Bjorn panted, breath making mist as he placed a steaming hand on the trunk of a thick tree, leaning hard against it. Snow fell in thick clumps, his boots cutting a path of miniature trenches across the frozen forests which led to the galdrwoman’s steading.

  Weighted, riveted rings cut red welts and sores through Bjorn’s shirt and into his skin. It had been more than a week since he had set out from Lejre with nothing but the brynja on his back, a satchel, wineskin, hunting bow and his weapons belt. The land was harsh, barely a deer or hare in sight and he did not have time to waste setting hunting traps. His supplies had run out a few days ago and he had been living off snow, placing it into his wineskin and then close to his body, the warmth of his core melting it into drinking water – a trick his father had taught him as a bairn. Still, there was no food and he was feeling the tiredness that came from that.

  Belly rumbling, he pushed off the tree and pressed onwards. If he had the correct bearings, his destination should only be another day’s travel. He was almost there. Almost to the place where he would earn his class, the place where he hoped to find some answers and maybe something to eat.

  “Help!” the sound broke through the silent forest, a distressed, cawing voice bouncing from trunk to trunk to reach Bjorn. Ears pricking, muscles tensing, he rushed towards the harrowing sound.

  Who is that? What fool would venture out into the forest alone during winter? He wondered, realising the hypocrisy of his inner voice as he jogged through the thick, unyielding snow.

  Dashing through trees as he followed the sound of the voice, he burst through the snow and into a small clearing. Sunlight streamed through thick branches, bursting across the bright, white ground and casting a yellow glow across the clearing. In the middle, three blue-skinned drengir in broken, rotted armour and carrying rusted axes, held onto a cawing, skittering bird with feathers of darkest black.

  Pulling at the wings as they groaned, lifeless eyes and peeling flesh, the bird yelped desperately as it fought against the pressure which threatened to tear it in two. As Bjorn looked, their noises and actions halted and runes appeared before him.

  You have discovered:

  Draugr

  Not all drengir walk the soul road. Odin’s hall of the slain only accepts Midgard’s finest, warriors who have proven their valour, strength and courage in battle. When a drengir does not meet these requirements, their souls are sent back to Midgard.

  Some of these warped, twisted, furious souls inhabit broken, lifeless bodies and continue to battle even after death in the hopes of claiming enough glory to one day be accepted into the warrior’s hall.

  New Quest:

  Huginn’s Favour

  Draugr are attacking a raven, Odin’s favourite. Rescue the son of Huginn and gain his favour.

  Objectives:

  Rescue the raven 0/1

  Defeat Draugr 0/3

  Reward:

  Gain Huginn’s favour

  The Nornir’s Weave can impart information too? Bjorn thought as the runes turned to dust in the air before him and time resumed. The skalds often sung of Huginn and Muninn, Odin’s famed ravens, and though he did not know exactly what Huginn’s favour was, he wanted it.

  “Help!” He heard once again, it seemed to be coming from within the clearing, but there was nobody around to call out to him.

  Cautiously, he shrugged his spear from his shoulder and into his hand, sliding his axe from his belt and into the other fist, then carefully took a step forward.

  Snow crunched like thin ice beneath his feet and the three draugr turned towards him, halting their harassing of the large bird which took its chance, taking flight with flapping wings, feathers dropping to the ground as it looked at Bjorn and seemed to nod before fleeing to the skies.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  That is one objective completed, he thought.

  “You need battle-fame to reach the hall of the slain?” Bjorn asked the draugr. “Best come and take it then.” His lips curled, teeth clenched as he snarled and then the draugr were groaning and sprinting at him with reckless abandon and he was doing the same, roaring as he ran.

  Jumping into the air, he threw his spear arm forward, striking the first draugr in the chest as his axe sheered the shoulder of the second, slicing through putrid flesh with ease as the draugr’s muscles failed and it dropped its rusted axe.

  Yanking the spear from the heart of the first, he spun to the left and threw his axe, rotating through the air, into the forehead of the third and final draugr which dropped to the ground. No blood dared to taint the sanctity of the fresh blanket of white which covered the ground and Bjorn smiled as he rolled his shoulders and walked towards the fallen draugr. He placed a heavy boot on the creature’s chest and yanked the axe from its head, wiping it on tattered armour before returning it to his belt.

  That was easy, he thought as he made to leave the clearing, but he was stopped in his wake by an angered groaning.

  Turning on his heels, eyes wide, he lifted his spear – an instinctual response – but both draugr were already too close to stab. One of them grabbed the haft of Bjorn’s spear and, with unexpected strength, wrenched it from his hands, throwing it to the ground with a soft thud. Then they were upon him, heavy, clanking bodies taking him to the ground, rotted, yellow teeth gnashing as he thew a palm to each of their faces, struggling with all his might to stop them from biting his skin.

  Stinking breath and the putrid rot of dead flesh filled his nostrils as his palms pushed against their faces. He kicked out at the stomach of one of them but felt little resistance as his boot slid through the skin like parchment, rotting guts leaking from the belly and covering him in a cold wetness.

  Using the injury to his advantage, he focused all of his strength on that draugr and pushed its head in a fierce shove, teeth gritted, separating the torso from the legs as he threw the top half of the draugr away from him. Then he was reaching towards his weapons belt, grabbing at his seax and punching it into the remaining draugr’s temple. It went limp and with both arms he rolled it off himself and jumped to his feet, snatching his spear from the snow-touched ground and then he was turning, looking for the one remaining draugr.

  Hearing a gurgling groan, he spotted it. Half a body, crawling towards him, jaws snapping, trailing rotten guts behind it and smearing the snow with black goop. Without pause, he stabbed his spear into the top of its head and it went still. Taking a few steps backwards, he dropped to his haunches, rolled onto his backside and gasped for breath.

  “You might have told me that the head is the weakness,” he said to the sky, looking at the clouds and imagining Asgard above.

  He had heard of draugr, everyone had, but he had never fought one before and the skalds did not sing of this cranial weakness being their undoing. The saga tale focused on the tragedy of these creatures, a warning to living drengir to fight with honour lest they be cursed to wander Midgard as rotted corpses. Still, his battle-fame would only increase when he told this story upon his return to Lejre and instructed the skalds to tell others of this weakness.

  Quest Complete:

  Huginn’s Favour

  Draugr are attacking a raven, Odin’s favourite. Rescue the son of Huginn and gain his favour.

  Objectives:

  Rescue the raven 1/1

  Defeat Draugr 3/3

  Reward:

  Gain Huginn’s favour

  He smiled, foggy breath escaping his lips as he read the runes before him. At least the quest had been completed and the raven saved. He wondered what Huginn’s Favour would mean as he rubbed snow over his breeches and brynja, washing away the decolouration and stink of the intestinal fluid – draugr goop – which clung to him. Then he stood and began gathering the bodies, dragging them through the snow and into a pile in the centre of the clearing.

  Time passed as he set about gathering enough dried wood to make a makeshift, miniature pyre, then he removed the flint from his belt and began striking it with the back of his seax. Sparks scattered across the kindling and he imagined Thor striking his anvil in Asgard. Soon the sparks turned to embers and into flames and then the bodies were burning, warmth spreading across Bjorn, warming his numbed limbs and frost-touched fingers.

  “You fought well,” he said into the flames, “may Odin welcome you into the hall of heroes, at long last.”

  ***

  As the orange glow of the setting sun turned Bjorn’s blond hair ginger, he finally caught sight of his destination.

  Sitting atop a steep hill deep in the forest, a hill so large it broke through the treeline, was a humble steading. Wooden walls with crossed beams and forming a loose, gently curved triangular roof sat atop the snow-covered hill. Steps made of mismatched stone cut a path up the side and Bjorn took the first step with steeled eyes and tight lips.

  The sun continued to set as he climbed the hill, darkness descending on the forest. Unlike in Lejre, when night came in the forest, so did the void. Creatures of darkness roamed at night and it was dangerous to travel. Bjorn had been sleeping in dugout holes in the snow, entombing himself overnight to avoid the dangers, but this night he expected he would be able to warm himself by the galdrwoman’s hearth.

  An unfamiliar smile cut his face as he remembered hunting trips with his father. As a bairn, he had spent much time in the forests. Learning to hunt, to kill, to survive. His fondest memories, however, were of campfire tales of goblins, sprites, and dragons. Creatures of legend, the focus on many saga tales, but also a real threat – if one believed the stories.

  It seems there is truth to those tales, he thought. Perhaps the life of a king’s bairn living in a large town has softened me to the realities of the outside world.

  Smoke escaped the steading through small holes on the front of the roof, twisting in the sky and blowing wildly with each gust of wind, the hearth-smoke met the cold winter air and exploded in a thick, twisting visage of rapid plumes. It was enticing. After a long week in the forest, Bjorn longed for the warmth of an indoor fire, warm food, perhaps some mead? His mouth salivated; belly rumbled as he continued to climb the stone steps up the side of the hill.

  Panting as he reached the top, he strode up to the door and knocked loudly, a rasp of knuckles on wood. Skuld had led him here through the Nornir’s Weave and he did not know what would await him inside. But his belly churned with more than just hunger as he thought about receiving his class.

  With a long, loud creak, the door etched open.