Chapter Text
The bard said:
Your grandmother’s grandmother: Onoria daughter of Estrith, daughter of Inga Sword-Breaker, daughter of Bjarna Green-socks who broke the bars in the east and freed her shipmates from death. Back, back again, and further still until we reach Queen Elinor, fosterling of Riella and Alis, those first queens whose deeds are too great to mention here. Elionor was born of Runhild, daughter of Thurdis and Stigr, the last true hersr of Trønd.
The bard said, Stigr had another daughter, taken on Ásdis Tahtisoja, greatest huntress of the Northern tribes, and gestated by the heart of an ice bear, so that even before she was born, Aykana Stigsdóttir had the strength of snow in her bones. But in those times, a wyrd beyond imagining in a girl-child was not wanted. Troll-luck, her father’s men said, witch-get from beyond the yard, inviting spirits from the trees with her presence in the hall.
No matter. We know now: what are the words of men against fate? What are barbs in a hall to stop a tale from being told, fireside to fireside, until it reached here, to you who share her blood. Quiet! What tale shall you hear: Of how Aykana, still a child, took spear in her hand to kill the great boar, so its flesh could heal baby Runhild from wasting sickness? We already know she succeeded, but some say Stigr raged at his child doing what his men could not, and in his fury forced Aykana to eat the heart she had intended for her sister. She rued fate that day, vowed to grind it like gristle in her teeth, and after the final bite, she screamed to bring the mountains down around them. Her father’s daughter she was, not even he could deny. The hall was only saved when Gunvar Griersson, who you know, threw her into the bay.
Or would you hear of her first encounter with Finebeard? Another wyrd as only came in those times, not content with the mountains that bore him, expanding his influence across the North. He slid his smooth-keeled boats onto the shale, invited his six-score men to Aykana’s betrothal feast. They were poor guests, arriving late when all the suitors and Stigr’s men were deep into their cups. But Aykana could weave as well as she could hunt, and felt the weft of fate tightening around the hall. Dressed in silks and armed with her father’s great knife, she led the charge, left the gate and stormed the beach with her skirts girded to her thighs to fight like a stag upon the heath, gods and the mountains guiding her hand.
No. You know the story of how Trønd fell, and a battle is a waste of an evening’s tale. I’ll tell you this instead, how Aykana sought her fate with the deathless mage, how Valend came to stretch its mantle to the North, and how one woman brought the age of heroes to an end.
The bard said,