SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Witchery, this was. The product of an invoked galdr. And Bard went to one knee, clenching his teeth against the mist. But it caressed his defiant lips, a foul lover, perilous in its kiss. He knew it would not be long before he would drink it in, and he feared the fog would obscure his lifeless body. Would his spirit make it to the Golden Halls? Or had the Norns of old another fate in store for him? Even if he did somehow find his way to a warrior’s afterlife, how could the Allfather accept an offering as poor as this?

Death had thus far left Bard unscathed. Even as armies clashed amid the witches’ fiery galdrar, and Haakon’s beasts, summoned from the very depths of Hel, tore flesh from the bones of his brothers-and sisters-in-arms, Bard knew there was no honor in such an end — to merely slip away into the cold silence, unremembered by the gods.

No.

The word filled his skull.

No. It strengthened with every whispered echo.

No. He would not succumb to the treachery of Haakon the Good’s sorcerers, whose abominations had slain so many this day. The scion of warriors would not meet Death on his knees. Bard tightened his grip upon his ax, stood, urged his feet forward.

“No,” he growled through clenched teeth. The direction no longer mattered. The familiar swell of the sea had long since faded in the distance. Only the empty gray greeted his senses, and in its embrace, with enemies all around, one way was just as good as any other.

His muscles ached as he pushed on, bones creaking in their joints. The dead grass was slick beneath his boots, and the muffled squelch of his footfalls built to a careful rhythm as he bulled forward. Bard cursed the noise of his passage as only silence came back at him through the mist. Spiders of fear crawled along his spine. A tribe of jötnar might well loom just paces ahead but he would never know it. Not in this murk. He swallowed hard at the thought; set one foot in front of the other.

Bard traveled for a thousand beats of his heart, ax gripped tight, scowling, his eyes narrowed and searching for someone — something — to kill, until a shadow materialized, and another beside it a moment later, and yet another. But this was no enemy.

Runestones.

Bard tapped the first with his boot to test its certainty. He ran a cautious hand across its graven surface. Futhark stood out from its smoothness. The meaning of the script leapt clear to his mind before his eyes could pick them from the stone. The runes read: Honor. Peace. Memory. The words sang against his fingertips in turn. Haraldr Hárfagri ræisþi kumbl þausi æftiR Øyvind eR vaR, he read on the nearest stone, equal in height to himself as it manifested from the gloom.

Harald Fairhair raised these monuments in memory of Eyvindr the Valiant.

His pulse stilled in his veins, a curse withering on his tongue. He’d come to Freiøya’s long barrows. Far from where his fellow víkingr had come aground, the burial site was a grim landmark, and one he had prayed never to visit; still, for all its sanctity, there lurked hope within its hallowed fields.

Who but a fool would seek life in a barrow?

Bard had heard stories some years prior of Eyvindr’s exploits in the west, as well as his hand in slaying one of Harald Fairhair’s own brothers at the behest of the Norse king himself. Bard snorted, but he did not linger — he needed shelter with more substance than these accursed stones, some sanctuary before Haakon’s völur called back their mist and revealed him.

The ghosts of his enemy’s forefathers lingered in the air. Bard could feel their presence bearing down upon him as he crossed the stone boundary. With a willowy breath he muttered apologies, despite his lineage, for his trespass. He’d no intention of befouling this resting place, but it was what the living Bard had to contend with for now. The dead would have their turn with him soon enough.

It seemed an impossible task. The barrow stretched out before him in desolation, but just when he’d begun to despair he might be trapped there forever his outstretched hand struck something solid. A reverberating thump resounded and his hand throbbed at the impact. The cold sent the pain bone deep, but he ignored it and examined the object. Smooth marble greeted his touch. He inched closer and the towering form of a warrior slipped loose of the fog, looming above. Bard’s heart threatened to burst but reason took hold before it could beat its way free of his ribs. The monument of a Víkingr king stood bold in his path. Might this be the monument of Harald himself?