Once more she observed the brewing conflict. Maybe she could find someone to cherish down there. Even though it would be temporary, as was the human condition, it would be better than her lack of love so far.

  She sighed. It was not her job to find adoration down there, only death. Sure, she could take a moment to have a fling with one of the survivors. Affairs with humans were not taboo. However, would she really want a man who wasn’t worthy of Ragnarok? That was her conundrum.

  Her horse stamped impatiently while she waited for her sisters. There were nine of them. Although, over time, there had been many more. Some of them had even been present after the vast nothingness of Ginungagap gave up its perfect silence and met with Niflheim and Muspelheim to create the world.

  As each of the sisters arrived, Svafa greeted them with a brisk nod of her head. There were no words to be exchanged, not with the task they had ahead of them.

  For their job was to descend on the battle and decide who would live and who would die.

  Chapter 2: SVAFA

  “Why do we have to stay here?” Svafa asked. She was sick of pouring ale for the new recruits in Valhalla. The last man she had served cried into his cup and lamented the fact he would never see his family again.

  Mist laughed at her as she took another flagon from the table. “It is our duty, dear sister,” she said before returning to the fray. Her white blonde hair billowing out behind her like the type of fog she was named after.

  “I don’t care if it’s our duty, or not,” she replied even though Mist was well out of
earshot now. “I am sick to death of doing it. Plus, the men here are so drunk already that they hardly need more ale.”

  Hrist stamped her foot. “I agree, Svafa,” I am done with this group too. Perhaps Freya will give us leave if we ask her? We could say we are scoping for new recruits.”

  Skeggjold nodded her head in agreeance. “I will ask her now if you like?” But she had turned and left before Svafa or Hrist could reply.

  She watched her sister leave. Skeggjold darted between the men and disappeared out of sight. As she watched her sister leave, Svafa felt a tug at her sleeve. Turning, a drunken man leered at her before reaching around and grabbing her behind. Pulling back, Svafa attempted to disengage with the new recruit. She could see it in his eyes, with the way he looked at her that even if she hadn’t handpicked him herself earlier today, he was new to Valhalla.

  “Give us a kiss, love,” the man said. His speech was slurred and the strong scent of the mead he had been drinking all evening floated up off his words.

  “How about another drink?” Svafa replied. Pushing her jug of ale towards the man, she offered him more. Svafa would rather he passed out with drink than continue to harass her.

  The man pulled her towards himself, his lips puckered out in a kiss. Svafa squirmed away, using the jug as a barrier, pressing it into the man’s face.

  “Leave her alone,” another replied. Svafa glanced around and saw a familiar face. This recruit had been in Valhalla for several moons since he was claimed on the battleground. His gaze never settled on her, never ogled her curves. His fingers would never reach towards her hungry with desire.

  No, this man had lost his previous life. He no longer felt the urge to bed down with women or to remember the pleasures his previous life had offered him. Svafa looked at him as he leaned into the man harassing her. Where the new warrior’s eyes danced with mischief, the other man’s eyes only showed disdain.

  “Come on,” the new recruit argued. “Look at her, she’s beautiful.”

  “Aye, she is,” the other man said without even sizing her up. “But we have a war to plan for and there is no time for women until we have succeeded against Fenrir and the giants who want to kill us all.”

  Svafa could feel the man’s slimy fingers loosen around her hips and she jumped free. Still clutching the drinking vessel, she wrapped her arms around it, hugging it to her chest.

  “There is plenty of time for that,” the new recruit argued, his sights now firmly set on the other man.

  Svafa could sense the tension as other warriors surrounded the men. She stepped further back before turning and disappearing back into the crowd. The Valkyrie was well clear by the time she heard the first muffled thump of knuckles on skin.

  She glanced around the room. The tall columns supporting the massive walls were made from the thick trunks of ancient ash trees. Some of her sisters claimed the wood came from Yggdrasil itself but Svafa didn’t believe that the mythical tree would have given such giant bows just to support a room filled with drunken warriors.

  While she doubted the validity of the supporting columns, she knew that the walls were thatched with the fallen branches from the tree that stood outside Valhalla. Glasir was the most enormous tree she had ever seen. Its red and gold leaves dripped down through the doorway leading into Valhalla and she had helped collect fallen bows in order to patch the walls when required. And, after the drunken fight that had just broken out on account of her, it seemed likely she would be spending her day making repairs. Svafa ran her hand over the wall she was leaning against and felt the uneven surface under her fingertips, knowing that Glasir’s life force pulsed the length of the entire room.

  Above, the ceiling of Valhalla could be seen if you knew where to look. Most of the warriors thought the room was so tall as to have no roof. But the glow they mistook for sunlight was actually the sheen from a multitude of golden shields that sheltered the hall and protected all that resided within.

  As Svafa scanned the room, Skeggjold danced back into sight. Her long blonde hair, held back in a tight ponytail, flicking from side to side as she moved.

  No matter how she had begged, in the end, the Valkyries had been forced to stay. Svafa had stamped her foot in contempt. While she had expected such a reply, she was still annoyed about it. The altercation with the new recruit still blazing in her mind and she was furious that they had to continue to tolerate the drunkenness of the night.

  Yet, at least she had the days to herself when there weren’t wars afoot. Tomorrow, these new recruits would be busy in their own battles in Valhalla, as they practised and honed their skills for the time when Ragnarok arrived and they would have to compete in the battle to end all of their battles.

  And, since there was no war looming on Midgard now, it would mean that once Svafa had endured tonight, her time tomorrow was her own. Sometimes, even though she was used to the death and rebirth of Valhalla, it weighed her down like a boulder. On nights like this, when the men seemed extra boisterous, Svafa felt the heaviness crushing down on her and she wished to be anything but a cursed Valkyrie. Destined to always see destruction and doomed to never find love such as the greater gods did.

  Chapter 3: SVAFA

  While Svafa was a famed Valkyrie, she was also the daughter of a human. Thanks to her mother’s blood, though, she would never be mortal. She was destined to be more magical than not and Svafa felt cursed because of it. She would live a good time longer than her father ever would, fated to watch those she loved the most die before she did. Such was the way of the Valkyries. Yet, it also allowed her the freedom to step between the halls of Valhalla, where the gods resided and flit as she pleased around Midgard, where her father and the other humans lived.

  While Valhalla was impressive, with its massive rooms that appeared to go on for an eternity, and walls so tall it hurt her neck when she craned it to see their tops, it was Midgard that truly held her attention. Valhalla was always the same. Men were welcomed there, fought, died, and were reborn over and over again. No rain fell, nor wind blew. Sure, they had night and day, but that was perpetual, always revolving, always the same.

  In Midgard, though, along with the ever-present night and day, and the changing rotations of the seasons, there were the exciting variables never found in Valhalla. Some days, even though it was summertime, it would rain, as wildly unexpected on the spectrum as the constants remained the same in Asgard. People did their daily tasks, such as the warriors in Valhalla did. But there were also special events, birthing days, dying days, festivals, and disasters. And, for each morning that a person awoke in Midgard, it was likely they would never know which of these events would occur. It was a wondrous thing that filled Svafa with a glow she couldn’t quite explain.

  As a child, Svafa hadn’t realised how exciting the unexpected could be. After all, she had been raised as a human was and always got to see the world as it revolved. She hadn’t realised that the mundane of the weather that humans took for granted would be the thing that made her ache for Midgard the most.

  As she awoke to the smoky remains of the fire in her father’s longhouse, Svafa rolled onto her back and craned her neck. In her father’s home, the roof was right there, over her head, covering her like a blanket and making her feel just as secure as she had when she was tucked in as a child.

  When she was first taken to Asgard, she revelled in its glory. As she saw her father age, though, she found herself returning more often to her human retreat, knowing her time with him would be coming to an end at some point in the near future.

  The shudder of leaves outside made Svafa smile broadly into the darkness of the pre-dawn. Along with the rain, Svafa also liked the way the wind changed from day to day. Sometimes it was never present, hiding away in the shadows like a petulant child. On days like that, Svafa was always filled with expectation, as though she were waiting for it to appear, swishing out in front of her like a child who was sick of hiding. At other times, like today, it blew so hard she could feel the very e
arth below her quaking. And, in between that, there were plenty of other ways in which the wind could blow. Gently on a summer’s day so that it cooled the sweat on the back of her neck, blustery and cold and filled with sleet on frigid winter nights. Yet, even when the wind whipped so violently that it felt like little slivers of bone shards penetrating her skin, she still revelled in it.

  The gentle roll and soft thump of feet on the ground told Svafa that her father was awake. She closed her eyes and listened to his footfalls approach. Then, the rasp of a stick poked into the brittle remains left over from last night’s fire. The coals made a splintering sound that put her teeth on edge. A louder thump followed closely by another that hissed and crackled to life. Her father was loading wood into the fire and soon where she had earlier seen the dying red embers would now be a roaring fire.

  “Good morning father,” she said as she opened her eyes. King Eylimi was a large man. His dark hair was speckled through with grey but he had been a handsome lad all those years ago when he managed to bed her mother. Now, he sagged in all the places that old men did and Svafa wondered just how many more years she would see him alive.

  Of course, if he were to be chosen in battle, she would get to see a lot more of him after his death, but it was different then. While the men still retained their memories and the driving forces they had when alive, they felt more strongly the pull of the impending Ragnarok. Their worldly wants and needs were pared away and replaced with their desire to compete only in Valhalla’s eternal training ground.

  “Good morning, Daughter,” her father said. She could hear a wheeze as though he were stretching his old bones, attempting to limber them up for the day ahead. “How are you on this cold morning?”