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Thorleik was no man to talk to the dying, and he didn’t even try to embellish his answer.

“That I’ll do, if there’s anything left for her there.”

“With silver you can rebuild what has been destroyed.”

Ambjorn’s feverish gaze circled around, until it found its target. Vierra walked a bit further away at the beach, gathering arrows.

“I wish to release Vierra from slavery. Let her ashore at any harbor she wants, and give her five pieces of silver from my share. With those she can continue her life as she wants.”

Thorleik’s expression was gloomy.

“This wish I do not want to fulfill. Your bondwoman is to blame for our misfortune. My men heard, how she had foreseen our destiny, and it is my intention to slay her. Death will release her from slavery, so your wish shall be thus partially granted.”

With a painful effort Ambjorn rose to a half-sitting position. His brown eyes burned with anger.

“Should you do that, I will curse you and your ship ten times with the bad luck of a dying man! Never have I killed anyone without a good reason, and my death will not be used as a reason for such a deed.” A thick gush of blood burst from his mouth, and the man fell back on the ground on his back, twitching.

Thorleik was angered, and he shouted loudly, as if trying to reach his already unconscious brother:

“For cursing me, I will not fulfill any of your requests! I shall sell your wife to slavery for the eastern traders, and your men to row the most miserable boats of the fat, Christian priests to their stinking cities!”

And so died Ambjorn, son of Styr, but Vierra, who had had stood near her dying master unnoticed, had heard everything that was said. And then, the old Vierra took a grip of her, and wrested off all bonds of the dark years of the past. Her green eyes burned again, just like they had before.

Now she stood with her bow drawn and an arrow on the string, ten paces from Thorleik. She raised her voice, and in the clear evening it carried to the ears of the men, still recuperating from the battle.

“Ambjorn’s men, hear me! Your master has fallen, and like you well heard, Thorleik is going to sell you for rower slaves and get fat with your shares of the treasure, in some warm harbor. But there are many of you alive. Are you just going to submit and lower your head in front of Thorleik? Will you disgrace your master’s memory by bowing to the will of another power, and give away your future to the hands of this hideous man? I doubt you are men at all, if you let yourselves be led like sheep.”

“Fool of a wench. We will trample you and all your allies to that sand. That shall leave more silver for each of us,” yelled Thorleik, enraged, and approached Vierra with his sword unsheathed. Vierra skillfully shot an arrow which flew between his legs, making him stop his advance. She pulled another to the string, faster than one could see in the dusk.

“You will not butcher me like a lamb, Thorleik, even though you did that to my husband and son years ago. Your scabby face was branded to my mind forever when you came and destroyed my life. But even then you didn’t get me without a fight.” Vierra’s long, dark hair fluttered in the evening wind, and it was as if she looked taller than her short stature. Thorleik’s eyes narrowed with anger.

“I wondered where I have seen you. Your whole tribe should be wiped out. Your men let women control themselves and do naught but sit in their leather huts.”

“Yes that they do, and those Vikings who wander too far in our land, we put onto stakes for seagulls to peck, and to warn others. And you, Thorleik, I will shoot if you come a step closer, and I assure you the next arrow won’t miss.”

An uneasy silence descended on the shore. Thorleik’s men dared not stop Vierra, afraid that she would shoot. But after a while, Ambjorn’s men walked behind Vierra, one after another.

“So, Thorleik, shall we battle here and now, for the ownership of all the silver? It looks like if we can take even a few men from you to the land of the shadow, you will not have enough rowers to control your boat with the silver cargo. And the killing will start from you. On the other hand, if you don’t want to fight you can take your men and your share of the silver, and sail where you like with your boat intact. Decide quickly, for the evening is running out, and my hand is getting restless on the bowstring.”

Thorleik thought for a long time, eyes flashing.

“A thousand times be cursed all the power-hungry women on this earth! I promise before you and all the men that I will come and find you and send you after your son and husband, there where you won’t come back from.”

“I hope you will come, for another time my hand will not hold back the arrow.”

Jofrid sat in the beach sand beside her husband’s body, stunned by the twisted turns of the events. Thorleik’s men started to collect their treasure and belongings, eying Vierra and Ambjorn’s men suspiciously. The deceased they left where they lie, and it wasn’t long until their boat moved away from the beach, towards the red sun that was setting to the sea.

Vierra started to act, as if driven by an inner rage. A few able men were left to fix their broken boat with the parts of the two boats that were rotting nearby. What was left was pulled further away to the sand, and the men who had died in combat were piled up on them with all their gear. Ambjorn was put on top. A sword and a broken shield were placed beside him, and, on top, pieces of equipment taken from the foes he had vanquished. They started the pyre from many spots. Against all odds it took fire, and the damp rotten wood burst into flames. The hungry fire rose high, and the men collected their gear and treasure and loaded it into their ship, readying it for their departure. Some pondered whether the pyre would entice the Sons of Termes to attack them again. Nevertheless, they wanted to stand on the side of the flames and thus escort their master on his journey to the other side.

All this time Jofrid sat on the sand, not once lifting her eyes. As the men followed the pyre, Vierra drew her bow and yelled.

“Hoa! Jofrid, my prediction came true. I have a bow, and you must make your choice here and now. Either you get on the boat, or try your luck here with the Sons of Termes.”

For the first time after Ambjorn’s death, Jofrid lifted her head and looked at her former slave with cold, empty eyes.

“And like you said, we’ll see how I face death. I will face it differently than you mangy dogs of leather huts. I will face it like our foremothers have through the ages.”

Jofrid rose slowly and walked straight into the flaming funeral pyre, and the pain from the fire did not show in her petrified expression, as the flames swallowed her. And so Jofrid followed her husband, and a gust of wind spread the ashes rising from their fire on the sand and to the darkening sea. When the men finally turned their face from the pyre, Vierra was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the evening wind had taken her with it, leaving no trace behind. The men looked at each other for a moment, and then quietly hurried to the boat.

***

From far away, Vierra looked at the last red glow of the pyre. There, on the side of the forest that darkened to night, she finally let everything out. For the last three years she had been dead inside and without any feeling, and nothing could have hurt her. Now she felt that the surge from inside her took her with it. Powerless, she fell to the moss, unable to rise.

With tears came sorrow and weakness that she had carried for so long. She cried for her husband Vaaja and her son, Vaalo. She cried for the dark haired girl that she had never had the chance to embrace and for, those wise, dark and unborn eyes that waited for her on the other side. She cried for her own, miserable destiny and her torn life. For Ambjorn she also cried, for the only man who had cared for her in this repulsive world, and had never had his love returned. The First Mother she cursed and cried. She cried for a long time, and was alone.

With the pyre had also burned her old life, maimed by slavery. Vierra turned her wet eyes towards the forest that loomed in front of her, dark. There, a future, filled with independence and insecurity waited her. The she-wolf talked to her again. It was like a beast that had been chained and finally unleashed. Wild and savage was the spirit of the wolf, and it forced her to get up; to wipe the tears away from her green eyes; to step forward to the shadow of the trees growing darker.

The Song of Wolf and Moose

Tracks on the snow

A large, silver-maned wolf sat in the shade of the forest, waiting. The wait was shortly rewarded; in a moment a female moose ran heavily through the wintery wilderness that was gilded by the bright sun. The graceful legs of the animal sank deep into the snow with every step. Running in those conditions told of immense strength and endurance. The wolf smelled the moose’s strong scent, the strength and fear of a fleeing animal.

The wolf waited patiently and let the moose pass by, which was something its kin would hardly have done. A moment later three pursuers appeared. The morning snow carried them on their skis, nicely speeding up the chase. The men were young, almost boys still. From underneath their caps flashed hair yellow as the autumn hay. The patched clothes they wore had seen better days. The last of them was pulling a sledge made out of wood and covered with worn skins. Two of the men were short of stature, which was common to northern folk, but the third was sturdier and almost a head above them. As they passed the smells of smoke, hunger and despair wafted to the keen nostrils of the wolf.

As it watched the men drawing away, a black-haired woman skied past its lookout. She could have been related to the men if her physique was concerned. Her short figure was draped in deer skins and furs, and on her back a bow swung to the rhythm of her skiing. For a while the wolf watched the receding shape of the woman and then silently slipped back into the shadows of the forest.

She moved with a familiar, even pace, which swallowed miles but did not fatigue her. Vierra was pondering fervently what to do. She had followed the moose tracks for over a day now when by chance a party of hunters had started to pursue the same animal. Now they had caught the trail ahead of her. She had escaped the clutches of her Viking slavers last autumn but something prevented her from going back to her own people in the north.

After the Vikings had killed her husband and son, her closest relative was Aure, her cousin and a chieftain of the tribe. There was bad blood between her and Aure which went back far into the past, all the way to the spring of their adulthood when she had made a choice. A choice between death and life. It had driven Vierra to live the life of a loner and it had led her to where she was now. What mattered then, and still mattered now, was that it was her decision.

So Vierra lived wandering alone in the wilderness, which was, especially during the winter, something that only the best woodsmen could survive. This year the merciless north wind had blown colder than usual, as if wanting to destroy the lonely woman. Hunger was indeed a familiar companion and it had eaten away the strong figure she had grown in Ambjorn’s slavery, leaving her thin and diminished. Even now, hunger was gnawing in her guts and whispering in her ear, tempting her to reckless acts.

Vierra disregarded their demands, anyhow, and settled for following the men from a distance, skiing in the weak trail they had left behind. The weather was perfect for hunting moose as the snow had a tough crust that could carry the skier all the forenoon, whereas the moose’s thin legs sank deep to the snow, tearing them with every step.

The morning passed and the young men skied, keeping their prey constantly at move. From the west, the wind drove thick clouds to the sky the crisp frost soon turned to a thaw. The snow’s surface ceased to carry the skiers and large, wet snowflakes started to slowly float down from the sky. As Vierra rapidly gained on the men she noticed, that here and there, on the moose’s trail were droplets of blood.

When the escaping moose finally ran into a thick forest, she managed to ski closer. The men stumbled as they followed the trail into the thicket and Vierra saw that they were exhausted. The men had skied too fast the whole morning, possibly assuming that they’d catch the moose sooner. In the sinking snow, the sledge started to weigh and slow them down. Then and there, persuaded by her hunger, Vierra decided to act.