“Shield wall!” Bjorn and Halfdan yelled as one and in moments their drengir were surrounding them, shields cracking into place, the sound of wood on wood and iron boss on iron boss. “Coward!” Bjorn screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, veins practically bursting through his neck. “You deny me a holmganga? What kind of drengr are you to hide behind your milk cow and archers?”

  “I am no drengr, Bjorn the gellir.” Eystein cooed, a nasty smile cutting through his brunet beard, perfect white teeth shining stark against his dark furs and sun washed skin. “I am a king! And kings fight with deep-cunning, do battle with armies to command. They do not accept holmgangas from famers and thralls. Your offer is an insult.”

  “A moment ago you called this place a jarldom,” Bjorn replied with a wide grin. “Dreams of grandeur slurring your speech?”

  His drengir laughed an echoing chorus as Eystein’s face reddened and he spat on the ground, a thin line of steam cutting through the hole the glob carved through the unblemished snow.

  “Sibilja!”

  At his command the large, demonic cow reared its black head – covered with the white marks of branded runes – and let out a deep, blood curdling moo. It was louder and deeper than even the battle-horn which had blown earlier to sound Eystein’s faux retreat.

  Throwing hands over ears, Bjorn gasped, screwing his eyes shut as he felt a warm trickle leave his ear holes, mixing his life’s blood with that of the slain which covered his fingers and palms. Some of his drengir did the same, but most could not without lowering their shields. Weathering the pain, these men held their ground, their shields stalwart, duty fulfilled.

  “Your cow has a good signing voice,” Halfdan called out when the noise finally ceased. “But I know not what you wished to accomplish by unleashing it upon us?”

  Eystein simply sneered, flashing a bacraut smile at the man who was peeking out through tiny gaps in the shield wall.

  “Drengir,” he shouted. “Surround them but keep your distance, archers get ready to fire. The fun is about to begin.”

  A chorus of laughter rang out around them, boiling Bjorn’s blood as he gripped his weapons tighter, thought-cage whirring like a storm-addled sea as strategies bounced around his skull.

  The drengr in front of him turned, shield lowering and suddenly he was stabbing his seax at Bjorn. Acting on instinct, Bjorn parried and backed up, crashing hard into the man behind him. A thud, then pain, something thumped him hard in the back of the head, turning, he saw another drengr, one of his own, shield raised as a weapon. His eyes were all white, no colour, face burning with black veins like cobwebs, jaw set.

  “What is this?” Bjorn asked, raising his arm to block a second attack, then all around him chaos ensued. Brodir on brodir, drengr on drengr, his men were battering each other, stabbing seaxes, swinging axes, slamming shields. “What kind of galdr-magic is this?”

  “Brodir, the cow!” Halfdan shouted, grunting as he fended off his own warriors who were attacking him from all sides.

  Bjorn looked through the ranks of his white-eyed men and saw the cow. It was glowing, a dark, swirling mass of sickly green clinging to its fur like breath-mist in the height of winter.

  “Fukka!” He cursed, steeling himself.

  Shoulders set, head down, Bjorn charged through his men like a bull. Bashing his shoulder into those who stood in his way, he pushed, shoved, and tried everything in his power to reach the cow without sullying his blade on the blood of his drengir.

  The white-eyed men growled, howled and swung their weapons but Bjorn avoided most of the damage. An axe bit into his upper back, brynja rings splitting, clanking, hitting the ground with a thud. Warm life’s blood dripped from the wound but Bjorn ignored it, clenched his jaw against the pain and pushed through the horde of galdr-touched drengir.

  Shoving the last man aside, he stood in front of the cow which was blocked by a row of Eystein’s men. Battered, blood soaked, and tired, they formed a sloppy shield wall, one he would have to bring down to reach the cow and end this madness. His eyes locked onto Eystein who sneered at him, the weasel-skitr. And then he was charging forwards with hand axe and seax. Bjorn leaped forward with axe in hand, axe beard dragging at shield rim, seax stabbing, blood gushing, death-gurgles filling his ears as exhausted drengir tried and failed to stop the onslaught. He stabbed, hacked, kicked, and shoulder barged his way through the shield wall, death his only companion, a pile of bodies trailing behind him, blood tainting snow.

  Panting and slick browed, he broke through the wall standing face to snout with Sibilja. Dark eyes with red, pinprick pupils glared back at him, a deep moo was unleashed and his nose hairs were tingling at the stench of freshly digested grass.

  Bjorn slashed forwards with his axe and the cow was rearing up, hooves kicking out and catching him under the chin as stars lit up his eyes, vision blackened, the cloudless sky beckoning him home to Asgard, to the great hall.

  Sorry, All Father, but you’ll have to wait a while longer, he thought, gritting his teeth and setting his feet to prevent himself from falling backwards. Snapping his head forward he heard a squeal and a grunt, followed by a thud as Eystein was bucked from the mad cow which scraped its left hoof on the floor, dragging snow, setting its head down, horned helm aimed directly at Bjorn’s chest.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Without delay, Sibilja charged like a rampaging bull and Bjorn sheathed his weapons, setting his feet, crouching low to the ground, arms raised in a grappling position. As the cow reached him, Bjorn wrapped his well-muscled arms around its neck, leaning backwards, using the beast’s own momentum to throw it.

  Sibilja mooed in surprise as it was lifted from the ground, held in a backflip as it spun over the top of Bjorn, slamming into the ground on its back. Without hesitation, Bjorn grabbed his axe, spinning on his heel, and dived onto the cow, hacking at its belly. It mooed in pain as blood splattered Bjorn’s face, burning his frosted skin. Entrails slid from the cow’s insides but Bjorn did not stop hacking, screaming and cursing as his axe scraped, sliced, and cut at the protesting, writhing beast.

  His arms burned, shoulder creaking, stomach lurching and convulsing as he threw all of his weight and strength behind each and every hit. Sibilja stopped moving, but Bjorn barely noticed, battle-rage overcoming him as he continued to butcher the beast.

  “I think it’s dead, brodir,” Halfdan said, placing a calming hand on Bjorn’s shoulder.

  He turned towards him, face, furs, and brynja drenched in blood, eyes hard, teeth gritted.

  Nodding and gasping, he allowed his axe arm to lower, strength sapping from his worn-out muscles as he struggled to unseat himself from the cow’s stomach.

  “I’ve never seen a throw like that before,” Old Svik said, wandering over.

  Drengir from both sides were all staring, no longer under Sibilja’s galdr-spell. Eystein’s men had mouths which hung agape, jaws slack, weapons dropping to the ground with soft thuds as they lost the will to fight.

  “We will have to call you Bjorn Ironside from now on, with strength like that,” Old Svik continued, his grey, braided beard dotted with flecks of blood, yellowed teeth grinning down at Bjorn.

  “It will not catch on,” Bjorn said, still struggling to catch his breath as his blood cooled.

  Svik did not reply.

  Looking up at the old drengr, Bjorn saw that he was completely still. So were the drengir. Halfdan’s finger was stuck up his nose, as unmovable as an ancient oak carving of the gods. Even the snow, which was falling lightly from the sky, did not move. Everything was frozen.

  “What seidr-magic is this?” Bjorn whispered, looking around in awe.

  You have slain a djoful beast

  Requirements met…

  … Initialising…

  …

  Weave inheritance request granted

  …

  System unlocked…

  Welcome to The Nornir’s Weave, Bjorn Ironside.

  Skuld smiles upon you and grants you access to power rarely known in Midgard. Through the Nornir’s Weave, you will be given access to quests, skills, and much more. Use this power wisely and bring glory to the Aesir.

  Status sheet initialising…

  Bjorn gasped, wide eyed and open mouthed as the runes appeared in the air before him. All of Midgard seemed to be stopped, halted by the Nornir’s seidr-magic. Had he really been chosen by Skuld to represent the Aesir in Midgard? That was an honour even his battle-famed father had not received, at least to his knowledge.

  His thought-cage throbbed and whirred as he tried to untangle his mind, tried to comprehend the meaning of this message from the gods. Glancing at Halfdan, who was still digging for silver in his nose-cavern, frozen as the falling snow, he longed to tell him.

  They will not believe me. They will think me galinn-touched.

  More runes appeared before him.

  Bjorn “Ironside” Ragnarsson:

  Class: N/A

  Level: 1

  Life’s Blood: 3/5

  Stats:

  Strength: 10

  Agility: 7

  Vitality: 5

  Weapon Proficiencies:

  Axes: 5

  Seax: 5

  Spear: 5

  Sheild: 3

  Sword: 1

  Bow: 2

  Unarmed: 8

  “The Nornir see all,” he whispered, reading the runes which floated on the air as easily as leaves in a gale. “They even heard Svik call me Ironside… I guess it is catching on after all.”

  Or maybe they foresaw it, was it fated? Was I fated to slay the cow and become the Aesir’s champion?

  Looking through the stats he saw the word sword and spat on the ground.

  “I do not need flashy weapons, father taught me better than that,” he grumbled, though he saw wisdom in the Nornir’s Weave.

  Proficiency in many weapon types would make him a better drengr, maybe even Midgard’s best drengr. He would need to train hard to increase his abilities. Though he was unsure how to do this. He had spent his whole life learning the battle-art and yet Skuld only saw fit to give him a five in his most adept weapons.

  As if answering his thoughts, even more runes appeared before him.

  New Quest:

  An Eye For An Eye

  As a tutorial, complete the following quest and bring honour to your kin:

  The Swedish king Eystein murdered your half-brothers Eirek and Agnar. It is time to take your revenge and put their souls to rest.

  Objectives:

  Kill Eystein in a holmganga 0/1

  Rewards:

  Unlock class selection quest

  Just as Bjorn had finished reading the galdr-runes, the world around him unfroze, snow fell once more, drengir moved awkwardly, watching him with cautious gazes, Halfdan found his nose-silver and bent down, wiping it on the cow’s carcass.

  “… It will catch on, Bjorn,” Old Svik continued as if not a moment had passed. “The skalds will sing saga-tales of this day. Soon all of Midgard will know the name, Bjorn Ironside, son of Ragnar Lodbrok.”

  “Wise words, old man,” Bjorn said, standing up, a steely gaze in his bright blue eyes. “And every saga-tale needs a bloody ending.”

  Turning on his heel, one foot rested upon the cow, he drew his axe and pointed it squarely at the chest of King Eystein, who was sitting, quivering on his arse in the snow.

  “You will fight me skitr slefja, in a holmganga duel,” he snarled.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I will blood eagle you right here where all your drengir can watch.”

  “Then so be it,” Eystein replied, voice quivering, but eyes hard, thought-cage whirring. “Drengir, make the circle.”