One week had passed since Prince Hrafen Knífrsson murdered his father, the King—the first Jarl to bring together the Isles of Midair, gaining the name Knífrsson by plunging his sax-knífr through the eye of Jarl Bjurzhak of the Skjjterlý Isles during that last, pivotal battle. Hrafen had sent summons to all his Jarls to come to him and swear fealty on the day after the morrow. The þrællar—"thralls”, or “slaves”—were busy running about the Great Hall—his Great Hall now, his Great Hall that he had never wanted—preparing for the ceremony. Prince Hrafen would make sure that it would be the greatest ceremony ever witnessed in the Isles of Midair, for everything depended on it.
Treasure, won by his father from battle and gifted as tribute to him, from across Hrafen’s kingdom was being stacked in piles around the Hall, each pile forming a point of the interlocking triangles of the Valknut. When the time came, these piles of gold would be connected with smelted gold and blood through the lead-lined trench that was being fashioned before Hrafen as he sat in his throne, watching, brooding.
A þræll carelessly dropped a basket of golden treasures—bracelets, finger and arm rings, earrings, ingots—causing a commotion that animated Hrafen. “Pick it all up, and hurry!” he shouted. Everything had to be perfect, and time was running out. A week was far too long for them to have waited for the ceremony, but he knew his Jarls couldn’t get there any faster.
He left his throne and went to his private room, up the stairs and above the Great Hall. He ascended and pulled back the curtains; he gazed over the balcony on the sight before him. Soon, all that his father had done would be undone.
Hrafen’s son came up and smacked his leg with a wooden sword, causing Hrafen to curse in anger, then laugh at his son’s riotousness. He slapped his son on the back of the head as a caution to mind his father and then stared at him as he ran away, undoubtedly looking for more trouble to get in to or more people to terrorize.
Will my son have to kill me one day? If I fail, maybe, he consciously answered his dark thought. If I’m even alive at that point to be killed…
Hrafen’s Þegn—his Thegn—walked up to his side. As Thegn, Ulf was responsible for advising his prince—soon to be king—on all matters, but especially on military matters. “Little Prince,” Ulf said, using his customary name for the grown man whom he had guarded since childhood. “Time is running out and two of the Jarls are still missing—Vargr and Hákon.”
“I know, Ulf. I’ve been watching, waiting for them to show. Without all the Jarls, this won’t work and then…then I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“I’ll send scouts again, Little Prince. I can’t believe they would abandon the Isles with what’s at stake.”
“I know. But I also didn’t think my father would be senseless enough to summon the…those creatures into our realm. People will always surprise us, Ulf.” Life always comes down to choices—every tiny, inane, minuscule choice.
Ulf gave his customary grumble as a response and then walked back where he had come from to send out scouts. Hrafen continued staring out over the balcony, looking at the progress being made with the golden Valknut. They’ll get it done in time. They will. They will. He stood there, frozen in place for hours, his comfortable bear and wolf skin-adorned bed and his chair just feet away from him—yet he wouldn’t move from the balcony. Night came over Týrborg, and his wife finally pulled him into bed with her.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Hrafen tossed and turned, terrifying visions haunting his waking vision—sights of what could happen to the Isles if Midair in less than two days’ time. He looked over at the bed across the room and felt a little more ease seeing the eight brown and blonde heads of his daughters and son enjoying the peace of the night, not knowing the possibilities of what might happen to their world soon.
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Sleep finally descended on him, acquiescing to his fraught mind. Yet his dreams were no better for him. No sooner had he floated away to the astral regions when he saw the most terrifying sight he could have seen—the most terrifying vision any Viking could see. He was walking through a barren land, a land with the sands of a desert but a forest of birch sprouting from the sand. He walked strong and proud as was his custom, chest pushed out, bearded chin held high, trying to make sense of this land he was in. He walked through the branches of birch, annoyed with the sand creeping into his boots, when he came upon an altar. It was unlike any altar Hrafen had ever seen before: the stone slab was enormously large, as if Thor had split a mountain and one side of the mountain had fallen amongst this desert and birch trees; runes had been cast into the altar, glowing brighter and brighter with each step forward Hrafen took. When he was two steps away from the altar, the ground shook and branches sprouted from all sides of the mountainous altar, thrusting it high into the air.
Hrafen wasn’t deterred. He needed to see what lay atop the altar—it might be the key to saving the Isles of Midair. He took a small ax and knife from his hip, put the knife’s blade in his mouth, and began climbing the sprouted roots of the altar. He climbed and climbed. He swung his ax into the wood and pulled himself up, and when he had no handholds, he stabbed the roots with his knife, giving him steady support. He climbed eight days in his dream, only knowing by the Sun pulling the Moon from the sky, yet his body never tired. He didn’t slow down for even a moment, and when the Sun rose on the ninth day, he wedged his ax into a crag at the top of the mountainous altar and pulled himself up, exhaustion finally reaching him to his bones.
He rolled to his stomach and barely managed to place a knee beneath him, leveraging his entire body weight against that knee. The sight before him was startling: Yggdrasil, the World Tree, had sprouted from the center of the altar, reaching the heights of the heavens, then piercing beyond those, stretching its tendrils through the entire universe; he saw the nine largest branches of Yggdrasil plunge far from its trunk at the altar and a green, glowing orb on each; at the base of the tenth large branch hung a man, pierced to the branch by a golden spear, yet not dead or dying; below him sat a single white raven, wings clipped and unable to fly away.
“Hrafen, son of the Knífr, your fate lies before you,” spoke the pierced man. “You’re too late to make amends.”
With that, Nidhogg, the soul-devouring dragon, swept over the top of the great altar, clutched the white raven in its claws, and ripped the great bird to pieces. Nidhogg descended to the base of Yggdrasil, returning to the Shore of Corpses, and shook the World Tree, splitting the great altar.
Hrafen woke with a start, cold sweat pouring from him. The sweat, mixed with the cool chill of the mountain air, caused a deep shiver to run through his body. He had just witnessed his fylgja—his “follower”, his “attendant”, his spirit animal—eviscerated by the Bane of Yggdrasil. The omen was of the worst possible kind.
He looked around the quiet room; his children still slept peacefully, as was his wife lying next to him. He could faintly hear the sounds of the fóstra—the wet-nurse—cooing his youngest child, a boy of eight months, to sleep. The cackle of the great hearth’s fire in the hall below him threatened to lull him back to sleep, but he would sleep no more that night. After the terrifying omen, he needed to clear his head. Not wanting to wake his sleeping children, he quietly lifted himself from bed, donned a brown bear fur, and slipped into the adjacent room. His son’s fóstra was indeed suckling the youngest of his brood, pacing back and forth through the room. He walked past them, nodding to his son’s caretaker as she rocked him back and forth, and stepped onto the outer balcony of his castle.
In the fading darkness below, he could see the castle’s walls where he had killed his father a few days previously. He peered out further, and he could see the still-raging waters where he had dumped the old man’s body. He didn’t regret the actions he had taken; he regretted the paths taken by others that had forced him into such action. He remembered loving his father—the man was an unstoppable force his entire life, running roughshod through Midair until all was his—and he had loved his father for this and much more; but mostly his love for him swelled from how his father had loved and taken great care to bring him up in a manner that made him the warrior prince he was today. But then his father had made his own choices that had forced Hrafen’s hand into action.
He let out a sigh and spit over the wall. He continued standing there like a statue as the sun rose behind him and a gust of wind blew swirls of snow at him that stuck to his long beard.