A gorgeous and stunning raven flew its way up to Asgard. The land below was a truly magnificent sight… a great mountain held up atop Yggdrasill itself. Though the mountain was small, compared to the world tree, it made an already-impossible assault on Asgard doubly so.

  Soaring over it, I cawed with triumph. "Huginn! Where are you?" I said, looking around our favourite tree. It was always full of tasty spiders, and overlooked the great realm of the gods.

  "Oh? Back already?" Huginn was perched on one of the branches, preening his silky black feathers. "What've you been up to, Muninn?"

  "I'll tell you and Odinn at the same time!" I flew to the grand hall of Odinn, Valaskjálf. It was a great mead-hall, wider and taller than any other, and made of purest silver. There were lots of places to nest there, amongst the spears that served as rafters.

  Inside, there was an eternal feast in Odinn’s honour: with drinking and roasted dragon and constant duels and deaths (they don’t stay dead, though). There were also men and women doing the sorts of things they tend to do—on the tables, and rugs and… everywhere, really.

  And there was the Allfather seated upon his great throne.

  "Odinn! Odinn!" I wagged my tail as I perched on his hand, lifting my wings slightly.

  "Yes Muninn...? What have you found for me?"

  "A tree!" I cawed. "A tree inside a tree!"

  "...A tree inside a tree...?" Odin asked, drinking more ichor-wine. Mead and wine were all he drank and ate; for food impairs the mind with digestion. He stroked his beard, his one eye glazing over, staring into nothing. "So an etunn, then? I don't think you mean a mere wood-troll, and Huginn would be the one to be so excited if it were a discovery like a benign tree inside a tree. And quite an etunn indeed if he arranged to fit inside Yggdrasill, since you're so excited. It won’t be a small one or some merely unusual incident. Hmm... that is very interesting indeed."

  My tail stopped wagging. Odinn nodded, understanding why.

  "I don't suppose... that etunn must be behind the increased productivity of tappers? What does he do with the ichor… does he empower himself with it? Most etnar cannot or can only tolerate a little at a time; so was he grafted into Yggdrasill from his infancy? I know some of the etnar have been, successfully—and they are profound sorcerers."

  I hated it when he worked out all the good parts before I could say them. Since he gave up his eye to my old master, Mímir (rest his soul), he could see more with the wisdom he gained than if he had a thousand eyes.

  "Did I miss anything, Muninn? Come now, don't just stand there."

  I kept my beak shut.

  "Oh, of course..." Odinn lifted his hand... and one of his divine attendants approached. A Valkyrie named Hildr. She looked like Ragnhild, but moreso. I clicked excitedly, my wings fluttering.

  Huginn appeared. "Grubs! Grubs!" he shouted.

  "Grubs for ME!" I clarified.

  Huginn stopped. He flared his wings and let out a sharp caw. "Grubs for me, too! Grubs for me, too, Odinn!"

  "No! My grubs!" I flew over to the golden platter and lid the Valkyrie-thrall was bearing. "Open it up, or else!"

  You might find this funny... but this thrall-woman, Hildr, could not have lifted the lid faster. And while it may seem easy to scare a woman and a thrall... she possessed more rank and power than most kings!—even if she did wear a lot less clothing.

  The golden grubs panicked at the sight of me, their runed bellies shining and buzzing with protective spells and curses. One after another, I speared them with my beak and a little spell, which disenchanted their pitiful defences. I then picked them up and gobbled them. I croaked greedily and loudly as I swallowed each one—Huginn’s cawing growing all the more furious.

  He began to buzz at the other Valkyrie attendants, who ducked and dived for cover. He especially clawed at Skuld, the best target. She sang out the most endearing, shrill screams of terror, every time we did this to her.

  “Stop that at once, Huginn! You’ll get your own grubs when you find something interesting for me to ponder,” Odinn said, cross with Huginn. I could not be more pleased.

  “You were right, Odinn!” I cawed, trying to talk and eat grubs at the same time. “I can tell you where the etunn is, and fill in the details of just how easily I overcame him. But you got the main parts right! Should I send an army to crucify them?”

  “Oh, that does seem a good idea,” Odinn nodded. “Take the etunn alive, though—he seems interesting. But didn’t you already send one?”

  “Just a few hundred álfar, of no distinction—keeping the place under siege so they don’t close that annoying door again.” After savouring the last grub, I jumped back to Odinn’s hand, for the best part of all. He took his other hand… and scratched my head. I croaked happily, and Huginn was very mad.

  “Give me grubs, too!” Huginn cawed. “Give me scratches, too!”

  “Oh Huginn, do go and make yourself useful,” Odinn said, still scratching me. “But do make sure you come back safely! I worry about you—almost as much as I worry about Muninn’s antics.”

  ************************************************************************

  Ragnhild awoke surrounded by corpses. She smelled them before she saw them, and she rather wished to stay asleep—to let the flapping of wings lull her senses back to dreamland where Crow held her in his arms… and then dropped her off the tree.

  That woke her up; along with the overpowering stench. Rising on her elbows, she looked around with blurry eyes, feeling as if the arrow was still in her belly. All her bones and muscles ached, battered by countless twigs during her fall.

  Fall…? How far did she fall!? To her shock, she was sitting not on a twig or a branch... but one of Yggdrasill’s tangling roots! She must’ve fallen more than two miles.

  Even as her vision cleared, it was hard to see here, so far down the tree in the deep shadow of Yggdrasill. A dim, grey light pervaded—mostly that reflected by the snow and mountains around the tree. But through the greyness, she heard the flapping of wings, still… and saw their black shapes, and heard their voices.

  “What about this one, sisters?” one of the voices cackled; a female voice. Not quite a cackle, but sweeter, higher pitched—like the melody of a bird. Their black-feathered wings made them like living shadows dancing before her in the dim light. These were hrafnmeyjar, raven-maidens….

  A second voice answered: “Strong arms, sinewy… but he’s split in two at the waist. Not worth the effort carrying up—but he’s a good, beefy fellow all the same.” There was lust in her tone… but a different kind of hunger as well, that made Ragnhild’s skin try to crawl away without her.

  “He is half the weight, though.” The first voice countered, and Ragnhild could see long, womanly fingers caressing the strong arms.

  A third voice replied, a third set of wings barely visible amongst the other two: “Gondul doesn’t pay for half-men,” she said, severe and chiding. “And the Warrior’s Thread is a little limp when I hold it over him… but he’ll still make good meat. Pity he isn’t alive with his lower half, for some sport.” And then, the severe one took the knife, and put it to his arm, cutting—oh Freyja! Ragnhild turned away, covering her ears from the sounds of… chewing, snarfing, comments on the texture of the “meat.”

  “Get the prime cuts,” the severe, third voice said.

  “But this one is so fresh, we should take the whole thing.” The first cackling voice said.

  “We’ll find other meat before light’s end. Now hurry up, we need to find at least one warrior for Valh?ll.”

  “Oh look… a slender boy over there!”

  Ragnhild could practically hear the monster pointing at her. She covered her mouth, trying to stop her fearful, gasping breaths.

  Freyja please… let it be they were pointing at someone... something else, Ragnhild prayed.

  There was a flapping of wings… and it descended upon her.

  “Boy, you say? You going blind, Skugga?” the second, lustful voice said. Ragnhild clenched her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter.

  “Well, fancy me! A little lady, with all her arms and legs,” Skugga, the first voice said this, sweetly cackling again. “And with a better figure than yours, too, Snarika.”

  The second, lustful voice, Snarika, let out a cawing hiss. “Watch your tail, skitfugl—she’s just meat now, and her red hair did her no favours. Nor did her little horns… seems she’s a norn-blood.”

  A tiny cry of fear threatened to give Ragnhild away… but they already found her, surely. She could feel them looming over her, in her very soul, that hers was the red hair they spoke of, the figure that was meat for them.

  “Make sure to cut that hair off first, it will make lovely lace,” the unnamed, third and severe voice ordered. “Take the whole scalp, and the horns too, we’ll sort it out later… and make sure not to get blood in the hair!”

  A long tiny squeal escaped Ragnhild’s clenched teeth, as Skugga spoke again: “Let’s just carry the pretty thing back, whole—there’s lots of juicy fat to—” Skugga grabbed Ragnhild by the hair, even as she argued not to scalp her… and Ragnhild never screamed so loud in her whole life. Her teeth ached with the high pitch, her hands flailing to grab Skugga’s hand and pull it off her red hair.

  Three more terrible, eagle-like screams answered her.

  “It’s a draugr!” Skugga tumbled backwards, pulling away from Ragnhild’s grasping hands. Scrabbling away with hands and her bird-like feet, she leapt into the air, flapping her wings and taking flight. The other two leapt into the air as they screamed, taking off as naturally as startled sparrows.

  Ragnhild looked up, hoping she would see the last of them… but they circled around like vultures.

  “It’s not a draugr, you fífl,” Snarika said, already safely in the air. “She’s alive!”

  “Oh,” Skugga said with a grinning cackle, “I can fix that.” She flew higher, spear in hand… and swooped down to skewer Ragnhild!

  Ragnhild rolled aside, the spear thrust lazily at her chest. She felt an impact on one of her breasts. Hugging herself, rubbing the sore place, she thanked Freyja there was no searing pain—no part of her nicked or cut away by the spear. It must’ve been so dull it couldn’t pierce her clothes with such a thrust. But she was still in terror of when the next hrafnmey would strike.

  “Stop, you cloud-brain!” the severe one shouted. “Don’t kill her!” She descended to the ground, her own spear ready. Seeing this, the other two followed suit….

  And here I am without even a dagger, Ragnhild thought. It was taken from her by Crow before she was thrown off the tree, presumed dead. Or maybe she was dead!? This might be Hel, and these demons were sent to torment her—oh she should have never become a Tapper!

  She stood up, trying not to shake or give away her fear. The severe one approached, her face stern with old wrinkles… but what was most terrible was her eyes! They were like pools of blackness with no white to them, as dark as her soul. Her fan-like tail of feathers swayed as she walked up to Ragnhild, who saw the raven-maiden was quite short… even smaller than Stonebear. Oh, if only he were here… he’d scare off these little monsters. The crow-woman lifted Ragnhild’s chin with one hand, another of her hands clutching the spear near its head, ready to stab with it like a dagger. She was met with a blank stare, Ragnhild unsure what to say or do.

  “Such a pretty young thing… you’ll sell for a good price,” the old bird cooed. “Maybe even to Asgard with a face, body, and hair like this… but at least the álfar will buy you.” Ragnhld willed the tears not to fall, comforting herself that although she might become a thrall, it might be in Asgard. And to think, Njord said she’d never be chosen as one of the women who get taken there. Thus she became a tapper with him… and was finally going to Asgard.

  “We should sell Snarika while we’re at it!” Skugga cackled, leaning back and forth on her spear to get a better look at me. Skugga was young, but wiry and tough, her nose long and hooked like a beak, and her long black hair was tied into a simple ponytail; poorly combed and unkempt.

  “We tried to sell you, but we couldn’t pay them to take you!” Snarika snarled at Skugga, craning her neck like an angry crow. Despite that, she was clearly fair of face and form, looking rather like a large porcelain doll with black wings; her slender fingers circling around the spear, and her hair beautifully braided.

  Maybe she’ll be nicer than the scary old lady and the one who tried to stab me, Ragnhild hoped. It was unlikely she would be nice enough to help, though.

  “Look at this… she has beggar’s clothes! The worst rags I ever saw!” The porcelain doll pointed to Ragnhild

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  “They’re not beggar’s clothes… but they’ve been torn to ribbons recently,” the old woman said, holding up Ragnhild’s shreds of garment—making her feel suddenly naked.

  “Oh… torn up, are they? Well, that explains how you’re alive and apparently unhurt. You didn’t fall, but are one of the root-folk, aren’t you?” Snarika continued, tittering. “Some sweet boy used you and dropped you, didn’t he?”

  No he didn’t, Ragnhild wanted to say, but her voice came out as a fearful croaking.

  The ravens squealed and laughed at the admission by silence. “He led you up here, maybe to see the sun… then ripped off your clothes and had his way with you, leaving you to cry alone…? Poor thing.” Snarika covered her bright smile. Ragnhild wanted to laugh, too; to joke with them so they would like her… but she was too frozen in fear, staring mutely.

  “Pity he left you… he sounds like a good time.” Skugga licked her lips. Ragnhild shuddered, unsure which type of hunger drove her… likely both kinds. “Now, let’s get to tying up our pretty little thing, and hoist her up.” Strange to call Ragnhild little, when she was head and shoulders over these raven-maidens… though she felt very small.

  Skugga took some fine cord from the small pack that hung at her waist. “Hands forward and together, Legs, or we stick you a few times before we tie you up.”

  Ragnhild put her hands together.

  “Arms out further.”

  She reached out her arms.

  “Not so high, Ship-Tits—do you expect me to hover two feet off the ground while tying a knot?”

  She lowered her arms.

  “Good… now stay still.” Under the careful eye of the other two, their spears ready, Skugga wrapped the cord around Ragnhild’s wrists and bound it… TIGHT….

  “That’s too tight, you’re hurting me,” Ragnhild said. “I can’t feel my fingers…you have to loosen it.” But her voice was so small the raven-woman didn’t hear, or didn’t care.

  “Stop squirming!’ Skugga snarled. Ragnhild tried to… but her hands began to sting with pins and needles. What if they were going to keep her bound like this for hours? She might lose her hands. She struggled against the bonds, trying to loosen them herself, just a little—just so she could feel her fingers again.

  “Look at the poor hóra struggling,” Skugga cackled. And struggle she did... until the bonds BROKE. The tight little cords snapped, and Ragnhild’s hands flew out with all her strength as they did; surprising her, and surprising Skugga who was smashed right in her hook-nose. The raven-maiden was thrown back, her feet not able to stumble quick enough as she tripped and fell to the ground, clutching at her bleeding nose. “Sffee hit me!” Skugga growled. She tried to get up, and fell over again.

  At the same time, the other two ravens were startled. Snarika had been leaning casually on her spear, until she was shocked to alertness, scrambling to get it readied and pointed at their captive.

  The old woman was more present, and the moment Ragnhild slapped Sklugga off her feet, she had pointed her spear at Ragnhild’s neck. This looked a lot like trying to stab her, however. So, screaming, Ragnhild caught hold of the spear.

  “Let go, you heimskr Skítfari!” the raven-crone snarled, flapping her wings and digging in her talons as she tried to pull the spear free. But Ragnhild barely felt a thing.

  “We may eat you yet!” Snarika lowered her spear, thrusting it at Ragnhild’s horned head. But in the horned woman’s fright, time seemed to slow down, her mind racing faster than her limbs could move. Her brother had told her this sometimes happened to warriors in battle. Ragnhild ducked Snarika’s thrust with surprising ease. Then, pulling on the crone’s weapon with all her strength, she tried to yank it away, and take it for herself. But then she saw the crone came with it, swinging through the air as she hung onto the spear, screeching and flapping. The raven maidens were agape, watching Ragnhild try to shake their third member off the spear, waving her around easily. Indeed, they were almost as stunned by this feat of strength… as Ragnhild was.

  These raven-maidens weigh practically nothing, she thought, it’s like they’re leaf-paper dolls!

  Recovering from her astonishment, Snarika closed the distance with Ragnhild again, ready to skewer her this time; to open her guts and let that take the fight out of her, through pain or through death. At the sight of that pretty little face contorted into murderous rage, Ragnhild paled, stepping just out of reach of the first thrust. But the first was light and quick, to check her range, to make sure the second was true and full and deadly. And as she coiled up for that second thrust, Ragnhild turned on her, to present her own backward spear which she had been wrestling for, hoping to… do something to make the other spear not stab her. To parry, maybe—like in those games with Njord where he used to beat her up with sticks! She blocked, sometimes.

  And as she swung her spear around to defensively beat aside Snarika’s thrust… Snarika was hit by an old crone—the one being swung around on the end of a spear. The two tumbled together in a panic of flapping wings and tangling limbs, making a chorus of frightened, angry bird-sounds. Out of this, Ragnhild still held the spear and was turning it around so the dangerous end wasn’t pointing straight at her heart. And that’s when she noticed the broken-nosed raven-maiden, Skugga, crouching with her spear, poised to strike!

  When time had appeared to slow down, her eyes had become hyperfocused. Her vision narrowed to see only what was right in front of her, like she was looking through a narrow tunnel. Skugga, her black feathers blending well in the dim light, had crawled forward, retrieved her own spear, and was then thrusting up at Ragnhild’s belly!

  “Die, you—” the raven hissed, thrusting for all her worth. Ragnhild watched the spear reach out to touch her, painfully slow… but so was her body which stumbled and panicked as her mind screamed at it to move someway, somewhere far from this spot! She managed to get solid footing despite her scrambling limbs, to twist herself and leap aside the thrust! But she was just a moment too late, and as she lunged and twisted to get out of the way… the spear had already plunged into her stomach. “—Horned-hóra!”

  An evil satisfaction spread across the hrafnmey’s twisted face, as pain and horror took Ragnhild’s delicate features. It felt like all her strength had gathered to the place the spear had hit, her muscles tensing… and drained away as the blade sunk in. But the spear was not deep… so Skugga tried to push hard and drive it in deeper! Groaning with an agony as much from fear as pain, Ragnhild dropped everything and grabbed the spear! She was afraid to pull out the bladed head, lest it bring parts of her body out with it—but more afraid it dig in further, to let it cut into more of her flesh: scarring her, causing her guts leak out to defile her with their wretchedness… promising a slow and painful and disgusting death!

  The other two ravens had gotten to their bird’s feet, searching for where their spears had rolled in the growing darkness as this battle went on.

  “S-second time… you’ve been…” Skugga struggled for breath and presence of mind to speak, as she wrestled to control the head of her spear. She intentionally wiggled and angled the blade to make it as painful as possible. “...Penetrated… eh…?”

  Her viciousness made Ragnhild want to wilt… but her own body felt an anger overcoming it, a frustration at the monotonous wrestling and pain even as her will shrank. Pulling the spear out of herself with her hands, her legs worked to carefully pull her body off of it, her skin screaming as it felt itself pinch around the sharp edges of the steel. Skugga paled at the sight, desperately yanking and pushing, trying to get the weapon out of Ragnhild’s hands and back into her belly. So Ragnhild helped her, pushing the spear as Skugga pulled, then pulling it to one side as the hrafnmey desperately thrust again. And Skugga was pulled forward, losing hold of her weapon and sprawled across the ground, ready to be pinned to the ground.

  Ragnhild, stumbling back herself, gasped for pained and frightful breaths, holding Skugga’s spear. Like before, she turned the spear around… expecting to be stabbed any moment, trying to stab Skugga first, to kill her at the least. But then she saw the spear she had dropped—and Skugga reaching for it.

  Ragnhild didn’t even know whether the other Ravens had their spears and were about to stab her in the back, as all her attention was on Skugga—who had already found the other spear, and was again in that coiled up position to thrust at her belly anew! So Ragnhild didn’t bother to turn her spear around, but struck at once with the butt of it at that argr skitfugl—hoping to cave in her ugly skull or crush her breast and break her ribs!

  Skugga paled at the sight of Ragnhild, every bit the fierce Valkyrie with her red flowing hair who fought while wounded… yet still the raven-maiden struck first and quick! But Ragnhild’s reach was longer. The butt of the spear smacked into Skugga’s left arm, then thrusting past and punching into her chest! The hrafnmey’s thrust fell short in the same instant, losing its strength. Skugga rolled onto her back with the force of the blow, moaning and clutching herself, the spear falling from her hands.

  “Thor’s thunder!… aaah… you… bikkja!” Skugga spoke through sobs, crawling away with one hand. Ragnhild barely noticed, spinning around to see if another raven was about to strike, from the ground or from the air.

  She had to look low down to see them. Because they were kneeling.

  “Forgive us, Valkyrie!” The old crone said. “We didn’t recognize your… eminence….” She held that thread in her hand, the one she dangled over corpses—the ‘warrior’s thread’. Ragnhild saw it was pointing straight at her, as if a strong breeze were blowing it that way… though she felt no wind.

  Skugga looked about in confusion, as she heard the plea for mercy, and saw her ‘sisters’ kneeling. She then looked back to Ragnhild… and gaped. “G-g-g-g—I… d-d-didn’t….”

  Why was she staring like that… so afraid? Ragnhild felt scared, like there would be a fierce Valkyrie standing behind her. She looked back. There was none. Why were they all staring, then?

  She looked down at herself, pushing her breasts to one side so as to look at her wounded belly, without having to bend her waist and… possibly cause something to fall out of her.

  She gasped, but there was no pain—even though she should be completely dead. For her wound was visible through her torn clothes and, while not bleeding severely in large amounts of red blood… it bled a severely small amount of golden, glowing ichor—the deadly sap of Yggdrasill.

  Before her very eyes, the wound was slowly closing itself in a golden scab, her legs glowing with her own ichor… her own blood.

  “Spare us your wrath, great Valkyrie,” the crone pleaded. “We should’ve known you were such… what with your incredible beauty! But you said nothing… we are not ravenmeyjar to lure in and kill for sport, but are in service of Gondul, your mistress! We are fellow Valkyries, choosers of the slain.”

  ‘Valkyrie’ means ‘chooser of the slain’; they decide who dies in battle, and who goes up to Valh?ll from amongst the dead.

  “You call yourselves Valkyries…?” Ragnhild asked. “When you go about like hr?plokkarar, corpse-pickers, deciding which warriors to eat and which to sell? Choosers of carrion seems more apt.”

  A flash of indignation crossed their evil faces, and they bowed more deeply to hide it. They really were scared of her… as much as she was of them.

  “Don’t compare yourselves with Valkyries, you corpse-eaters!” Ragnhild saw them wilt further at her tongue-lashing, as no one ever did her whole life. She felt like Njord, her brother, towering over them.

  “But mistress,” Snarika said through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t you just tell us you were a Valkyrie, and not one of the root-folk?” Her voice was accusatory, and Ragnhild felt her stomach lurch.

  “I didn’t mean to trick you,” Ragnhild said, soothingly. “You didn’t really give me a chance to speak.”

  “But plenty of chances to ambush us and try to kill us?” Snarika hissed, her bow looking less like supplication and more like readiness to pounce. Skugga also came to life, adjusting the grip of her spear, even as she kneeled.

  Ragnhild looked between them, wondering if she should run. Strange as it might be, she was very fast, now, so she could escape and hide amongst the roots. As strong as she was, that spear had still pierced her, and she worried what the hrafnmeyjar could do if they weren’t trying to take her alive. They may even be desperate to silence her. If she ran they were sure to attack, and what monsters amongst the roots might she need to face as the light was fading? Could she even get up the tree without climbing gear or money…?

  “Why so silent… you are a Valkyrie, aren’t you?” Following Snarika’s eyes, Ragnhild saw they were locked onto the third fallen spear.

  “I’m just a bit rattled from the fall.” Ragnhild said. A mistake. Their black eyes lit up with wicked notions.

  “Well, you needn’t worry,” Snarika said, her voice as sweet as the smell of blood. “We’ll help you get up the tree, Valkyrie… that is, if you are a Valk—”

  “What else would I be, you stupid vermin!?” Ragnhild’s voice lashed out like a whip, Snarika recoiling like a punished dog. “You dared draw my golden blood, the sacred blood blessed by Odinn, and then suggest it’s just gold because I like the colour?”

  There was a threatening silence, but for once Ragnhild was the threat behind it. Njord had caused many silences like these—standing over them like a tyrant, his boot on everyone’s throat.

  “I didn’t mean…” Snarika began. The hesitation shrank her, just as her wings folded in to look less threatening, to draw less ire.

  “Oh, shut up!” Ragnhild snarled. And they actually did. “We’re losing light! So get me back up the tree lest I decide to have you punished instead of rewarded!” She pushed through the tremble in her voice, changing it into a growl of anger.

  A murmur of quiet subordination went through the three hrafnmeyjar. The old crone dared to speak again, having waited to see how the ‘valkyrie’ would react to the bluster of her younger ‘sisters’. “Mistress, I am Aeollo, the thread-bearer. We will arrange to lift you up at once, Valkyrie,” she said, her voice’s severity morphed into the simpering of an eager toad. “Only… if I might have my spear back, as it is an heirloom to my family, and the journey may be perilous for an old mortal such as I.”

  Was she planning something…? Or just humiliated to lose her spear?

  “You wenches dare to wound me… and I spare your lives—yet you ask for your weapons back…?” Ragnhhild was sure to emphasize she had spared them. Her terrified flailing seemed very impressive and intentional, in retrospect. “Give me your spears, I’ll use these puny weapons as javelins, and you can fetch them for me like dogs.” It was fun to be on top of the pecking order. No wonder Njord was always angry.

  “O-of course, great V-Valkyrie.” Skugga offered her spear, her high pitched cackle of a voice dull and low from her broken nose.

  Ragnhild snatched it. “Horned-hóra, am I…?” she asked, the memory of the spear piercing her, of Skugga’s vicious words, taking hold of her jaw and setting it hard. “We’ll see how you laugh, you black-feathered, corpse-eating hóra!” Holding the spears together, like two rods, Ragnhild swung them against the despicable raven. She felt the first impact, heard the first cry.

  “Mercy, mistress!” Skugga sobbed pathetically, her arms shielding herself from the next blow, her wings tucked in defensively. “It was prattling in the midst of battle!” She ducked a swing, but dared not try to pull away from Ragnhild’s attack, lest she feel the end of the spears, and be gutted by their edges.

  “And you’ll regret every word!” Ragnhild struck again, the skinny spears bending with the force of each blow. “You dared to wound me! Thank me for not spearing you through and roasting you like a pheasant!”

  “Thank you, Mistress!” Skugga said at once as another blow fell, clutching her stringing fingers, her aching breast, covering her bleeding and broken nose as the haft struck her across the eyes. “Please, do not be the cause of my death! You’ll need me to help lift you!” Her words soon slurred into a weeping misery, her shoulders shaking with hard sobs as she let out wails of pain as blood started to matt her hair and feathers.

  The other ravens watched, faces drenched with paralysing fear. Little frowns marked their sympathy and worry for their ‘sister’, just as their sighs and slumped shoulders marked their relief it was her and not them.

  Ragnhild didn’t count the blows, but only thought of how good it felt to hurt Skugga. To see her cry, to hear her begging for mercy… only to give her none—knowing the raven would just keep begging. And then at some point… she started to feel nauseous. Every thud of the stick against that woman’s body, every gasp of air and sob, every teary-eyed plea: it all snuck up on her, made her feel sick, disgusted with the pathetic creature, and with herself for battering it bloody. She noticed flecks of red blood on her hands… and dropped the spears.

  “You better still be able to fly!” Ragnhild screeched. She would feel more ill, more angry, if punishing Skugga had only made it harder to get back up the tree. All the worse if it doomed her to spend the night in this dark, monstrous place.

  “I can fly,” Skugga lied quickly, clearly unsure herself.

  “Then go get ready with the others!” Ragnhild picked up the two spears, and went to fetch the third. The ravens watched her, frozen. “Well!? What do you need to do to haul me up?”

  She’d done such a good job scaring them, they didn’t answer. She wondered if she’d need to hit them to make them speak. “If it is good with you, Mistress,” Aello the crone said, “if you could walk to the trunk of the tree, then we will have the strength to lift you between the sprouts and twigs, and prepare ropes for your ascent.”

  These buzzards didn’t even have the strength to carry her? Or maybe they were just sparing their wounded sister the effort—she saw how pale they became, whenever they glanced at her sobbing, wounded form. “Fine... now let’s hurry up, I refuse to sleep on this mortal ground.” Taking the spears, still in ragged and torn clothes, her lower half glowing gold with her own ichor, Ragnhild set off for the trunk at the centre of the roots.

  The hrafnmeyjar followed, walking instead of flying as they helped their sister Skugga. They looked about in terror lest some creature lash out at them from the darkness of the roots. Feeling her stomach lurch, Ragnhild stopped watching them. She leapt between the roots like a giant tree frog, almost flying the way the harpies could leap and flap to stay at the top of the roots, not needing to descend into the oppressive darkness below to climb up again.

  But as they made their way, Ragnhild wondered how much her nausea was due to the arrow that pierced her when the álfar attacked, or from Skugga who stabbed into guts with the spear… or from the golden ichor that now coursed through her—the very same ichor that kills mortals by its touch. And how many of the tappers still lived?

  She hadn’t thought much of Birger, after his death… but was his body down here, fallen to Hel where he can finally serve Loki as he dreamed of? Was Erik still breathing and laughing, just to be executed by the álfar in some brutal way? Would Asotall still trim and comb that enormous moustache, decorating it with gems and gold dust after the rich haul of sap? Was Njord, pinned with so many arrows, being carried off by Valkyries to Valh?ll to be with the other great warriors…? Or had her dear brother descended down to Hel, for tapping the tree…? And what of Crow, and Stonebear? Oh, how she would love to throw her arms around them, to see them at least all well.

  She might get her share of the sap, too, if they made it the rest of the way, and are alive. Rather than sell it… she might drink it, in her current state. One of them must have given her the sap, for the merest chance it might save her ebbing life. But what would her life be, now that she was like this, now that she was immortal… dependent on the sap of the tree?

  Maybe… she really would become a Valkyrie?

  Shadow of Yggdrasill