One year has passed since the birth of her twins, yet she did not dream of motherhood. She was alone, once again, in that place between spaces. Sigrid was never human in her dreams, instead taking the form of an Yvan great bear. She should have had brown fur, thick and coarse, but there it was a soft blue haze. Ethereal and weightless, she was but a visitor.

  The sky was an endless, starry night. Nebulae and star clusters, great and complex, plastered the blackness above. Where the horizon would meet the sky instead stood a colossal structure, a great tree. Its branches held no leaves, but were expansive, thick and smooth, tinted the aged green of cemetery moss.

  The tree was far, incredibly distant, yet so impossibly large that even at such lengths, shrouded and faded by the sheer scale of the space, it dominated the landscape. All that stood between Sigrid and the tree was an endless desert of pillowy, fine sand.

  She walked, her destination always the same. She would walk until she crowned the ridge of a large dune that led down into a valley. She would fall, coasting along as sand barreled down behind her. Then, in the valley, she found herself surrounded by bones and corpses. Not rotting, stinking, meaty husks of men and beasts, but the ethereal vessels of bears with blackened fur and burning maws.

  They were Bjorneldr, all of them.

  At the farthest point of the graveyard another corpse of Bjorneldr lay flat on its stomach in a peaceful, everlasting slumber. It was as if all the other corpses lead to this one, parted as they were, swearing fealty. As Sigrid approached its body stirred, rousing from its sleep. She placed her paw upon its brow and its eyes opened wide. Two figures emerged from the sand as if rising from water: a tall woman with flaming hair and a bearded man with clouded eyes. Their faces held a sense of timeless exhaustion, as if they had been there before, as if they had never left, and as if they couldn’t leave. Before Sigrid could react she was overwhelmed by the deafening, metallic ringing of a bell that tolled so loud the sands shimmered in its wake.

  Posed opposite the great tree was an hourglass, one of such great proportions it rivaled the tree itself. The sands that ran their course in its chambers seemed to swallow the stars of the night, commanding the heavens to follow a fated path.

  Silhouetted between Sigrid and the distant hourglass was a figure. Poised upon the same sand ridge she had since descended, they stood shrouded in a dark cloth. They raised their hands to the sky and the bell rang. Again and again. With each strike its intensity strengthened, with each strike the great tree stirred, its branches catching flame. Again and again and again the bell tolled, an unbearable cacophony of metal and sand and rust.

  The tree answered.

  With the snarled cracking of bark the tree’s limbs lunged. In the span of a breath they crossed the stars above, slamming into the hourglass, rending its metal asunder and shattering its chambers.

  As the glass’s sands fell to the earth she would lock eyes with the shrouded figure and share a moment of great sorrow. Her dream then found its end.

  *********************************************************************************************

  Sigrid awoke in an empty bed. She turned, patting for Ivar’s warmth, but did not find him.

  Off and gone again, is he?

  She rose out of the bed, her massive frame carrying her blankets with her. In front of her were two cribs, each with a swaddled babe resting soundly. She drifted a hand down, lightly caressing each of them.

  Ivar. What’s happened to you? Its like you’re driven, pushed by some invisible force, like a man on the run. He says nothing and I am left only to wonder. Still, in times like these, I should consider myself fortunate to have any time with him at all.

  The past year had been, thankfully, uneventful for her and her children. They were both healthy and growing, Ragni more so than Muninn. He still never cried, never spoke, never babbled or cooed. A silent baby, but content. All the same, they each already had their own personality.

  Ragni was a fiend with an unquenchable bloodlust, or so her never-ending desire to wrestle and play would suggest. A fearless girl, Ragni demanded to be tossed and thrown about by any who had the strength, her demands rewarded with joyous laughter.

  Muninn, in direct contrast, sought sensations. He absolutely adored sitting next to open fires and gazing into the crackling flames.

  I wonder how much he can really see, if those clouded eyes really do cut off the world.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “The envoys are close.” One of the hall maidens spoke. “They should be here within the hour.”

  “I will be ready soon.” Sigrid replied, eyeing her children longingly. With a deep breath she broke her focus, turning toward her wardrobe.

  No time for mothers, Yvaheim needs the Berserkir.

  *********************************************************************************************

  Sigrid stood upon the eastern edge of Hatimbradr overlooking Timberfell. In stark contrast to her bed linens, she was equipped, head to toe, in the fearsome regalia of the Berserkir. Thick plates of solid iron, black and glistening in the white Yvan noon-light, lined her shins, arms, torso and feet.. The slabs were connected through a network of leather straps, chainmail and furs. Adorning her flowing golden locks, now spun into a single braid, was the glowing ivory crown of Timberfell, Yrsa’s Dawn.

  The Berserkir's armor had been passed down since the age of Yrsa, the first Jarl of Timberfell, friend of Bjorneldr, and of the Nine. Repairs were constant, but the heavy iron slabs remained the same. Thick and unwieldy, the armor was unwearable by none but those who held the strength of the Berserkir.

  Sigrid made her way along the outer edge of Hatimbradr and into the Ursal Plaza. There she stood, silhouetted by the open doors of her home, one hand on her hip and the other upon the hilt of her storied weapon, Hyrvitr.

  Upon assuming the mantle of Berserkir, the warrior is gifted with a weapon all their own. Forged from Gletschberg’s forges, Elgis himself would bestow upon them a weapon matching their spirit. Sigrid had been given a halberd, a long polearm with a spear’s point made entirely of white ivory, with a cross section at the base of the spear’s head comprised of a cruel ax’s head on one side and a flaming crucible on the other. Hyrvitr, or Shining Flame in the old tongue, stood taller than Sigrid, giving her tremendous reach in tandem with her strength and speed. Equipped as such, it was no wonder Yvaheim looked to Timberfell on matters of warfare. Thus, when they signaled for aid and counsel, Yvaheim answered the call.

  First to arrive was an oaken carriage being pulled by a pair of stout oxen. It was uncovered, with the flag of Vait, the largest city of Skjord’s lands to the south, flying high. The wheat grain was its symbol, a golden germ on a crimson field, paying homage to the red soil and grains of the crimson fields found only upon the Queen’s Plains. Upon this cart was a single figure, a stout, short woman of brown skin and black, curly hair. Entahna, Skjord’s voice. She had earned near messianic reverence amongst the farmers in the south, for it was said that during the harvest season the earth itself would part in her presence with but a whisper. She wore a simple black dress with bright green trimmings, accented with golden edges.

  Next came the screeching mania of a self-propelled vehicle. A boxcar of wrought metal and stone, with a thick chimney in its center spewing smoke. The raging fires of its engines lighting through its exhaust grates like a dragon’s beating heart, it was an invention of Gletschberg design.

  The spinning metal wheels ground to a halt, the door in the center of its sealed walls ejecting outwards as a set of steps rolled down to the ground. A tall man of gray skin and a black beard exited the smoke and soot. He wore an apron of blackened chainmail and went by the name of Kiln-Kilt Graham. The master of the Gletschberg Metallurgical Guild, it was rare for Elgis to allow Graham to leave the mountain city, a testament to the grave importance of this meeting.

  To follow came a pair. Two large wolves, great gray beasts scarred and wise, with shadowy figures astride them. Skilled sentries who stalked the lands of Ylgjot and Ulfverd, the twin vulpine wild gods; the Mated Riders were a fearful duo. Each of the Riders was cloaked in thick, flowing cloth the color of raven’s down that fluttered in the sun, a fading opacity that played tricks with the eye. Little was known about the Mated Riders other than that they were twins riding wolves that themselves shared a litter. They did not speak as they entered the Ursal Plaza, circling the outer edge and watching.

  In direct contrast, the proceeding guest entered with trumpeting fanfare aboard an airborne vessel. No horse pulled this carriage, rather a great balloon filled with a strange gas kept a rickety wooden network of ropes and beams afloat, propelled by a series of fans peddled by a large crew. Scorched onto the side of the balloon was the icon of Haugust, the great hawk. Sigrid need not even raise her gaze to know who had been sent, High Thane Haakon the Black. An older man, his leather boots, flowing vestments and flamboyant, feathered hat signaled that he had not lost his youthful bravado. The man was ruthless, cunning and had lived a life worthy of song. He rode the airship while hanging from a taut rope, cheering on the coming of the morning breeze.

  Across the plaza, a little woman walked in. The lack of a carriage suggested the use of the leylines, and her attire left no doubt that she belonged to Thrahygg.

  Her dress was a green so pale it was nearly white, and so thin it bordered transparency. She was barefoot and shaded by an extravagantly large hat: a wide thing, its brim drooping under its own weight and a tapered, curling point on top. Her skin was bluish-white, as if permanently frostbitten. The Winter Witch, Skadi.

  Skadi was one of the few Voljar who had won her independence from Thrahygg through martial strength alone. Despite this, she still worked there as an instructor.

  Skadi walked lightly until she met the wooden effigy of the Godmodr. She paused, tilting her head in communion with the statue, then lowered herself as if to sit. As she squatted a puff of water vapor crystalized underneath her, forming a cloud of ice and snow that caught her and then whisked her up high into the air. Meeting the gaze of the airborne crew’s vessel, she flicked the brim of her hat in challenge. The Thane and his men gave a great and triumphant cry to the little witch before the contestants broke into high speed, encircling the great hall.

  The final guest arrived alone in a sled pulled by a dozen large cats. Kottifir’s brood, naturally, escorted their envoy. A slender man with lanky arms and legs, who wore bright colors patched together in squares and a vibrant green cap that flopped to the side with a fuzzy white ball at the end.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Sigrid smiled at the sight of her longtime friend, Dominic O'Callaghan, Kottifir’s godi.

  Dom was a foreigner from a small island off the eastern coast of Garn named Oireighn. He was in possession of an enchanted branch of a ‘Closh’adhmad’ tree, found only in his homeland, which was known for its mystical healing properties. The man had since become something of a folk legend across Yvaheim, celebrated wherever he strode.

  As his sled came to a sliding halt he took one gingerly step off of it and snapped his fingers. The sled, and the cats which pulled it, evaporated into a light fog accompanied with the pluck of a corded instrument. He met Sigrid’s gaze and gave an extended bow, pulling his hat off of his head and twirling it extravagantly. Elderly with a curly, gray beard, Dominic was a character out of a children’s tale.

  How odd to see a man like him giving war counsel.

  “Strange times indeed,” Sigrid whispered to herself as the Ursal Plaza came alive with the eclectic collection of her guests.

  Entahna had grown a hammock of branches and had fallen asleep. Skadi and Haakon were engaged in their airborne race high above the plaza. The Riders had found a nice, dark corner from which they watched the action. Graham was busy managing the delicate process of parking their boxcar, as he had not designed the vehicle to move in reverse. Dominic greeted her with a warm smile and gentle eyes.

  “Ye know,” he began. “‘Tis not often I find myself the borin’ one.”

  *********************************************************************************************

  Within Hatimbradr the gathering found a home. They were seated at long tables set in the shape of a thin horseshoe. Maids ferried through the hall carrying food and drinks. Sigrid, as host of this counsel, sat at its head centered between the other seven ambassadors. As was custom, the business of the counsel would wait until after the food was eaten. This ensured civility amongst those in attendance, as it was considered a grave sin to raise one’s hand against those you had broken bread with.

  By the time the tables were cleared the sun was dipping low upon the horizon. Candelabras were placed onto the dining table, each with three branches, each branch holding three candles which were lit just as the sunlight faded, filling Hatimbradr with a soft glow. Conversations fell silent.

  Sigrid pushed her chair outwards with a screech. She scanned down each of the table’s arms, confirming the attention of her guests.

  “Yvans.” She began, her powerful voice flickering the flames of the candles. The chamber had emptied of all non-diplomats, leaving just herself and the ambassadors. “Friends. Allies. It has been one year since Afisk has disappeared. Sindhome has all but been brought under the heel of foreign powers. These two events are linked in ways we are as of yet unsure, yet we can be certain that the answer lies within those city walls. We must-”

  “Good jarl,” Skadi spoke abruptly. Though her stature was small, she carried herself proudly and gave voice with a tone of intellectual venom. “I cannot help but feel as though you are insinuating that the only path before us is war.”

  “Indeed.” Kiln-Kilt scoffed, his voice like rolling gravel. “Elgis has ever served as a keeper of the peace. It was he alone who met with Haugust and Bjorneldr, many centuries ago, when the two had come to blows regarding the Ashen Valley. In these matters Gletschberg would follow his example. We will not entertain a civil war, nor any actions that would risk leading us down such a path.”

  “Nor should we consider ourselves a favorite, even if it were to come to such.” Haakon added. The collective each shifted in their seats to face him, who was now leaning forward in his seat with his elbow on the table. “Ye said it yerself. Sindhome be lost to them ‘scary foreigners.’ Though, we all know who yer really talkin’ about. The Hymnal Church, aye?”

  Sigrid narrowed her gaze.

  They certainly each have much to say.

  Haakon’s face hardened, his stoicism betrayed by a flicker of hatred in his eyes. “Tell me, she-bear, what do ye know o’ the Church? Do ye know that they’ve conquered the rest o’ Holm, unitin’ the southern lands under their banner? Do ye even know their goals? Ye’d be makin’ an enemy with a foe whose armies are endless and whose coffers know no bottom, all without even knowing why. This is a fight no sane man would take.”

  Sigrid sat back upon the throne, contemplating.

  “The High Thane is right.” A pair of voices, perfectly synched, announced. The Mated Riders were the source. Warbled and airy they rasped, their words clinging to the air like mist. “The fox knows not to chase the dragon, and so the dragon bothers not with his burrow. This is peace.”

  “Peace is shattered once a party finds the strength to break it,” Entahna stated coldly. Her voice was motherly and smooth, which contrasted harshly with her direct language. “There can be no peace so long as the Church has its grips on Yvan soil. They must be routed from Sindhome and the Aferd pass sealed. Only then will we be in a position to negotiate terms.”

  “ I be inclined to agree,” Dominic chimed. “A tall fence makes good neighbors of us all.”

  “It seems we are split.” Sigrid said. “Gletschberg, Thrahygg, Vetsergatt and Toh against direct action. Vait, Timberfell, and the forests in favor of.”

  “Split, but with a clear majority.” Skadi asserted. “Marching on Sindhome would be reckless and unnecessary. It is not often that the High Thane and I are in agreement, but today marks the first. We both agree, the Hymnal Church is not to be trifled with.”

  “What alternatives would you pose, then?” Entahna asked. “If action is to be taken, every minute we wait puts us at a disadvantage. Whatever we choose, it needs to be decided here and now.”

  Kiln-Kilt coughed, entering the conversation with a coarse sputter. “We should meet with this Hymnal Church, approach each other as potential friends so that we might stand to gain from one another.”

  Sigrid scoffed, “You would grant them quarter?”

  “If it avoids a war we are sure to lose, then I would do the same.” Skadi stated bluntly. “Not all of us are so deluded in our strength as you, Berserkir. There is no doubt that your forces are formidable, though you too shall find yourself woefully inadequate against this threat.”

  Sigrid’s eyes flared, a flickering orange ember raging up from deep within. She slammed her fists onto the table as she stood, her crown glowing a pristine, burning white.

  “I will not be treated as a child in my own home!” She shouted, her voice rocking the very foundations of the hall and snuffing out many candles. Silence fell upon the hall, the glow of her eyes fading as the crown lost its shining light. “My apologies…the Berserkir can be…difficult to contain.” Sigrid panted. “I will not insult your aptitudes by trying to hide my disappointment. Long has Timberfell stood watch over the countryside. Long have we spilt our blood keeping the peace. I called upon you all for your support, expecting friends and allies-”

  “We know, she-bear.” Haakon said. “We know ye’ve always tried to do right by all of us, and we thank ye for it. Just…I have a hard time believin’ that marchin’ straight to Sindhome is the best way of goin’ about things.”

  “We are yet your allies, Jarl.” Skadi insisted. “We respect you enough to show our disagreements, even though it may upset you. We must do what we think is right.”

  Sigrid offered a reluctant nod. “We are to speak with the church, then? Who will organize this?”

  “I doubt they will answer any summons,” Entahna said. “They will come to each of us, one by one, to sway us. I only pray we have the strength to stay true to ourselves.”

  “We will put it to a vote, then.” Sigrid stated. “All in favor of setting inroads with the church, raise your hands.

  An exact match to expectation. Kiln-Kilt, Skadi, Haakon and the Mated Riders each in favor. Dominic, Sigrid and Entahna still stood against it.

  “The ayes have it then. We shall attempt to reach out to the Hymnal church. There shall be no march on Sindhome.”

  *********************************************************************************************

  As the council was adjourned, Haakon remained seated, locking his steely gaze upon Sigrid. She acknowledged him, nudging towards a side exit and onto a darkened balcony that overlooked Timberfell. The stiff air of diplomacy gave way to the brisk breeze of a peaceful night. Haakon leaned forward onto the railing, peering out into the sparkling nightscape of the city. Snow dusted streets alight with frosted lamps and angular homes resonated in the glow of their own hearths.

  “Ye know, yer mother- she was quite a beast…” He began with a mumble, as if his tongue lagged behind his memories. “I’m sure ye know the story.”

  Sigrid, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, indulged the man. “Everyone does. It was Aya Gertudottir who brought Haakon the Black to heel. ”

  He grunted, a dissatisfied chuckle. “That’s right, that’s right. To this day it's the only time I’ve ever tasted defeat. I planned on fightin’ her again, one day. To avenge my sullied honor, to reclaim the glory that she took from me.”

  “But you cannot,” Sigrid wondered aloud. “Because I robbed you of that chance.”

  “Maybe. Or, perhaps, ye inherited the role.” Haakon shrugged. “I am yer ally only as the laws beholdin’ the High Thane abide me to be, she-bear. A day may yet come when I might be afforded the chance to cross blades with ye.”

  “You’re a madman with a deathwish.”

  Haakon frowned, “I’m old, Sigrid, and tired. These bones are growin’ weaker with every passin’ day. Soon, me livin’ will do more harm to my legacy and then me dyin’ ever could. I need to find a way to bring it all to a close. It would be a tragedy indeed to be outlived by my own story.”

  “And so you would fight me?”

  He nodded, “I would, some day. Bring my story full circle. If I win, then my name will go down in history. If I lose then, hey, who better to be beaten by then the Berserkir herself?”

  Sigrid laughed, she couldn’t help herself. “Well, High Thane, should the time come I will be sure to give you your wish.”

  He smiled, turning back to face the city. “Ye would have this old warrior’s thanks.”

  *********************************************************************************************

  Eventually Haakon, too, left Hatimbradr. Sigrid returned to her chambers. As she entered the hallway leading towards her bedroom, Astrid opened the door from within.

  “Well, that lasted much longer than I thought it would. I was just coming to check on you.” She said, speaking in a low whisper. “Did it go well?”

  “Not at all.”

  Astrid’s face softened, “I dared not hope for much.”

  “The others refuse to act, fearful of a civil war. They would rather we speak with the Hymnal Church.”

  “They might find that an army makes for compelling conversation.”

  Sigrid snorted. “My thoughts as well.”

  She stood for a moment and felt comfort in the old woman’s presence. There was no one in this world she trusted more than Astrid, and no one more deserving of her confidence. As she eyed the old woman her gaze slowly turned from that of doe-eyed gratitude to the shifty visage of a schemer.

  “That look, I know it.” Astrid said warily.

  “What look?”

  “The one you’re giving me right now.”

  “That’s just my face.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I don’t have a ‘look’.

  “Then why are you smiling like that?”

  Sigrid threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. It’s just- The others would turn a blind eye towards Sindhome in pursuit of a vague and illusory peace. You and I know better.”

  “Aye, that we do.” Astrid quietly sealed the bedroom door before leaning forward. “What trouble are we finding?”

  “Take matters into our own hands. Go to Sindhome. Be my eyes and ears, leave no stone unturned. Our friends might find their better senses if we have evidence of the Church’s plottings.”

  They spoke long into the night, layering and sequencing a destined night and day and week to come. And as they schemed, Astrid smiled.

  It's like she’s a child again. She thought. My sweet, troublesome Sigrid.