A Viking's Rage

Chapter 11

Roel stepped into the shadowed hut on the outskirts of Hafrafell, the faint smell of decay and herbs mingling in the air. Bones of animals and humans alike lay scattered on the dirt floor, grim offerings to the gods. The flickering light from a small fire barely illuminated the space, casting strange, shifting shadows across the walls.

“The great Jarl comes seeking answers,” rasped the Seer, his voice rough and otherworldly. “His mind is clouded, weary with memories best left buried.”

The Seer sat cross-legged on the floor, his hideous face shrouded in shadow. A wooden mask carved with grotesque features hung nearby, an unsettling guardian of his secrets.

“Já,” Roel said, his voice low. “I come with questions about a child.”

The Seer tilted his head as if listening to a voice only he could hear. “Já, já…" the child foretold in the prophecy. The gods have spoken of an heir, long lost. He will fulfill their will and bring forth Den Danske lov—the uniting of great lands under a single rule. England and our people, bound by fate.”

Roel’s brow furrowed. “The gods have chosen a boy, then?”

“Nei, Lowzow, there is no mistake,” the Seer crooned. “The child is male. He bears a mark—a sign gifted at birth by the gods themselves.”

“Could you be wrong?” Roel demanded, his tone sharp.

The Seer cackled, a sound that made the hair on the back of Roel’s neck rise. “Nei,” he said again, the word lingering ominously in the air.

Roel turned sharply and left the hut, his cloak whipping behind him. He would prove the Seer wrong, for the girl had unsettled him deeply. If she bore the mark, then the gods’ plans might not be as certain as the Seer believed.

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Hafrafell

Ragda had saved Aiya from his brother’s wrath, but the act had not come without consequences. Dagr, feeling cheated, had grown angrier and more resentful by the day.

In the larder, Dagr sat on the floor, his back against the wall. A jug of ale rested in one hand, his battle ax balanced on his knee. Around him, spilled grain from a slashed sack covered the ground in a mess he hadn’t bothered to clean.

Ragda had always been the favored son. A father to love him, a future to inherit, armies to command—all handed to him without question. Dagr had earned his place through his strength and bloodshed, but it was never enough. Ragda had taken everything, and now, even the girl was slipping from his grasp.

The door rattled as someone pounded on it from the other side.

“La meg faen alene!” he slurred, not bothering to move.

“Dag?” came Ragda’s voice.

Dagr groaned, staggering to his feet and unlocking the door. It swung open, and his younger brother stood in the doorway, his expression calm and calculated.

“Why are you sulking in the larder?” Ragda asked, his tone mildly amused.

“What do you want?”

“The Jarl is sending us to Hedeby. We leave now.”

“What awaits us in Hedeby?” Dagr asked, his grip tightening on the ax.

“It is for me to know and you to follow, stóri bróðir,” Ragda replied with an arrogant smile, nodding toward the weapon in Dagr’s hand. “Planning to use that?”

“Not yet,” Dagr muttered, setting the ax aside. He clapped a heavy hand on Ragda’s shoulder and gave a crooked grin. “To Hedeby, then.”

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