Apocalypse

Kjellfrid had been making either Lagertha or Ragnbjǫrg take her here each year since her discovery. The last three trips, since her majority, she’d come alone. Today she knelt in the shadow of the ancient tree stump where she’d appeared out of the fog nine years ago. It was mid-afternoon now and although the sun had burned off the fog and taken the chill out of the air, it wouldn’t be long before both creeped back into this blasted field of stumps and boulders.
 
She’d never yet discovered anything new about herself or her divine connection on these visits, but the compulsion to come here on the anniversary of her appearance had never lessened. The last few years had been especially frustrating, because although her oracular visions had begun to lead her places and involve her in events, she had never had so much as a fragment of a vision here in the place of her birth. In a near trance, the sounds and smells of battle washed over her. They never receded entirely but at times like this, they were impossible to ignore even if she wanted to. But far from trying to ignore the shouts of the victors, the cries of the vanquished, or the smell of blood and fire filling her nose, she embraced the sensations in the hope of sparking something. She silently mouthed prayers to the All-Father, to Valfreyja, and to Haljarūna, entreating them to share their wisdom, to reveal her purpose.
 
The deep, sonorous croak of a raven launched her out of her reverie. Kjellfrid’s eyes flew open and she was greeted by the sight of a large raven perched on the tree trunk not three feet from her face. Ravens were curious by nature, but she had never encountered one so fearless as to approach within arm’s reach of a person. The bird cocked its head and appeared to be studying her. She stared back, holding her kneeling pose so as not to frighten it off. Seconds passed as they stared at each other. Suddenly the raven whipped its head around, unleashed a strident cry of alarm, and took flight.
 
Kjellfrid leaned around the stump, peering in the direction the raven had looked, and silently cursed. Not 100 feet away, an ogre was standing in the shadows at the edge of the field. She cautiously eased back behind cover. Even a single ogre represented a significant threat to a lone warrior of her ability and ogres frequently traveled in packs. She waited and listened, trying to determine if it was alone. After a few seconds, she was convinced it was alone, although she couldn’t point to any one thing that gave her that impression. If it was alone, she had a chance. Not much of one, mind, especially since at this distance, she probably couldn’t outrun it if she simply chose to flee.
 
She heard the ogre enter the clearing and resolved that she would have to make her stand. Moving carefully, she picked up her shield and gripped her axe. Silently thanking Lagertha and Ragnbjǫrg for their training, she rose to her feet with death in her eyes and a song on her lips. The ogre was closer and responded quickly, roaring a challenge in reply as it charged. Kjellfrid channeled the will of the gods into her axe and raised her shield. The ogre’s massive pick was poised to swing, but Kjellfrid swung first, connecting with its hip and drawing from it a gout of black blood and a roar of pain. After that, thought was gone, subsumed by the exhilaration of battle and the primal urge to survive.
 
It ended with Kjellfrid’s axe buried in the ogre’s throat, cutting off its final cry with a wet gurgle. She sagged against a boulder that was steaming in the cold spring air from the spray of human and ogre blood across its surface as the ogre collapsed on its side. Drawing a ragged breath, she retrieved her axe and took stock of her wounds. The ogre’s pick had destroyed her shield and torn a deep furrow across her left side. Her right leg would barely take her weight and she was pretty sure she had some broken ribs and a broken left arm.
 
As her senses returned, the immediate priorities were clear. The sounds of battle and smell of blood were bound to attract attention. In her current state, she didn’t like her chances against a puppy, let alone a wolf or pack of wolves, or more ogres. She needed to bind her wounds and stop any bleeding, then put some distance between herself and this battlefield. Then she needed to find a safe enough place to make camp, which a glance at the sky told her she’d probably be doing after dark.
 
With a groan, she fetched her pack and the healer’s kit within it and set to work. Ten minutes later she was no longer bleeding, she’d got her left arm in a sling, and was ready to set off, using the butt of Heartseeker to support her weight on her right side. It was slow going, made slower by the need to conceal her tracks as she went, but after 3 hours, she was confident she’d moved far enough. As expected, the sun had already gone down. Thanks to her darkvision, it was only the cold of a spring night in the mountains and her injuries that made pitching camp more difficult.
 
She was exhausted by the time she crawled into her tent, but her work wasn’t yet done. Getting out her healer’s kit again, this time she stripped off her armor, cleaned her wounds thoroughly, and rebound them. Then she leaned on her magic to clean her weapons, armor, and clothes and to heat water to wash her face and hands. Her hair would have to wait for now. Finally, she ate an extra large meal of smoked reindeer and dried fish before collapsing, exhausted, in her bedroll.
 
Kjellfrid fell quickly and deeply asleep and dreamed of battle. The very elements were at war. She saw pillars of fire, gale-force winds, and tidal waves battering a green and verdant land. Knights in shining armor. Great eagles and lions. Foul beasts and darkness. At first she thought that this must be fimbulvetr, the time of great strife that will precede the end of the world, but that wasn’t right. There was a creeping sense of dread, disorder, and wrongness. A feeling that this war should not be happening, that it must not be allowed to happen. The dream ended suddenly in emeralds and feathers: White, red, and black.
 
She awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. Kjellfrid was a devoted journaler, recording her thoughts, experiences, and dreams since she was a child, but she knew that she would not have to write a single word about this dream. It was seared into her memory, into her very being, and she would be able to recall every aspect of it, in detail, until she drew her final breath. As her heart rate returned to normal, she sipped some water and eased open the flap of her tent. A pretty, late morning spring day greeted her and she crawled out of the tent to begin her daily preparations.
 
After checking her wounds, stretching, washing, and dressing, she settled down to pray. The familiar prayers were a balm that soothed the unease of her vision. Her focus returned and the sound and smell of battle receded. She felt stronger this morning, more in tune with the gods. When her final prayer ended and she opened her eyes, Kjellfrid was startled to discover a large raven perched on the end of the deadfall she’d pitched her tent against. It studied her quietly and she studied it in return. She couldn’t say why, but she was certain that this was the same raven that alerted her to the ogre yesterday.
 
Moving slowly and deliberately, she retrieved a strip of dried fish from her pouch and offered it to the bird. It started walking down the log towards her before her arm was fully extended, but waited for her to complete the motion before taking the fish from her fingers and gulping it down. With a start, Kjellfrid realized the mild hunger she’d been feeling had vanished. The raven hopped from the log to land on her knees where she knelt. It was tall, easily more than two feet, but it still had to look up to watch her face. They studied each other that way. Minutes passed. Finally, she asked it, “What is your name?” The raven let out a short bark and then responded in creaky Norrǿna, “Sigur (victory), my kýsur (chooser).”
 
Kjellfrid’s eyes widened in shock. Kýsur was the Norrǿna word for chooser and one of the two root words of valkyrja. Calming herself, she asked another question, “Sigur, do you have a message for me?” The bird laughed– it actually laughed, “You received your message before waking, kýsur. We are joined now. Where you go, I go.”