The Witch Queen Saxa had alway been a cruel bitch. Syn had learned that too quickly, her childhood a blur of lessons in the arts of magic and punishments for any perceived failure. Making a fool of herself in court would be one of those failures promising a harsh fate like any in the coven, but not this day if she could help it.

“I saw a great power within one of the Hastingy Völva!” Syn shouted.

Her mother's hand paused inches from her face, sparks like clashing metal and shimmering air still emanating from the limb.

“That is no excuse,” Saxa said without anger or passion as if Syn were no more than one of her coven sisters. She supposed that was because it was true.

Syn struggled not to back away. Doing so would have her pinned to a wall, her feet frozen in ice, or any number of lessons her mother was happy to impart. “See what I saw first.”

Saxa tilted her head to the side. Half a breath later she pressed a finger against Syn’s head, eyes turned white.

Immediately, the urge to retch came over Syn. Her mother's power bore into her, digging far deeper than needed as if this was the punishment she'd promised. But then her eyes widened as she touched the day's memories and saw that smiling vaettir.

Saxa recoiled as if struck, a waterfall of nonsense spilling from her mouth.

“What the fuck was that!” Saxa finally blurted out. She stepped away from Syn walking about the chamber. “A wraith? No, even a wraith lord couldn't possibly.” She paused again and laughed. “The knife, it has to be bound to the knife. That fool bitch Aslaug doesn't even know what she has. With that, the Hastingy, no, all of Germa would be ours!”

Now the other women in the room seemed to join in the Witch Queen's elation knowing little of what she saw but always eager to please. Syn was just glad she wasn't about to lose another piece of her soul. That sort of injury lasted far longer than one that bled. There was still a hole in her heart from the last time, a sense of something pleasant lost, the stolen memories being unknown only making its absences more pronounced.

Saxa's eyes focused on Syn once more. “You will ensorcell Jarl Halvar.”

“But the knife?” Syn asked.

“First you shall be wed to the Jarl. The man is a troll shifter. The power of his blood will be far greater than any but an Aesir.”

“Can we not make our own troll shifter?” an acolyte asked.

Syn shuddered at that as well as half the coven. Trolls were not moon spirits. To touch one would visit horrors upon any sorcerer fool enough to channel it. Aslaug's withered face was more than enough proof of that.

But as mist mad as it had been, Aslaug forced great power into her Jarl. The man was as close to an immortal as one could get. More so even as he would not fall to anything less than flame or a beheading. And the child of such a man might still hold the strength of his father. With a sorcerer mother, a new kind of power could be born.

“Wait for the moment Halvar is without his Völva to work your magic,” Saxa ordered, earning a nod for Syn.

****

“Halvar without his Völva,” Syn spat days later and still his Völva was on him like a shadow.

It had taken long for the Hastingy to enter Skorradalr and already fights were breaking out all over the fortress. Craven they called the Wodanar mostly in whispers, but not alway, leading to a handful of murders.

It had all been Mother’s fault. Better to let the other tribes kill each other she had said until Halvar marched on her for being carven. Now Syn, as the Jarl’s daughter was forced to make peace while Halvar did the same, his younger Völva always at his side.

Syn saw him at the edge of a square of men, a homehang with two fighting in the middle with sword and ax and shield. Syn made her way through the gathering until reaching his side but his eyes were focused on the duel while that Völva, Gry, Syn thought her name was, eyed only her.

“Arvid Daughter,” Halvar said in greeting.

By the gods, did he not even know her name? Would she have to pray to Freya to catch his attention?

The Wodanar man in the square landed a slash across his foe's shoulder, sending blood spraying and Syn recoiling from the gore.

“We should put a stop to this,” she said.

“Your man called ours a thief,” Gry said. “Claimed he stole food.”

A likely enough claim as food was growing sparse. Most went to the Hastingy fighting men only making tensions worse. But it was better to give some then have it all taken in a raid.

The Hastingy fighter fell to the muddy ground as his shield was cut to splinters.

“Ain't you going to stop this?” Syn asked.

Halvar grunted. “And shame them both, no. Better to have bloodshed in the square than out.”

With that he walked off. Syn moved to follow but Gry barbed her path.

The Völva leaned in close and breathed in as if to smell her then chuckled. Syn backed away nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Craven, just like the rest of your tribe.” Gry said, shaking her head in consternation. “No wonder we have to fight this war for you.”

Anger bubbled in Syn's chest waking her bound vaettir as it tempted her to use its power. She could impale this savage woman with a root and already one wormed out of the ground.

A wet gasp resounded and the Hastingy whooped.

Syn looked past Gry with her sight while still staring her down. The hasting fighter had rallied, ruining the other man's throat with a horizontal slash. He drifted forward grasping his foe by the hair and rammed his sword down his neck, bringing forth more blood and another round of whooping.

Gry gave a toothy smile eyeing Syn as she spoke loud enough so that all present could hear her. “Have any of your tribe's men survived a square? Best tell them to know their place and hope Hadding can make men of them with time.”

Every Wodanar sword was drawn at that, followed by the Hastingy. Had this been their plan, entering the fortress only to force an attack in a veiled attempt to preserve their honor. And they thought the Wodanar Craven.

A man finally charged, his sword raised for blood but halted as an explosion of sound like a shattering bolder resounded. Syn spun with everyone finding Halvar on the ramparts with a hand halfway embedded in the wall, cracks spreading out and rock falling from the impact of his fist.

“Swords away,” Halvar said, his tone inviting no discussion.

Gry through a hand around Syn’s shoulder. “See, know your place.”