by Kirsty Campbell
in Issue 160, May 2025
No one will notice, she thinks. They are too busy adding bodies to the smoking heap. There is still much to do. They must find the gold, the ruby-hilted blades, the gleaming mail-coats, before they set the gabled hall ablaze. In all the chaos, her presence will not be detected. No one will be able to tell that it’s her, here. That it’s her, now, not the other one.
It’s hard to find the right expression, and keep it there, when she sees the women, tied together with coarse rope, being dragged from the gold-hall to the shore. What is the proper way to arrange the features, while she watches that? There must be a way to soften the jaw to signal a weary acceptance. She needs to blunt the eyes, so that the men with the bloodied weapons don’t see anything sharp, looking back at them.
Not a peep from the other one. She is perfectly silent. There hasn’t been the merest hint from her that she is aware of any of this. Is she still in there, somewhere? Hiding? Lost? She seems to have vanished entirely. It’s her husband in that pyre, and all his loyal company, their bodies heaped high. It’s her son, limp and lifeless, her child, knit from her flesh. Is she seeing this? Does the other one even know someone else has come forth, from the shadows, to take her place?
Fortunately, there are plenty of distractions here, to prevent anyone else from realizing it. Pigs squeal and hens squawk. The women wail. The cry of fire is louder than all, the crackle and roar as the flames mount higher, consuming flesh and bone. The children huddling around the group of bound women whimper. Should she comfort them? Is that what the other one would do? Yes, she thinks. That is probably expected. It’s not in her nature, though. She must perform it. Find the right tone of voice, to murmur reassurance. The other one’s task is to soothe, not provoke. Reconcile, not stir hatred. Accommodate, not resist.
What she says seems to work, seems to calm them. Maybe she got the tone right, or maybe they’re just accustomed to quieting down in the other one’s company. The other one certainly knows how to impress, she thinks, looking down at what she is wearing. Clad in gold, she stands out in the darkness, like she is made of light, her robe and jewels reflecting the flames of the burning pyre. She can feel the weight of a thick band of gold sitting atop her long, red hair, and her arms are wrapped in gleaming bracelets. She will have to remember to move with dignity befitting one so high in rank.
As the men heave bodies on to the pyre, they avoid her gaze. They were the ones who brought the other one here, to these shores, ten years ago, and rowed home without her.
They gave her to this husband, a chieftain named Eldei, to stop the war between their tribes. They told her to love and honour him. They told her to bring forth a son, to seal the treaty.
Peace-maiden, they called her. Peace-gift.
The other one did her duty, did what she was told. She loved Eldei. She built a life across the sea. Gave heart, body, soul. The peace she wove lasted ten years.
But these treaties never hold. An old grudge is stirred up in a bitter heart, a buried feud bursts forth. It was inevitable; the bonds are fragile. No matter; maybe they can use her again. Dust her off, send her to another tribe.
When the work of piling up the dead is done, the company boards the boats. It is a long way home. The children and the women cry, all the way. She is the only one who does not make a sound, her gaze fixed on the pyre they leave behind, burning, a beacon of light this dark, soulless night. She wonders how long she has, before the other one comes back, the one who is supposed to have made her peace with what happened tonight. She’s not sure how much time she has. She hopes it will be enough for what she’s planning.
They will pay for what they have done.
It is Reingerd who takes me to the worship mound while the men are away. I remember him from before. He makes a joke about being one of the gray-beards, now, left behind when the company goes hunting. Where is Eldei? I ask him. Where is my son?
He gives me that look again, the one with the unasked question in his eyes. He attends to the boat, steering us carefully along the passageway that weaves through the raised hills, the mounds our people have built to lift us from the sea. We pass a group of women who are gathering molluscs, their skirts knotted around their waists. They stop what they are doing and lower their eyes while we pass. How does the water feel, he asks? I look down. I am trailing my fingers in it, making a little ripple. Cold, I say.
Reingerd tells me there will be venison tonight. The men are hunting a buck, in the hinterland far to the north, past the peat bogs. Merulf always gets his prize, says Reingerd. He is a skilled hunter. Merulf, I say, nodding. He is my brother. We grew up here together. Now he is lord of the gold-hall.
The worship mound is high, higher than I remember. I ascend the hill and take in the view of the sea. This was my favourite place, as a child. It is strange to be back.
I look back at Reingerd, who is waiting for me in the boat. His face is patient and gentle. He gives me a little nod, and I know it is time to begin. I lift my arms, say the words. I make the offering to the land-spirits, the gods who watch over all who dwell on land, who travel by sea, who live under sky. I ask for their blessing; for peace.
When I return to the boat, Reingerd asks me how the sea looks today. The same, I say. Where is Eldei, I ask. Where is my son?
The all-mighty one has honoured us, Merulf shouts, then signals for his men to display the carcass. They drop it in a heap on the floor and the hall-folk crowd around. The buck’s huge eyes stare up at them, empty, glassy. She looks away.
A rich reward, Merulf cries, standing over the dead animal. He raises his fist high above his head.
The god of war strengthens us! Sides with us! Shows us favour! Our courage across the sea has pleased him!
The men cheer wildly.
A toast! A toast! To the one who makes our blades victory-weapons! Bring cups, bring beer!
Merulf shouts his orders and then looks directly at her.
It is hard to serve someone who stabbed and hacked your life into pieces, but she gets to her feet and obliges him. She has no other choice. Much is expected of the other one. A peace-weaver bears the cup in the mead-hall, offering drink and blessings to all. While the men feast, she drifts here and there, deftly pouring beer, offering a gentle smile, nodding at a clever jest. It is the cup-bearer’s task to provide comfort, lessen sorrow, smooth out grievances.
To humbly serve, to graciously bestow.
Where has the other one gone? This is her duty. She emerged, once, after the night of the war-pyre, but she didn’t linger. She has faded away, into shadow.
But Merulf’s gaze is fixed upon her; her performance must be convincing.
Seeing the heirlooms of Eldei’s family in the hands of others, here, makes the performance difficult. Merulf now wears the gold rings from Eldei’s fingers, the gold torque from Eldei’s neck. But she does not shake with anger. She must not. This is how things are done. This is the way it goes. This is how the world works.
She wants to break the world, though, and everything and everyone in it, when she sees Merulf offer a precious object to the man who sits at his feet.
The man who perches before the high seat, on a small, six-legged wooden stool, is Merulf’s favourite. He is called Kai. Kai is mesmerized by Merulf and follows him around like an adoring dog, laughing and nodding at everything the high lord says. Kai alone is given no task when the others are busy repairing weapons, tending livestock, digging clay sods, securing wells, growing the beans and barley on the crop-mound. Gazing up at the gold-lord, from his low wooden stool, eyes wet with devotion, seems to be Kai’s entire occupation.
She cannot fathom in what lies Kai’s value, but it must be great, for wood is scarce in these parts. Trees grow far inland, beyond a treacherous expanse of boggy marsh. For their wood to have been dragged here, all that way, and put to this purpose, rather than securing a foundation or raising a roof, must mean that whatever service Kai offers is worthy indeed. Wood is never wasted; burning it is forbidden. It is never thrown in the rubbish heap, never used as mound filler. Wood can be used in weaving, to build looms, without which everyone here would be naked against the cold.
Sitting on his precious wooden stool, Kai is squealing with delight, for he has just been rewarded with a gold-plated cup from across the sea. She recognizes it instantly. Engraved on the metal is the figure of a she-wolf and her two cubs. The last time she saw that cup, it was in the hands of her son, who received it as a gift from his father on his ninth birthday, and drank from it every day afterwards.
Every day until the night when Merulf piled up the dead across the sea.
It is when she is signalled by Merulf to fill this particular cup that she loses control. She is seconds away from smashing her jug on the floor, seizing one of the shards, and using it to slice Kai’s neck open when she catches sight of a gray-beard, in the company, staring straight at her, a warning in his eyes. He looks like he has read her mind. His eyes burn into her own.
She is unnerved, for a moment. Pauses. Thinks.
Now is not the time. She is not ready. A shattered jug is no weapon against the men surrounding her, jamming their sharp knives into deer flesh, growing more pugnacious with each drink. She must not throw away her chance to make them pay for the death of her son. For his father. For the loyal hall-troop who followed them.
She swallows, hard. Who is this man, why does he watch her so closely? What’s his interest in her? She looks away, then back again. He is still watching her, an unasked question in his eyes.
She must be more careful. She must play the part, serving the hall-lord, the picture of sisterly obedience. Inside, though, her mind is a storm of fury, picking up speed.
You haven’t been yourself, says Reingerd. Maybe some work with the women will help. He gestures to the ones who are pushing the high seats and the ale-drinkers’ benches to the side. A memory surfaces, suddenly. Me, as a child, on a night like this one. I am skipping the length of the hall and back, gleefully, feeling like all that space is mine, all my own. Or is it my son I am remembering?
The women have placed the preserved cowhides along the length of the floor. Now that the banquet is finished, there is time for us to cut the hides, with sharp knives, into long strips, and then to fashion these strips into baskets. Baskets woven from the tough leather will be used to trap sea-creatures that are a more reliable source of protein than the deer the men hunt in the dangerous hinterland. My hands remember what to do; my fingers are calloused in all the right places. I know just how to hold the blade. I work quickly, deftly.
There are other uses for these baskets, too. The ropy leather is thick and strong; it can support the weight of a child. All of a sudden, I’m back across the sea, walking on the shoreline and looking for sea-glass with my son. He is charging ahead, showing us how fast he can run, calling back to us to make sure we’re watching. I swing the basket back and forth, and the baby giggles. Eldei is leading the horse, a few paces behind. I hear him murmuring to the beast that the weather is fine. It would be a fine day for his son’s first ride, he says, a little louder, then looks at me, that playful spark in his eyes. Don’t you dare, Eldei Liefson, I say. He is far too young. His laughter rings out. I can almost hear it still.
Katla, I hear a voice say. Katla, are you all right? But I am on the beach now.
She needs help, she tells Merulf. It’s too much for one woman alone to handle. It’s late in the evening, a few weeks later. The men are drunk; a few are still telling stories, but most are bedding down for the night, beneath the benches, their weapons within easy reach. Kai, at Merulf’s feet, is yawning, his head nodding. He is trying to stay awake, but his eyes are beginning to glaze over.
The sheep have been sheared, and all the wool has been dyed, she adds. Great clumps of wool cover the floor of her hut, as high as a dwelling mound, great heaps of blue fuzz everywhere she looks. But fuzz will not shield men from cold, she says, as sternly as she dares, and winter is coming. It takes many fingers to make yarn, many hands to weave cloth. Where are her women? When will they be returned to her? The work is piling up.
She knows exactly where her women are. She doesn’t need Merulf to tell her. She knows they have been claimed as prizes by his top commanders. She knows that two are shackled in Merulf’s own hut. But the best way to get them back, to safety, is by playing dumb. And so she feigns innocence. Meekness. She simply wants to get on with her womanly chores, get back to her weaving, surely her brother can’t see the harm in that. Surely he knows that these women have duties, duties to serve the hall-troop, to protect them from the harsh winds that sweep the marshland in winter.
Her women are attending to other duties, at present, says Merulf, smirking down at Kai. Kai titters.
What duties could be more important than making cloth, she demands, risking a more strident tone. They must prepare for the long, dark nights when the beasts themselves have to be brought into the hall to share the warmth of the hearth, lest they perish outside in the byre. The weaving time should have started by now, she says. Her fretting is made more believable by actual fear. She knows that her handmaidens are enduring a fate worse than her own. They are being broken by the lords here; they are being shown who is in command. Some will be in a fragile state by now. Some will be lost. She is responsible. The more time she wastes, the more time she dithers, coming up with a plan, the more they suffer.
But a plan is beginning to take shape. It turns out that the gray-beard, who has been watching her as intently as Merulf himself, is an ally. Someone close to the other one, a childhood friend. Reingerd is his name. When she followed him to the privy, intending to rid herself of a potential threat, he chided her to put the dagger away. You are not yourself, Katla, he said, and we both know why that is. We both know what needs to be done.
She had not expected help, but it will be easier with two. She assigns him a few tasks and tells him to be ready.
Tending to Eldei’s horse makes me feel more like myself. The horse is here now, with the other plunder from across the sea. Reingerd says that it does me good, spending time in the stable. He says it’s best, at present, to keep busy, to avoid drawing attention. When I ask him why we must be careful about that, he tells me that I am still not quite myself, and that we wouldn’t want to cause anyone to worry.
The horse came from a place to the north, from a people who once traded with a great empire that has now fallen. His name, Einar, comes from the word for warrior. Horses are rarely found on the coastal salt marsh. Einar was brought a long way from home, no expense spared, to ensure his health upon arrival, because Carl’s people, the tribe in the north, wanted Eldei to understand that they would be loyal friends. Such a peace-gift was a high honour and a reminder that we would always be able to count on Carl’s people in times of need.
But it was too late, when our hour of need came, to send word to the north, and now Einar stands here in Merulf’s stable while my husband’s ashes drift in the wind.
A feast, she tells him, grander than any before. She makes her eyes go wide, like she is imagining it.
Then she brings a note of reverence into her voice. First, as is fitting, of course, a sacrifice to the war-god, a sheep or a cow. Or maybe a pig? Merulf will know best. Merulf will be the one to decide.
Then, once the first portion has been served, the first drops poured out on the hearth to honour their god, the announcement.
He takes the bait. It is a good idea, Katla, he says, a marriage, a match with a member of his own company.
It’s almost too easy to convince him that she is his willing pawn. It doesn’t strike him as at all odd that she would accept her fate unquestioningly, to be handed over, a second time, to a man of her brother’s choosing. It is how things are done. Women weave the bonds. They don’t fight. They don’t unleash fury. They don’t whip up storms of bloody vengeance.
After all, he says, musing on the idea, she is older now; her best years are behind her. She’s no longer the spirited filly she was when they sent her to Eldei, says Merulf, with a laugh. At his feet, Kai gives a shrill giggle.
She makes herself chuckle at Merulf’s brotherly jest. She folds her hands carefully together in her lap so that she does not use them to strike the mouth that has dared to speak her husband’s name. She delicately crosses one knee over the other, to stop herself from kicking the fool fawning at her brother’s feet.
Yes, he says, with a shrug. Kai nods, reverently. Why not, says Merulf. It is good for the hall-lord to smile down upon his followers, to offer them favour. Let one of his men have her. Kai’s eyes grow moist, admiring his master’s benediction.
Merulf gives orders. His commanders are to choose the beast for the sacrifice. She will gather fresh rushes for the floor of the mead-hall. As is the custom of their tribe, she herself will prepare the food, make the stew that will bubble over the fire pit for three days of feasting.
She nods at the wisdom of each choice. She acquiesces to all. She is his to command.
She is glad to have the other one’s store of knowledge, a host of details about the cooking of food, long lists of plants and herbs, all with specific properties. One plant in particular will be very useful. It causes drowsiness, and can easily be added to stews without changing the flavour.
Through it all, there is no sign of life from the other one.
Only Einar knows how I feel. His eyes are dull and listless. He misses his master. I try to encourage him. You must help me, I tell him, stroking his long neck. You must help me find the baby. He is hiding, I say. There are many places to hide among the dwelling mounds in the coastal marshes. I found them all when I was a girl. I was far better at hide-and-seek than my brother. Where is the baby hiding, I ask. Einar looks toward the sea, his huge eyes watching for Eldei. His faithful patience breaks my heart. Come on, I coax, blinking my tears away. Tell me your secrets. Where is the little one?
When the feast-day arrives, she spends the afternoon laying rushes on the floor. They sweeten the smell of the hall. As she works, she can hear the men in the temple, chanting, a low pulsing drone that mounts in pitch until it becomes a screaming frenzy. When the warriors finish their dark ceremony, they pour into the hall, their faces reddened by the blood-lust they have summoned.
They hold out their cups and grin at her while she fills them.
When Merulf makes his grand announcement, there is a moment of startled silence, and then a deafening roar goes up. The toasts resume, louder. The leering grins grow bolder.
As she pours beer into cups, and stew into bowls, she recalls what happened, the night when the other one retreated, the night she herself came forth, out of shadow.
A dagger, held high, its sharp tip glinting in the flickering light of the hearth. The cold hatred looking out from Merulf’s eyes as the dagger snakes down and bites the neck of her husband. The gurgle in Eldei’s throat and the surprise on his face as he looks to her, the light fading from his eyes.
The alarm on her son’s young face as he runs toward the high table, to where his father sits, slumped now. A blade streaking through the air to stop him. His bright blue eyes widening when the knife strikes him in the back. The sound of his body slamming into the feast table.
Overturned tables. Broken benches. Bodies, bent askew, littering the floor, along with half-eaten hearth cakes, broken bowls, shattered drinking cups, the spilled stew and beer and blood all puddling together.
She puts down her jug, hands shaking, and takes one last look at the hall and its occupants. She looks at the rushes she has laid upon the floor, one layer soaked in oil, and then a second, and a third, for good measure, to disguise the smell of the oil. Everything is in place. She makes for the door. It is time. She can feel the howl rising, rising inside her. She can no longer hold it in.
When she gets outside, she is trembling and covered in sweat. She struggles to catch her breath. Retches, then vomits on the grass. She sinks to her knees. Gulps the night air. Then, the gray-beard, Reingerd, is at her side. He helps her to her feet.
She gives Reingerd a nod. He taps out a signal and soon, the door opens again. The servants scurry forth, trying not to look as though they are rushing. There is fear in their eyes. She knows that the other one would try to calm them, but there is time for that later. She must finish the task at hand.
She watches as Reingerd bolts the doors from the outside. No one will leave the hall. Not tonight, not ever. The fire the servants have lit, within, spreads like fury. A few voices cry out, but most of the men were asleep after their first bowl of stew. It takes so little time, she thinks, to burn it all down. It took the other one ten years to build a life across the sea, and Merulf a day to destroy it. It is all over in moments.
She bids the small company that remains to board the boats, where she has stowed blankets, clothes, and food. There is nothing left for them here. They gather the stores from the granary. The women who were taken captive across the sea join them, freed of their shackles. They call for the children to come out from their hiding places. Einar doesn’t fight, this time, when they coax him aboard the biggest boat. He must be getting used to all the traveling about. He will be happy to be reunited with his people, the ones from the north, who brought him to these shores. Carl will be glad to see him.
It is almost time for her to go. She is reluctant to leave. But her task is done, and what lies ahead is more suited to the other one. It is the other one’s child, after all, that must be tended to in the days to come. The baby is tucked away, safe, with Carl’s people, where Eldei and Katla sent him to grow, to strengthen the bonds between their people. It’s how they do things. The minute the baby sees her face, the minute he screams out for milk, Katla will come forth, and she will have to go away.
She’ll be there, though, in the shadows, ready to return, ready to unleash hell if anyone lays a hand on Katla, her baby, or her people ever again.
© May 2025, Kirsty Campbell
Kirsty Campbell teaches English at John Abbott College in Montreal. She writes fantasy stories inspired by mythology and the early medieval world. Her folk song albums can be found through her website, https://www.kirstycampbell.ca/. This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
Leave a Reply