SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Arndt batted aside a nidhogg that had gotten too close, but the movement sent him stumbling backward, off balance. Before he’d the chance to right his feet, the squirming front half of a beast he’d left to die latched onto his ankle. Bone crunched like a dry branch and Arndt screamed. He screamed again as his foot ripped free of his leg and he landed flush on the squirting stump. The warrior crumpled, his eyes rolling white.

Bard leapt across the intervening distance, but for all his effort, he was too late.

Arndt snapped to alertness as a monster buried its muzzle in his armpit. A wet rasp spilled from the warrior’s throat as the creature feasted, tearing at sinew and bones as it likely had worried at the very roots of Yggdrasil in its earlier days. Blood sprayed from the wound and rained crimson on the ground, as a black pool formed beneath Arndt.

Hilde reached his side first, driving her sword into the nidhogg’s gnashing maw, killing it before it could gorge further. Devin came up behind her, clearing the space of the dying beasts that thrashed in the grass. Bard did the same on the other side, facing off against the last of the monsters that had yet to be put down. He cut through their ranks, grinding his blade into their corpses until he was sure they were dead. He turned back to check on Arndt.

The fallen warrior trembled, gasped like a landed fish, stared off at nothing. Hilde held him to her breast, but it was clear he knew nothing of her presence. She shook her head at Bard’s unspoken question, meeting his gaze. “He’s done.”

Before Bard could think to reply, Hilde dragged the edge of her blade across Arndt’s throat, spilling the last of his life between the limp braids of his beard. He shuddered and slipped away without a sound.

Even with all the death surrounding them, Bard felt the warrior’s spirit writhe. This was a warrior worthy of the Golden Halls, and he cast about for a sign of the coming of the Valkyr.

Hilde laid Arndt’s head on the ground with careful reverence and climbed to her feet. Though there was little time left to them before the rest of Haakon’s minions found them, Bard knew they could not leave their brother with nothing. Perhaps the Shield Maidens would come soon, perhaps not. They could not return him to the womb of the goddess, but…

“Lo, jeg ser her min far og mor,” Devin started, making the decision for them.

Bard drew a breath and nodded. They could honor Arndt in this way, and so his tongue wove the rest of the prayer in little more than a whisper: “Lo, nå ser jeg all min død slektningsbordsetning. Lo, det er mitt hoved, som er å sitte i Paradis. Paradis er slik vakkert, så grønn. Med ham er hans menn og gutter.”

“Han kaller til meg, så fører meg til ham.” The last of the words danced from Hilde’s lips, and Bard repeated them in his head.

He calls to me, so bring me to him.

As the prayer faded, Bard collected Arndt’s sword and placed it in the dead man’s hand, laying the blade across his massive chest should his brother need it on his journey. Then, without another word, the survivors marched on, leaving their companion behind as the ominous gray slowly melted into the violet tones of the failing sun. Bard shivered, though not from the cold. He stared into the distance, watching the clouds devour the light and knew they’d only traded one horror for another.

The others seemed of similar mind. Their pace quickened, milking the last vestiges of illumination to see them free of the boneyard before the darkness returned. They’d only just made it to the barrier of stones when the sun slipped from sight, shadows dancing a tribute to its demise.

“This way.” Hilde’s whisper was the mooring upon which Bard cinched his hope.

They huddled close while the blackness leeched the color from the world, the gods’ twinkling eyes yet to awaken. Distant howls were met with savage rejoinders, the song of predators growing closer as Bard and the others shuffled on. For all his earlier desire to die in battle rather than the firestorms born of the witches’ loathsome galdrar, he found himself craving life above all. He did not wish to perish on this foreboding isle, its taint so wretched as to profane the spirit of any who struck upon its shore. He gnashed his teeth and cast a prayer to the heavens in Arndt’s name before marching on with renewed vigor in his step, vowing to scrape the mud of this place from his boots.