A Mother's Toll

A Mother’s Toll

Only she remembered what happened on their wedding night. No one else. Certainly not my father, who had roared toasts to Frigja and Freya until he could no longer stand. His brothers had hauled him out of the Great Hall, singing and laughing all of the way to the edge of the village where his hut had been built, nestled in the shadows of the hills. 

“The battle is not yet won, mighty Ecgfrith,” Osred warned, his eyes glinting with mirth. Ecgfrith, arms wrapped around Coenred and Osred’s shoulders, struggled to turn and focus on his sibling’s face. “Let us hope for dear Arilda’s sake that you are still fit to wield your sword.” He slapped his youngest brother in the groin and he and Coenred exploded into fits of laughter once again.

With some effort, Ecgfrith staggered the final steps towards the hut and held tightly onto the timber of the doorframe. He stood upright, grinning and swaying. “I have faced worse odds.” 

The brothers cheered and turned now towards Arilda, who had followed some steps behind them. “He’s all yours, my lady,” Coenred boomed, one hand upon his barreled chest and his head bowed in mock fealty. 

She smiled back at him, and at Osred. They had always treated her well, even as a young child, and her smile was genuine. “Thank you, noble brothers,” she replied playfully. “Now I believe it is time for my husband to carry me across the threshold.” She walked over to Ecgfrith, who wrapped a long arm around her and slumped his head on her shoulder. “Or perhaps it is I who shall carry him.”

Osred chuckled. “Perhaps you are right. Come now, Coenred. Let us leave the happy couple be. Our brother needs his rest, and more besides!” He took Arilda’s hand in his and squeezed it. “We will see you tomorrow, sister, after the morgengifu. The village will be waiting.” Arilda nodded. “But for now, more mead!”

The older brothers turned and lumbered back towards the Great Hall. Though the night was dark, it was a path well-trodden, and the sounds of the festivities drifted on the midnight wind, urging them forward. It was Hrethmonap, a joyous time in Adgefrin regardless, but the wedding of its finest young warrior and his striking bride had filled the village with raucous delight. Even far-flung relatives from across the kingdom had travelled to see the ceremony and join them in the feast.

Oswig, their ruler, and father of Ecgfrith, had presented a handsome handgeld to Arilda’s family, and had himself hunted the deer that they had feasted upon that evening. While not of noble blood, Oswig could tell that his new daughter-in-law was of noble heart. She had always been fiercely determined - he had seen that in her as a youngling, staring bright-eyed at him across the Great Hall, eager to take in every detail of every tale that was told by the firelight. He had not known her father - a travelling bard, they say - but her mother had raised her well, with the resilience that is born of hardship.

Yes, he had thought. She was a fine match for his youngest son. He himself made a fine suitor, also. Many men had fallen under Ecgfrith’s blade, the sword that he had now gifted to his young wife. It was a fine weapon indeed - a sword that Oswig himself had given to his son. As first-born, it was Osred who had received the family’s ancestral blade, one that had been passed down for generations. Coenred was yet to find a wife. But the sword that Oswig had gifted Ecgfrith was a marvel, of sorts. He had acquired it only months ago, when he and his men had raided beyond the hills, across the border into the wildlands. They had chanced upon a cave, set deep into the rocks of a plunging waterfall, wherein they found a band of young men. They were unlike any Bryttas Oswig had seen, tall and gaunt, with dark, flowing robes and neatly cropped hair, but they were no match for him and his men. The sword, too, was unlike any other he had wielded, with a delicately crafted pommel and golden hilt-plates that flashed in the sunlight, and fanciful symbols inscribed in the bottom of the blade. He could not be sure of its origins, but it was undoubtedly the work of a fine craftsman. Important, too, he fancied - the strange men had spread themselves at his feet when he prised it from their keeping, pleading in strange tongues and clutching curious wooden pendants to their chests. And then, finally, when bargaining had failed, they had hurled themselves in desperate attack, shrieking and wild-eyed, falling like lambs under their spears. They had scoffed at them, he and his men. A senseless end, when he had offered them mercy. This sword was all he had taken in return. 

In truth, he had been loath to part with it, but the coming of age of his youngest son had demanded a generous prize. Now, Arilda would keep it as her own, until it could be passed to their firstborn son. In turn, she had presented a new sword to her husband as part of the ceremony, pronouncing the words, “With this blade, keep safe our home.”

Oswig knew that Ecgfrith would do so. The sword, now sitting in its place above their hearth, would be no mere ornament. While not as battle-hardened as Osred and Coenred, and lacking the brute strength of their mountainous frames, Ecgfrith had already proven himself as a fearless and relentless warrior. Wily, too, even in the heat of the skirmish. A son he could be proud of.

It had warmed his heart to witness the Handsel and ratify the couple’s pledge to wed. And he had eagerly counted down the days until the Weofodthegn blessed the ground to make it hallowed, as the villagers watched on. Their sacrifices had been generous indeed - and the feast as grand as any he had known - and he was certain that the gods would like kindly upon this union. 

He sat, now, at the head of the great table, watching Osred and Coenred return to the Husel. “Sons,” he called, arms raised. “How fares our mighty Ecgfrith?”

“He will be sleeping like a babe,” Coenred chuckled. “Especially once Arilda has had her way with him.” All three roared with laughter. 

“Gods be praised,” Oswig shouted, raising another cupful of mead, and the rest of the villagers echoed his toast around the Great Hall.

- - - - - - -

Out on the edge of the village, Ecgfrith was indeed sleeping soundly. Their coupling had been clumsy and brief, and it was mere moments before he had slumped, unconscious, onto the straw mattress. 

Arilda lay beside him, wide awake but content. She knew that they would be roused by their brethren shortly after daybreak, ready to begin the hunigmonap. But she wanted to savour this night for a few minutes more, to bask in the sweet joy that still drifted through the village, at least until morning. So there she lay, in the flickering light of the tallow candles, watching it dance upon the silver ring that now adorned her finger, wishing that she could remain in this moment forever.

Not everyone married for love, and she had mouthed many a silent prayer to the gods for bringing them together. She listened to the rumble of his snoring, its steady rhythm helping to soothe her towards sleep, until she became aware of another sound, coming from outside the hut. A soft scraping, as if someone was running their hands along the wooden slats of the wall, followed by the thudded, padding steps and heavy breathing of a battle-worn fighter or spent lover.

Arilda climbed from the mattress, alert once more. “Coenred?” she called. “Osred? Is that you?” There was no reply.

She listened intently over the noise of Ecgfrith’s slumber. The scraping had stopped, but she could still hear the faint sound of someone - or something - moving around nearby. And then, a soft cry of surprise, “Another who cannot hold their drink, I am sure,” she muttered, though her words lacked conviction. Some of her fellow villagers may indeed have wandered astray following the feast, but her and Ecgfrith’s new home was furthest from the Great Hall. Her mind briefly flitted to thoughts of marauding wildmen, stealing through the copse at the foot of the hill in the faint flashes of moonlight, but she knew that they would not have risked crossing the treacherous moorland in near darkness, certainly not after the Spring rains. Besides, at this time of year, it was mating season, and wolves roamed the hills with fearsome purpose.

“Wolves,” she breathed. Could it truly be so? Was it the panting of the hunt that she could hear? But what could have emboldened them to enter the village? Their livestock grazed away to the east, in the fertile grass fields through which the burn flowed, arterial and vital. They were well guarded - the shepherds were armed with spears, and each was accompanied by fierce and loyal hounds. One hint of lupine scent would send the dogs into a snarling frenzy. And here, though at the furthest reaches of the settlement, they were still encircled within the protective fence, shoulder-high and sturdy. No, she told herself. There must be another explanation. But Arilda knew that she could not simply cower in her home until she had found out what.

Silently, she stole over to the doorway and placed her ear to the small gap between the door and frame. The noises had grown fainter still. Arilda armed herself, retrieving her new bridal sword from its sheath, and used the candle to light a torch. She whispered a plea - to any gods who might hear her - then, grimacing, slowly opened the door and stepped into the night.

Outside, she found only darkness. The air felt cool and moist. The wind was moving in from the east, bringing with it the first touches of morning mist, and the grass between her feet was wet with dew. She could not be certain how close to the hut the trespasser remained. Waving the torch this way and that, Arilda raised her sword and held it at arm’s length, pointing towards where the light touched. 

Nothing.

“Show yourself!” she demanded, her voice more level than she had expected, searching out into the cold air.

Again, no answer.

She moved away from the hut, pulling the door closed behind her - fearful that her new husband would be in no fit state to take on an intruder - and began to tread softly along the path back through the other buildings and towards the Great Hall.

No sooner had she taken a dozen steps that she heard a low growl off to her right. Arilda swung the torch towards the sound, and, to her horror, saw two enormous yellow eyes glinting back at her in the firelight. Below them, a set of fearsome fangs, as long as her trembling fingers, dripping with blood. And at the beast’s feet, the torn and mangled body of a young man. “Ceolwald!” she gasped. The blacksmith’s son, with a telltale shock of red hair and distinctive tall boots, lay lifelessly on the ground. He was a beanpole of a boy, but he was dwarfed now by the towering frame of the huge wolf that had ripped him apart.

Arilda tried to back away, to move back towards the hut. Yet with each step she took, the wolf moved too, advancing towards her menacingly with its teeth bared. She could wake Ecgfrith, she thought - shake him until he could stand, and help her to warn the other villagers, somehow. Or she could simply scream, and pray that Oswig, or Coenred, or another brave warrior would come to her aid. But what if they did not? What if another young soul, like poor Ceolwald, answered her cries, and ended up in those monstrous jaws? No, she resolved. She knew what she had to do.

“You shall go no further, foul creature!” she shouted. She thrust the end of the torch into the soft ground, and paced backwards, ready to make her stand. She pointed the sword at the wolf and she too curled her lips back and snarled. It stopped for a moment, belly close to the ground, and a spark of hope filled Arilda’s chest. She breathed in deeply, ready to bellow a battle cry. But it caught in her throat as the animal stepped towards the torch and into its light.

This was no ordinary wolf. Its fur was onyx black, sleek and thick, and it was larger than any Arilda had ever heard spoken of, even in the great tales that Oswig had recited to her as a child. Its snout was scarred with strange markings, too precise to have been made by nature. And she could see, to her astonishment, that around its neck there hung a strip of leather, bearing a small, circular wooden carving. “By the gods,” she gasped.

In the blink of an eye, the creature leapt towards her. It barreled into her midriff, knocking the air from her lungs and sending her crashing to the ground.

She tried to scream but no sound came out. She could only lie helplessly as the massive animal pinned her into the earth, its triumphant growl reverberating through its body into hers. Her arm came up to her face, instinctively, and she gasped in agony as she felt the enormous jaws lock around it, piercing the flesh and splintering the bone. It gnawed at her, and its claws tore into her torso, desperately trying to reach her neck and chest. Instinct took over, and she thrashed about with her legs wildly, blinded by the white-hot pain. Her own blood and the beast’s hot, frothing saliva filled her eyes and mouth. She had been taught, since she was but a child, not to fear death, but this was no glorious end, with a place awaiting her in the Hall of Warriors. This was terror, agonising and pure.

For a moment, the wolf released its grip, and high-pitched yowl filled her ears. Arilda blinked through the blood and saw that, with her free hand, she had plunged her blade into its neck. The wolf scrabbled backwards, rearing up on its hindlegs, contorting itself in the darkness. It pawed helplessly at the hilt, a gurgling growl in its flooded throat, then crashed to the ground beside her.

Arilda let out a triumphant roar, but it emerged feeble and hoarse. She herself was gravely wounded. Her left arm hung limply, almost severed, and dark blood continued to stream from it, each frantic breath weakening her further. Her tunic had been torn open at the waist and she could see, now, the deep, clawed wounds on her stomach. Even the slightest movement was agony. In her heart, she knew.

“Hear me, gods,” she whispered. She lay her head on the cold ground, looking up towards the hills. “Bear witness to my foe, dead by my hand.” 

The clouds seemed to thin for a moment and shards of ivory moonlight pierced through, casting a pale pallour over the ground beside her. ‘A sign!’ she thought to herself giddily. ‘The gods have heard my plea!’ She turned, as best she could, towards where her husband still slept. “Live well, dear Ecgfrith,” she breathed. “We shall see each other again, one day.” Arilda could feel herself starting to drift out of consciousness, and closed her eyes, ready to submit to the will of the fates.

A sound nearby hauled the world back into focus. One of the villagers? Ecgfrith himself? Had he stirred, and rushed to his missing wife’s aid? With great effort, Arilda opened her eyes once again. 

They widened in shock. A figure, cloaked in furs, was standing over her. Long blonde hair billowed in the breeze, wild yet regal, framing a face that was most beautiful. A woman, she realised. Despite the darkness, Arilda could see her features clearly, as if her skin was bathed in firelight.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

She looked down at Arilda with kindling eyes and smiled.

“You were indeed brave, child,” the woman said softly, looking up and down Arilda’s broken body. “These Nith are not easily killed by mortal hand.”

“Nith?”

She leaned down and ran her fingers across Arilda’s cheek. Their touch left her skin hot and tingling. Arilda tried hard to look up at the woman’s ethereal face once more, but she could feel eyes closing. She was beginning to slip away.

“Please,” she stuttered. “Please… tell Ecgfrith… I-”

“You will tell him yourself, child,” came the reply.

With a cry, the woman suddenly gripped Arilda’s shattered arm, and it was engulfed in flames. At the same time, her other hand pressed down onto Arilda’s torso, the white fire erupting from her wounds and flowing out into the sky.

Arilda arched her back and screamed, but no sound came out. She writhed and thrashed, but the woman held her down with ease, her eyes bright with fervour. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the flames were extinguished and she released Arilda from her grip.

To her astonishment, Arilda looked down and saw that her wounds were no longer there. Nor was her skin burned or blemished by the flames.

“Mighty goddess!” she gasped in realisation. “Hreda! It cannot be.”

“And yet here I stand.” Hreda held out a hand towards her, but Arilda recoiled. “Fear not, child.” She smiled again, warmly. “The flames’ work is done.”

Arilda nodded, and allowed Hreda to help her to her feet. The goddess stood beside her, looking intently at the carcass of the beast. 

“What calls the Nith to such a place?” she mused. “Högir has no power here.” Hreda crouched down and rolled the wolf onto its back. In doing so, she uncovered the sword with which Arilda had slayed it. She swept to her feet and faced Arilda, gripping her shoulders tightly. Her eyes were aflame and Arilda could feel the heat seeping into her own body.

“Where did you get that blade?” the goddess hissed.

“A-a gift! My husband’s sword!”

“And he?” Hreda gripped her ever tighter. “Tell me!”

“His father,” Arilda replied, tears streaming down her face. “They seized it. From a band of Bryttas. Please, Hreda, release me!”

The goddess held her face close to Arilda’s, as if she were staring deep into her being. Then she blinked, and her eyes softened, and she eased her grip upon the girl’s shoulders.

“I am sorry, child.” Hreda leaned down to pull the blade from the beast’s neck and held it up for Arilda to see. “This inscription, here. It is the mark of Högir. The destroyer.”

Arilda looked down at the sword. The markings had been faint, but they seemed to glow where the blood of the creature had been spilled. She looked back at Hreda in confusion. 

The goddess seemed to understand. “This was no mere wolf, girl.” This is a spawn of Fenrir himself. Hreda took the sword and cut the pendant from around the beast’s neck. She held it in her palm and it sparked into green flames, putrid and foul. And as it burned, Arilda gasped in horror. The body of the creature began to shrivel, its fur melting from its flesh, its limbs twisting and writhing, until what remained was not a wolf, but the corpse of a man.

“Impossible,” Arilda gasped.

“And yet you have witnessed it with your own eyes and ears.” Hreda replied. “Your senses do not deceive you. A feónd like he serves forces from beyond the realm of men.” She held out the sword towards Arilda. “This is what they seek, child. This blade, and those who took it from them. And they know that it is here, in Adgefrin.”

Arilda reached out to touch it, but Hreda thrust its point into the ground between them. She looked down at the hilt, with that same strange inscription. Hreda seemed to read her thoughts.

“This sword bears a name. Nagelstrond.” She spat the word as if it sullied her tongue. “It was not made by the hands of men. It was forged in the fires of Högir, upon the Corpse Shore. Even the gods fear it.”

Arilda stood quietly for a moment, her mind racing. “But how could such a weapon end up here?”

Hreda shook her head. “I cannot be certain. There are some things that even the gods do not understand. But one thing is clear. A darkness is coming. If the Nith already gather in the wildlands, there is little time to act. Soon, this kingdom will be engulfed in shadow. And Bernicia will fall.”

“Impossible,” Arilda spluttered. “Bernicia has the bravest fighters of all the Angelcynn! No army of wildmen, even with these abominations in their midst, will be a match for our warriors.”

Hreda sighed and . “Even the finest army cannot stand against the might of the Nith, my child. The power that they wield is too great. And should they recover what they seek…” She tailed off, shaking her head softly.

“Listen now, child, and listen well. You must leave Adgefrin. Travel east, to where the land meets the sea. There will be a boat there, to take you to the Ostmen.”

“The Ostmen?” Arilda said, her voice shaking. “But they are savages. I will surely be killed! Or worse…” 

“This is what fate has chosen,” Hreda interjected. “Wyrd works in ways that are a mystery to you and I. But this is the path that has been set.” She put her arms round Arilda and held her close to her chest. “Fear not, child. You will come to no harm with the Ostmen. The Nith hold no power there. Theirs is the land of the old gods. A land which is in your blood.”

“My blood?” Arilda questioned. “I do not understand.” 

Hreda paused and stared beyond Arilda, out towards the hills, her eyes fierce and bright. The wind had changed. She sniffed the air deeply and grimaced. “You must leave, now.”

“But I cannot,” Arilda protested. “Ecgfrith-”

“Ecgfrith’s place is here,” Hreda said firmly. “Adgefrin needs its warriors this night. Besides, no one must know of your intentions - not even your husband. He would not allow you to travel alone.” She drew Arilda close again and placed her hands upon her midriff. “Were he to go with you, yours is not the only life that would be forfeit.” Arilda looked up sharply and Hreda met her gaze, staring deep into her being. “You carry his son in your belly.”

Arilda’s face paled. “H-how can you be certain?”

“I feel him, child. Even now. A boy who will one day stand before the gods, at a time of great reckoning.”

She clutched at the goddess’ cloak. “Help me, Hreda. Please. I cannot do this alone.”

“Oh, but you shall not be alone! The gods will watch over you. And I will be with you, brave girl. Each Hrethmonap, on a night like this, when the ground has thawed and Spring has banished the ghosts of Winter, call to me, and I will come.” She smiled again, warmly. “But for now, you must away.” Hreda took Nagelstrond from the ground and wrapped it in her cloak. “And this blade of Högir must stay by your side, far from the clutches of the Nith. Keep it hidden, under my shawl. Only then will you and your son be safe. Promise me this!”

Arilda nodded. She understood. But her heart was torn. Only hours ago, she had been blissfully happy, ready to begin the life she had always dreamed of, safe and certain. Now, the path ahead was unknown and fraught with peril, carrying her son - a son that his father would not know existed.

She took one last look back towards where her husband slept, then stole out of the village and into the night.