Chapter 1: Alliance of Raven and Wolf

Eivor had been hiding when it happened. Despite accidentally killing one of the raiders of her home, war was all too brutal and new to her. One of Kjotve the Cruel’s soldiers had taken her mother Rosta, holding a blade to her neck. Her father Varin was alone before Kjotve. The fighting had stopped as if some trick of Odin.

“Now it’s my turn to offer you a deal, slave-whore,” said Kjotve. “Accept your fate, and die a coward, here before your people ... and I will spare the rest.”

“If I give my life, will you spare my clan?” said Varin.

“No, no Varin! No Varin!” said Rosta, still struggling against the Wolf warrior behind her.

“You have my word,” said Kjotve.

Yet as Varin looked around the site, he saw that Kjotve’s men had stopped fighting. Even as his wife Rosta was being held by one of the conqueror’s men, there was no small amount of fire still burning in her eyes. There were still soldiers of his own to fight this invasion. And he still had his axe in his hand and his helmet on his head.

“No,” Varin said, turning to face his enemy. “No, for as long as I live, I fight for my people!”

“A worthy answer!” Kjotve said. “You would be vain indeed to think you offering your life could ever slate the bloodlust of Kjotve the Cruel. And a coward’s head is no trophy!”

Kjotve roared and raised his great axe to strike. The weapon was easily big enough that it would require most other men to wield it with two hands yet such was his power that he could easily wield it with one. Varin repelled it with his own crash. He was not knocked to his knees and the blow held when their weapons clanged together. Yet he felt the impact of the hit in his sword arm. If he was simply on a hunt or any other raid, his arm would have been knocked aside had he not been fueled by the power of devotion burning in his spirit.

To even the odds, Varin pushed back aside Kjotve with his torso and shoved him a ways away. He had to do it, such was the gap between their strength. He breathed hard, staring his foe into his eyes, and his enemy looked right back.

Around them, the fighting had resumed. Rosta had bit deep into her assailant’s hand before she pushed him back and taking her weapon, vanquished him. Her axe in hand, she happily joined the fray, ready to fight for her clan to the death. Yet as the battle raged, none dared interfere in the duel between Kjotve and Varin. The Cruel’s ferocity was respected and feared from his own people, and they knew that even if they helped their warlord, he would only take their heads for interfering in what he saw as a clean victory. And such was Varin’s severity in those moments that even his own people feared whether they would be seen as friend or foe.

He landed on a blow on Kjotve’s breastplate that shattered the metal. He looked down, shocked and amused for several moments. As much as he loved warmongering, he had become used to the savagery, it even bored him at times. He would have taken no small amount of pleasure in beheading Varin had he fell for the ruse and watched with glee as his warriors made sure the Raven clan would feed the ravens this night. Yet as he looked Varin in the eyes again, he saw no coward that would ever fall for any common tricks, but a raging berserker that made his blood run cold in a way that it hadn’t for some time.

Kjotve smiled and bared his teeth. It had been too long since he felt such a sensation in the heat of battle. It reminded him of why he fought and why he lived. He needed no sage’s promise of Valhalla in the afterlife, he was happy to live right here.

Varin came at him again, swinging his axe with such speed and accuracy that Kjotve was forced to draw his other axe, unlike his current weapon, a one handed armament. He parried every blow, yet deep down he feared the Raven warchief would gain break his guard and cleave off his head. The only joy that came close to what he was feeling now was at the birth of his son Gorm, and that fatherly delight would be tainted as his scion would come to disappoint him in so many ways.

But he was not called Kjotve the Cruel for nothing. The fear, the exhiliration, it all fed his already awesome power, and he came back at Varin with a viciousness he hadn’t displayed on the battlefield in ages. His grunts were like that of the legendary Fenrir, and such was his speed and power that his arms swinging his weapons made him more like a tornado than a man. If any others were to interfere in the duel now, they would surely be hacked to pieces of meat and metal. It was only because of Varin’s power in those moments too from a reason completely antithetical to the Wolf clan’s jarl bloodlust but no less potent, that he did not suffer the same fate as a lesser man.

Kjotve’s smaller axe was knocked out of his hand. If he had reached for it, it would have been the end of him as Varin would have cleft his head from his torso and the reputation of the Cruel would be nothing compared to a father’s love for his family and a leader’s dedication to his clan. But as he gripped his great axe with both hands, already casually wielding it with one hand before, now he was able to wield such a weapon with the full extent of his power.

In their next strike, they closed the gap between each other. Their weapons were pressed together, and their faces were so close they could taste each other’s breath. The warriors of Raven and Wolf clan alike had stopped their individual fighting to watch how this bout would end. As Kjotve pressed on, Varin’s legs began to give way but he did not relent, never looking away from his enemy’s glare. His bared teeth snarling were so that he looked more of a wolf than any of the invading warriors from that same clan.

Kjotve turned his weapon so that his axe hooked the blade of Varin’s weapon and caught it. In a single fluid motion, he spun around with such speed that the axe was knocked clean out of the Raven jarl’s hands. The weapon flung out of his hands so fast that his hands were still shaking from surprise. And before Varin could even recognize what just happened, Kjotve pulled back his great axe then cleft his head off in one clean strike.

His head rolled onto the ground in it’s helmet, leaving a blood trail behind on the dirt, and then it felt out of the helmet, rolling a short distance before it stopped entirely. Kjotve grinned at the sight of it, baring his teeth. He held up his axe and roared in victory.

Yet whatever triumph that filled his brutish heart at the sight of the slain Raven jarl was nothing compared to the fire that burned inside Varin’s fellow warriors. Their fighting spirit was far from a flame doused under a deluge and instead they rallied back to the fight. Kjotve grimaced as he witnessed it, and something resembling terror stirred inside of him.

Rosta was the first to take up arms. Her war cry was so bloodcurdling that the Wolf warrior behind her was stunned for several moments, enough to shake herself free. She took her axe and lodged it in his face, not enough to kill him. As he was left in shock taking barely account of his situation as he bled out from his head, she swung again, the killing blow being a testament to her rage as well as her mercy.

Eivor was still hiding from the chaos, but her mother’s war cry incited something inside of her too. The young girl took the axe of the man her mother killed and was ready to fight with the rest of the warriors. Already having taken her first kill this night, she was ready for more.

“Run Eivor!” she said. “If we all fall here, you must be the one survivor to continue our legacy!”

“But...”

For as loving as Eivor’s mother could be, the alarm on Rosta’s face quickly turned to ferocity. The young girl was frozen for a moment in fear, her mother’s visage just as terrifying as everything else as what was transpiring around her. “No! You must escape. This is no place for a child. Run!”

Rosta gave her a final kiss on the forehead, enough to soothe her doubts. It might be the last time she would ever see her daughter. Yet it did nothing to keep her from seeing both as a loving matriarch and a terrible battle-maiden.

Sigurd rode in on a horse not too far behind and took young Eivor onto the saddle before she could respond.

“Go Sigurd!” Rosta said. The prince nodded, and he rode off.

They rode away from their home into the snowy wastes beyond. They hadn’t gotten far before flaming arrows from Wolf warriors were launched in their direction. Though their home wasn’t that far behind, already they felt like they were leaving behind everything they had known. The chaos threatening to catch up with them didn’t help things.

And there was yet more chaos. The horse slipped on an icy ledge, throwing off both Sigurd and Eivor. The prince was fortunate enough, but she took the brunt of it, tumbling down a hill and off a cliff face onto an icy floor below.

Eivor looked up at the emerald aurora borealis shimmering in the night sky. They might as well have been curtains of another world, yet the beauty did nothing to warm her bones or calm her heart. A tricky invitation from Helheim, not the bridge of Bifrost. The noise of the battle was gone. There was only the cold darkness now, and the sound of her breaths to keep her company.

She must have hit her head pretty hard, because she just saw the horse was down here with her. Against the cliff lined with icicles thick and long enough to rival stalactites and stalagtites, the beast struggled to get up. As it did so, perhaps it would have been better off not doing that. The icy floor broke and shattered under it, and raging against nature, it sank into the freezing waters below.

She was stunned, hearing it’s last cries. The crack at the spot of the steed’s demise spread to where Eivor was. She looked back and saw her axe a few feet away from her. Unable to walk, she crawled as fast as she could for the weapon. It might as well have been another part of her. In these wilds unarmed, she might as well have been naked.

And there were so many predators. A wolf in the distance ran towards her and snatched up her arm before she could seize it. Somehow she fought it off, throwing it back, but what strength the child had was nothing compared to this beast, and it locked it’s jaws on her throat. All she could do was scream.

In another world, Odin’s crows would have saved this child from death. Yet here and now it was not to be. As the beast of prey prepared to snuff out Eivor’s life, she was saved by another wolf.

Eivor was aware of another greater presence besides her and the hunter. It hacked away at the beast, until finally it’s jaws hung limply at her throat. She threw it off to look at her savior.

That other Wolf was none other than Kjotve the Cruel. The terrible solitude of the cold wastes in this night was as warm as a fireplace compared to his fierce visage. His eyes alone seemed like they were laughing at her and with his teeth bared in a wild grin, it chilled her to to the bone to gaze back up at him.

He reached down for her just as she seized the weapon and struck him in the ankle. He felt it but he showed no reaction. His hand seized her by the scruff of her shirt and he held her up.

“Murderer! You killed my father! Murderer!”

“The prince had escaped my grasp, but I never thought Varin’s whelp would survive this far.”

She didn’t hear it, and swung her weapon at his face. Her rage was so great that it could cut to the muscle of any lesser man, but it only barely nicked him. The Wolf jarl dropped his great axe to wipe the blood off his face and he licked it off his thumb.

“Twice the warrior your father was already. Come on now!” he said, slinging her over his shoulder and picking his great axe up again. “Your mother will be so happy to see you.”

He walked off the icy floor to the surrounding wastes and back up the hill. The young girl struggled against him the whole time. But that stopped when she heard her mother’s voice.

“Eivor! You’re alive!”

“I bring you a peace offering,” Kjotve said, putting her down. Eivor looked up at her mother. “I underestimated your ability woman.”

“They call you Kjotve the Cruel, but you’re not particularly bright, are you? We’re called Ravens for a reason. And we have tasted much wolf meat this night.”

Eivor looked around her. There were still plenty of Raven warriors around just as they were fighters from the Wolf clan. Sigurd was there too. He could have looked better but he was alive.

“Indeed, I underestimated your people,” said Kjotve. “And I am not so cruel as to throw more of my men into a losing battle.”

“It would have been vain of my husband to let himself be killed and spare his people, but you are not so vain as that?”

He chuckled. “Here I am offering a truce, and you wish to make a flyt of it. Or are you still hungry and yearn to feast upon us, carrion bitch?”

Rosta glared at him. Even the presence of her daughter alive and her clan intact could not still the fires of war in her heart. It was King Styrbjorn stepping forward between them that changed everything.

“Enough!” he said. “Too much blood has been spilt. Leave us Kjotve.”

“A wise man,” said the Wolf jarl. “I see the fear of iron in your eyes little man, but for once, the coward’s wisdom is true.” The king’s face colored but he said nothing. Kjotve looked right back at Rosta. “I can smell the heat of your blood woman. So pure with rage, it makes my mouth water. Any longer and I don’t think I would have been able to calm the snarling of my lip. The taste of her on my fangs...” He bellowed loudly and cackled before he turned around made a whooping sound. Every Raven there was waiting for a trap, yet he turned and left. All of his men followed him with no hesitation.

When the last of the Wolf clan had disappeared over the snowy horizon, Rosta immediately got down on her knees and hugged Eivor intensely. As good as her mother’s embrace felt, she started wriggling to get free, it was starting to hurt. Yet Rosta did not care. Even as her people fought to the end, her husband’s death weighed on her mind, and as her daughter rode off into the darkness, she thought she would never see her again. Now with her daughter alive and her clan intact, she could never be happier.

“Thank Odin, Eivor! I feared that you too had...”

“I’m sorry Eivor,” Sigurd said, stepping forth. “It was my fault that...”

“No Sigurd, the blame is not yours!” Rosta said, looking up at him. “We should count ourselves lucky. Hel’s shadow could have fallen over us tonight.”

“Yet our people now wander to Valhalla with glory,” said King Styrbjorn. “Come, let us return. We need much time to talk and to grieve.”
----

Rosta had become the de facto leader of the Raven clan. King Styrbjorn was still king and present to watch over his people and approve all the decisions being made, but it had become apparent to all that his power was greatly diminished. Rosta led the raids and Rosta was at all the important meetings. And the wise king’s knowledge of temperance and moderation lacked the energy of any true jarl.

Nine years later, there was a new conflict not that between Raven and Wolf. Now the Skogarmaor, outcasts and criminals, besieged homes and villages with ruthless tactics and brutal efficiency. And they never attacked real warriors, they went after children and farmers, only to retreat as soon as true drengr tested in battle showed their faces.

When they first attacked the Raven clan, they were quickly identified as Wolf drengr. Kjotve’s retreat on that fateful night had been strategic and well advised, yet it was not long before the conflict resumed. Their tactics had become more refined and subtle, nothing at all like the open barbarity they were used to before. He had come to respect Rosta’s clan, for what little that was worth. He was that much more determined to defeat her people once and for all.

And the first warriors of the Skogarmaor they encountered bore Wolf markings. The ones that survived were interrogated as brutally as they deserved on information. But then one of them laughed.

“Don’t call us members of the Wolf clan! We will never bow our head down to Kjotve. They’re prey, just like you Ravens.”

Words easily dismissed as fancy. But the next raid, they found people with Raven markings fighting alongside them. Their faces were well known, vicious criminals that were shown mercy through exile. Now Rosta and her king had come to regret such compassion.

The wanton appetites of these vermin made Kjotve the Cruel look merciful. They were not slavers and they had no intention of creating their own nation. It was lucky that they would kill their prey and be done with it. But all too often they would leave them alive, dismembered and maimed. They broke body and spirit and enjoyed doing so. In time, their clans could not call themselves warriors at all.

It was in such trying times the Raven and Wolf clan met again. Though not on the theater of war but in the mead hall. Rosta in her fury would never have done such a thing, but even her reputation with her people could not sway King Styrbjorn’s word. They had become a wounded people, and right now, the cautious road was what they needed.

Under the pink dusk sky, Rosta held a meeting to forge an alliance with people who were once their sworn enemy. It was such a testament to their desperation they would have preferred the killing fields laid with their people decorated in iron to their current crisis. Such trying times forged such strange alliances.

Every Raven drengr there was wearing armor. They had not forgotten their history with the Wolf clan, and they would not kneel under their boot to vanquish this new enemy. Especially not with the reputation of one jarl who terrorized their clan so much in the past.

That jarl still lived. Kjotve the Cruel, and in this time of diplomacy, his presence and reputation were no less menacing. His people too had suffered gravely at the hands of the Skogarmaor. It would have been one thing if they had died honorable deaths, and yet for those warriors that did clash and win victory, there was no glory to calm the wails of their people in these troubled times. It was enough that even his cold heart could only embrace them and weep together. Even the bounty granted to him as the Axe in the Order of the Ancients could only go so far. The morale of his people were troubled and these days he feared one of them might take his head more than any of his enemies.

As they sat at opposing tables, it astonished Rosta that she felt no fear gazing into Kjotve’s eyes. She had the privilege of hunting down several Skogarmaor that threatened the life of her king and child earlier that day and sent them to Helheim’s cold embrace. The heat of battle was still strong in her veins, and Kjotve the Cruel gave her many feelings, but none resembling terror or hate. And as she studied him closer, despite the smile branded on his face, he looked tired.

The Wolf drengr also wore armor to this meeting. They were just on edge as the Ravens.

Kjotve was the first to speak. “Well met Rosta,” he said. “To what honor do I owe you inviting us into your hallowed home?”

The use of her name from his lips was both welcomed on her part and felt strange. She opened this meeting for an alliance, and any past grudges would have to be forgotten. Her husband’s death even in an honorable duel at his hands was nothing compared to the savagery of her new enemy. Yet her heart still warned her about becoming too friendly with this man.

She had not invited him here, but he was here now and as much as she hated to admit it, there was an opportunity. “I think you know,” she said.

“The Skogarmaor. You must have invited me here seeking to grovel at my feet or worse just to survive! A slaver’s life is greater than the children and old who have seen their blades. Yet we did not come here to fight. The Wolf clan has need of carrion birds flying freely to feast upon their corpses and make sure they never rise again.”

“Then why did you not make this alliance sooner?”

“I would ask you the same thing. You gave our clan a worthy battle that night so many winters ago. I presume it was the coward’s wisdom that prevailed in seeking the axe of Kjotve the Cruel, and not a warrior’s valor,” he said, looking right at King Styrbjorn.

“You are correct,” he said unwavering. Even his judicious nature had become heated by events of late. “Will you agree to this proposal? An alliance between Raven and Wolf?”

The hall went silent. He closed his eyes and drank deeply from his cup. It seemed the entire world waited to hear Kjotve the Cruel’s next words. Rosta’s fire had also been doused. No matter what she may think of the man’s character, there was no doubt to his fighting ability. She and Eivor had both witnessed his power, and in the back of their minds, both could only think that the Wolf clan right now fared far better than the Raven because of him alone.

He downed it all, and set down his cup before he sighed deeply. “The warriors of the Wolf clan are now your friends and allies. Let us rain death upon the enemies that would hurt our people!” He raised the cup and cried out.

Both Raven and Wolf roared. These were less cheers in a tavern than the cries of victory upon the battlefield. Rosta and Eivor’s hearts too were moved by this spectacle. Even on their best days, it had been so long since they felt like warriors. As their people embraced Kjotve’s clan like brothers and sisters in arms with no history of spilt blood behind them, everyone had put aside their weapons and armor and they were no exception.

They looked at him, not forgetting who he was. Though they hated it, in their hearts and minds, they could not see him as an enemy anymore. That’s how desperate they had become against this new enemy. Yet they would not fraternize with him willingly.

He looked back right at them. Without his weapons, his smile didn’t seem menacing, it even seemed warm. They couldn’t think of Varin’s death, they were simply glad to finally have an edge in crushing the vermin that had plagued them for so long. He chuckled to himself and looked away.

As the sun sunk past the horizon and nightfall set in, the festivities were still underway. The Ravens had kept their talons in check and the Wolves had not taken any bites that were not asked for, whether it was the feast prepared for them or the delicious Raven meat to be found. And there was no small number of Ravens willing to give themselves to these hunters. Anyone watching the scene would not have thought for an instant these people were once enemies.

It was now that Kjotve personally approached Rosta and Eivor, still close to each other. It didn’t take him to recognize Eivor, now all grown up. More than the similarity of the facial features to the child he saved a decade ago, it was her eyes. The same fire that moved a child to attack him was still there.

He was glad they were alive. The sight of Varin’s wife and daughter pleased his hungry eyes. Rosta was still as fetching as ever despite her martial reputation, but it was Eivor that surprised him. Her beauty was as terrible as her eyes, a thing for men and women to covet as it was enough to strike terror into her foes. And those tattoos she wore both served to mask the scar on her neck as well as prove her pride to her clan.

Despite joining with his people, the mother and daughter were still ambivalent on the matter of him. They had to be familiar with him, and they were relieved to have his axe fighting at their side. But they could not forget the man that he was.

They didn’t know how to respond in the Wolf jarl’s presence so suddenly, and for an instant in these better times thought he was only playing at being friendly. They had seen him with an axe for so long they didn’t know how to respond to him so close wearing only common clothes and no armor with only a tankard of mead in his hands. Then he laughed.

“I never thought a woman with such iron could be so wise,” he said.

“Iron means nothing unless it is guided by a hand with honor,” Rosta said.

“Indeed! I never thought I would have cause to run from an enemy. Let alone save the life of a Raven chick whose wings looked near frozen over. It is fortunate you both live. Or maybe my axe has grown rusty. Perhaps these Skogarmaor are not the foe I thought they were.”

“You’re bolder than I thought to say that,” Eivor said.

“And so she speaks! I would think the two of you would have made for my head now but...”

“Thank you Kjotve,” Rosta said.

“We are allies, not friends. I thought the two of you at least would feel that way.”

“But I must offer my thanks nonetheless. I never thought there would be a foe to make us like kin.”

“So you’re not angry about how I claimed Varin’s head?” He had agreed to this alliance in all earnestness, yet it was not enough to dim the candor within him that burned alight even when he was with friends and it would be a hard thing for his gimlet’s eye to look upon them as allies.

“I will never forget my husband. But he died a hero’s death and we need warriors now.”

“Then your thanks is welcomed.”

“I thank you too,” Eivor said. “For saving my life.”

He could not gauge the truth of their words. They both had so much reason to lie. “I wonder what would have happened if your mother had not driven me to that act of compassion. Would you still need the Wolf standing before you to save you from that wolf? Or would you have taken that axe and driven it off yourself?” He bared his teeth at the both of them in a vicious smile before he simmered it down to a simpler smirk. It made a man like him looked warm.

He wasn’t the only one feeling warm either. Rosta hadn’t looked away from him, that exchange hadn’t left her afraid in the slightest. Neither had Eivor.

“Do you still have that mark?” Eivor said.

“I have so many marks, I don’t know which one you mean.” Eivor tapped her cheek. He instantly remembered. “You mean the one you gave me little one?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Take a closer look and see for yourself,” he said, leaning forward and putting his face right to Eivor’s. Despite his intimidating glower being right in her eyes, she did not flinch. That close to him, she could see every tiny mark and nick on his skin. But it also allowed him to see the mark on her neck where another wolf had so very nearly ended her life as well. In that moment neither of them backed away.

Rosta smiled at her daughter’s boldness. She sternly grabbed Kjotve by his shoulder. He slowly looked up at her, and she moved him so his torso was standing upright again. Not once did he avert his gaze from hers, and soon he had forgotten all about Eivor’s bravery in talking to him like that.

“So is that it then?” he said. “The past is the past?”

“That’s right,” Eivor said.

“Yes,” Rosta said. “There are enough dark tidings these days.”

“Words are words,” Kjotve said. “There are people who speak with such flowery tones they can convince you that shit smells as good as morning flowers. But it’s only in battle that such things are proven.” If that was a challenge, Rosta and Eivor didn’t answer it with blows.

“And you seem no small stranger to flyting yourself,” Rosta said.

Kjotve chuckled. He never fancied himself a man more of barbed words than of war, but these were strange times he was living in. Never did he think his people would be sharing mead with an enemy clan. And with their shared history of open conflict suddenly put to rest, flyting would serve as an outlet to relieve all the awkward tensions between them.

“Our shared enemy has given me cause to say many words these days,” he said. He beat a fist to his heart. “But I assure you my metal has never been stronger!”

“Metal. So Kjotve the Cruel truly is as heartless as they say.”

“My heart is protected by the strongest armor you will ever find.” He knelt down on one knee before her. “And I would offer it to you in such trying times.”

Neither Rosta or Eivor knew how to respond. They were left unguarded by his great skill at flyting and how he humbled himself before them. And he remained there with his head bowed.

Without another word, Rosta left, and Eivor followed her. Intrigued, he rose and accompanied them. Leaving the mead hall, Rosta returned to her home. The whole time he looked at the huts and surrounding area. The last time he had been here was as a conqueror. He took another drink of his mead.

He followed her inside her home. By now, they were so far away from the great hall that the noise from the general party seemed as though it had quieted down to nothing, yet in truth at the scene itself it had only grown louder than ever. He didn’t know what she was planning, but he wasn’t disappointed when she poured a drink of mead in her own tankard and refilled his. If ever there was a proving time for alliances, this was it.

“A toast to new bonds,” Rosta said.

“And a toast to victory,” Kjotve said. They both downed the drinks. Even someone as hard hearted as him felt a little apprehension in that action, knowing very well she could have poisoned him. It was not the first time he had dealt with such attempts on his life, he was known as Kjotve the Cruel even to his own people and more than a few had wanted him dead. For this woman at this time it was a challenge of his fortitude to accept her drink. But as time passed and he suffered no ill effects, what little worry a man like him could feel changed to relief.