Blood on the Fjord: Valhalla Vignettes

One beast yet clung to the fraying thread of existence, emitting a wet, rhythmic wheeze—a sound that spoke of lungs filling with fluid. Its eyes were clouded over, the irises lost behind a milky, frantic haze of madness, while its chest heaved in jagged, desperate hitches. A thick, frothy saliva, yellowed and viscous, bubbled relentlessly from its slavering jaws, trailing onto the parched earth as the creature stumbled in mindless, agonizing circles, its gait erratic and broken.Eivor braced her feet against the uneven ground, pulling her bow taut for one final, taxing effort. Her core muscles screamed in protest, fibers of sinew straining against the unyielding tension of the string. With a sharp release, the bow hummed, and the arrow shrieked through the smoky air like a raptor’s cry. It found its mark with a sickening, meaty chick, plunging deep into the creature’s neck and silencing the wretched noise forever.

In that instant, the beast became nothing more than a hollow shell; the spark of life had abandoned its body the moment the rot took hold, leaving behind a husk devoid of spirit. It crumpled into the dirt, a tangled heap of cooling, infected meat. Eivor exhaled a ragged breath, her shoulders sagging as the crushing weight of the moment settled upon her. It was a mercy, a swift release for a consciousness long since consumed by the madness.

She spun around, her eyes instantly seeking the children huddling in the shadow of the smoke. "Are you whole? Were you bitten?" She commanded, her voice a low, hard edge of authority, even as her hands moved with frantic precision, patting down their small forms to check for even the slightest puncture or scratch that would signify their end.

"We are unharmed, Eivor," Knut replied, his defiance overriding his fear as he wrenched his arm from her calloused grasp. "That wolf… she saved us." He pointed toward the massive, white-furred beast watching them with unnerving stillness.

Eivor did not share his reprieve. "That may be, but we cannot know if she harbors the infection in her blood. Your kin would have little mercy for me if I were forced to put you to the sword because of a wolf's tainted kiss."

"Let Sigurd judge the marks!" Knut shouted, stepping into her space and slamming his arm against her chest. "I carry no wounds! Had the mad beasts come for me, I would have broken their necks with my own hands!"

Eira struck him in the ribs, her expression fierce. "Silence, you fool! You are being reckless!"

Knut recoiled, nursing his side, but Eivor did not relent. Her gaze sharpened, cold and unyielding, as she caught his wrist with the vise-like grip of a veteran shieldmaiden. She turned his forearm over, searching the pale skin for any trace of violence.

"Bare hands?" Eivor muttered, a low, humorless vibration in her chest. "A hollow boast from one whose bones would shatter like winter-brittle kindling under a wolf’s jaw. Hold your tongue and keep your pride buried, Knut, before the Heavens see fit to measure your true strength."

She released him, turning her focus to the others. "And you, Sylvi, Eira? Did the rot find you?"

Sylvi stood back, her small, trembling fingers clutching the rough wool of her tunic. She refused to meet Eivor’s eyes, shaking her head in silence.

"The wolf kept them away," Sylvi whispered. "She saved us, Eivor… surely you will not strike her down?"

"She kept the mad ones at bay," Eira added.

Eivor’s eyes drifted to the great white wolf, who sat panting, her strength clearly waning from the brutal exertion of the struggle. Though the beast appeared unscarred, dark, viscous fluid still dripped from her canines, staining her snowy coat crimson.

Eivor stepped toward the dire wolf, moving with the measured caution of one who understands the finality of disease. To keep the creature alive, she had to be certain—no microscopic breach, no hairline scratch in the gums could remain unchecked. She discarded the leather wraps from her forearms, letting them fall into the dust, exposing her skin to the hazard of the creature’s mouth. If she failed to spot a single point of exposure, the wolf’s death would be inevitable and agonizing.

Behind her, Sylvi caught her breath, but Eivor remained focused, mesmerized by the creature’s unnaturally piercing blue eyes and pure white coat. It would be a tragedy to end such a magnificent, aberrant specimen, but she would do it without flinching if the sickness was present.

"Steady, girl," Eivor murmured, her voice a low, gravelly rumble.

The wolf emitted a deep, warning growl—the adrenaline of the hunt still coursing through her body—but Eivor disregarded the threat, forcing the massive, heavy jaw open with her left hand. With her right hand, she maneuvered into the danger zone, her thumb pressing firmly against the powerful canine. The stench radiating from the wolf’s throat was foul—a concentrated cocktail of copper, raw meat, and fever-hot breath. Eivor hooked her finger over the black, rubbery lip, pulling it back to expose the pale, bruised gums, her skin slicked with the wolf’s thick, tainted saliva and dark blood.

The children watched in frozen, petrified silence, the reality dawning on Knut that a single movement from Eivor would result in her hand being crushed and splintered. Methodically, Eivor swept her thumb along the roof of the wolf’s mouth and under the heavy, thick tongue, searching for any tear where the rot could have taken root. Finding the tissue unmarred, she withdrew, her hand covered in froth.

Reaching for her waterskin, Eivor took a long, cooling pull for herself before returning to the task. She tilted the wolf’s head back and poured a steady, forceful stream of well-water into the jaw, flushing out the clotted, black remnants of the mad blood before it could settle into the throat.

"She is clean," Eivor declared, rising to her feet and scouring the blood from her skin. "But she must be caged for a moon; the black rot is a deceptive, patient killer."

She turned to the children, gesturing to their ruined, blood-spattered garments. "Strip. Now."

One by one, they shed their tunics until they were bare, casting the soiled wool onto the pile of dead carcasses. The air was thick, suffocating with the scent of decay. Eivor ignited a fire with flint and steel, feeding it with lichen until the flames roared, consuming the carcasses and the infected cloth in a purifying, fiery hunger.

Kneeling, she scrubbed her axe blade and bow with a handful of cold ash, scouring the metal and wood until the residual filth of the beasts was stripped away. She plunged the blade into the heart of the fire, the metal hissing and sizzling in the inferno, searing away what the eye could not see.

"We return to Ravensthorpe now," Eivor commanded, rising to face the smoke-choked horizon. "Before your mothers come searching; if they see this carnage, it will not be the wolf they fear, but the blood on your hands."