Standing tall, body enclosed by a seal skin cloak, hands beneath armpits as frost clung to his braided beard and hair, Bjorn peered through frost-touched eyelids as the door to the steading on the hill creaked open. Radiant, warm light burst outwards, forcing back the encroaching darkness in brilliant orange and yellow as the flicker of indoor flames brushed Bjorn’s face, welcoming him inside.

  The door stopped abruptly, after a slow swing which pushed it ajar, it stayed in that position refusing to open further, secrets unyielding. Bjorn peaked through the gap but there was no one there, it was as if the door had opened of its own accord. Taking a tentative step back, he looked up at the gaping hole in the roof, smoke plumes spiralling outwards, fire-glow lighting the hole as if it was a giant’s mouth and for a single, solitary moment, he wondered if the steading was alive.

  “Are you going to enter or would you rather stand out there gawking?” A wavering voice called from within and Bjorn removed a frost-touched hand from beneath his armpit and grabbed the door, opening it just wide enough to squeeze through and then closing it behind him with a wind-pushed crack.

  Looking around the single-roomed steading, he saw a roaring fire in the hearth, a single, bubbling pot hanging over the flames – held aloft by a thick, blackened chain which was embedded into one of the rafters above. In the corner was a bed, fur lined boots stood guard at the door and hanging on the back wall were drying herbs, meats and furs. Yet despite having the appearance of a well lived in home, Bjorn could not see the inhabitant who had called out to him.

  “Galdrwoman?” He called out, still looking around and seeing naught. “My name is Bjorn, son of Ragar. Skuld – the Nornir – have told me to visit you.”

  “Yes, I know who you are,” the wavering voice said close to Bjorn’s ear, a bony hand patting his shoulder delicately as he jumped to the side, drawing his seax and softening his knees in a warrior’s stance. “Are you so afraid of a frail old crone?” She asked, flashing him a toothless smile, lips thinly cut from wrinkled, weathered skin which was drawn over a gaunt frame.

  “Galdrwoman?” Bjorn asked, letting his blade hand drop to his side. She nodded and he released a sighing breath. “I have been sent to you to claim my class, I trust you know what this means?” She nodded once again and gestured towards the hearth fire and the thick furs which lined the floor around it.

  “Take a seat, Bjorn, son of Ragnar,” she said, flames dancing in her eyes. “You must be cold and tired from your journey.”

  Nodding his thanks, Bjorn sheathed his blade and dropped, cross legged, before the fire and though he did not remove his brynja or weapons belt, he did warm his palms, rubbing them together before dancing flames.

  The galdrwoman moved to the opposite side of the hearth and bent to sit on the backs of her calves in a position of prayer.

  She’s oddly spry for an old crone, Bjorn thought.

  “You have many questions,” she said, ladling a bowl of porridge and passing it to Bjorn who accepted it with both hands. “However, I can only answer one.”

  “Is that your will, or that of the gods,” he asked between a spoonful of watery, flavourless porridge. Yet after the week he’d had, the mere warmth of it was delightful, lapping at his tongue before dropping down his gullet, warming him from the inside out.

  “You have been sent here to earn your class and that is something I can help you with,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “Did you know my father?” Bjorn asked.

  “He visited me from time to time, seeking guidance, yes.”

  “And did you give him any?”

  “Sometimes. You look just like him you know?” She said softly, leaning closer and peering at him through the fire like a hawk searching out its dinner. “You have the same eyes.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told. All of his sons share his sea-soaked iris, apart from Sigurd.” Bjorn began to feel his frost-touched skin thaw as he ate and sat by the fire but his thought-cage still weathered a storm. “What counsel did you offer my father? Did you know of his death? What do you know of King Aella of Northumbria?”

  “As I said, I can only answer one question and it seems the gods have already decided which it will be,” she said, voice crackling and old.

  “Will you not offer me counsel, like you did my father? I too am a king, and I have been chosen by Skuld. Surely that must grant me something?”

  “It has granted you the ability to gain a class, young Ragnarsson,” she said, a slight twitch in her upper lip pulling tightly against heavily wrinkled skin. “This is not a gift to scorn, not many humans are granted such godly favours. Answers for your other questions will come in time, but you are not fated to learn them today, not from me.”

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  Bjorn sighed, eyes locked on the crone’s, they looked younger than her years would suggest, yet in some ways they were ancient, experienced. Placing the bowl down on the ground and blinking hard, he rose to one knee.

  “Then grant me this gift of the gods so that I may leave to seek my own vengeance,” he said.

  “If that is what you wish,” she said, gracefully rising from her own furs and turning towards the rear of the steading. Waving her bony, wrinkled hand, she muttered something in a voice too quiet for Bjorn to hear and an ornate door appeared on the back wall.

  Etched with a sigil of Mj?lnir and bordered by an intricately carved J?rmungandr, the door swung open dramatically, snow flying inside on a whirring gust of wind. Without pause, but raising a hand to shield his eyes, he followed her through it.

  On the other side of the door there was no snow. It was neither cold, nor warm, nor was it dark. Bright, golden light shone from all sides blinding Bjorn so that all he could see was the circular stone railing which bound him in a small sparring arena with the crone. It seemed to be a sort of holmganga ring though there were no spectators, no seconds.

  “What is this?” He asked.

  “You come all this way to visit a galdrwoman and are surprised to see galdr-magic?” She answered, a single, mocking laugh escaping her lips. “This is how one earns a class, young Ragnarsson. Our blades must clash so that I might learn the inner workings of your soul, only then can I grant you the right class, your class.”

  Bjorn felt his lips turn down as he regarded the withered, wrinkled old crone. It was almost funny.

  “You want me to fight you… in a holmganga?” He asked, brows furrowed, thought-cage stuck as he struggled to comprehend, struggled to understand how bludgeoning an old woman to death would aid his battle-fame and grant him the class he sought.

  “It is the only way,” she said, lips curling in a mocking sneer as she reached across to a weapons rack and produced a spear. “Unlike a normal holmganga, you will not be granted three shields, nor three weapons, and you will not get to decide to what extent we fight. This will be to the death, or not at all, and you may fight with only the weapons currently on your person. I will use this spear and a shield. Understood?”

  “It seems unfair-” Bjorn began.

  “Are you craven?” She interrupted, furrowing her wrinkled brow at him.

  “Unfair for you,” he continued, steeling himself from the irritation the crone was causing him. “I have more weapons, I am younger, stronger, yet you wish for me to kill you to gain my class? Tell me, is this a seidr ritual?”

  “Of sorts,” she shrugged, “but know that with age comes wisdom and I will be fighting in full armour.”

  With a wave of her hand her body was suddenly covered in gleaming, silver plate armour. A brynja peeked out of the bottom of form fitted plate, covering her thighs. Her calves were covered with melded armour which wrapped delicately around almost all of her skin. A winged helm appeared on her head, fitted closely to her face, wrapping cheek bones, a single line of metal covering her nose. Though what was most peculiar was her face. In place of the weathered, wrinkled crone Bjorn had been watching, stood a comely shieldmaiden with youthful skin and long, shimmering blonde hair – an upgrade from the thin, grey whisps which had previously sprouted from her head.

  “This is no seidr I’ve ever seen,” Bjorn gasped, jaw dropping as he looked upon the galdrwoman turned shieldmaiden.

  “There is much in the nine realms which you have yet to see, boy.” She said, voice changed, more a snarled rasp than elderly, weathered vocal cords, “it will be another hundred winters before you can claim to have seen even a tenth of what I have. Now, enough gawking.”

  Before Bjorn even had time to shrug his spear from his shoulder, she was upon him. Her spear danced amidst the golden glow of light, flashing in Bjorn’s eyes as he jumped backwards instinctually and managed to release his own spear from his back. She smiled as he dropped the haft deftly into his palm, an underhanded grip, and turned his body to the side creating a smaller target.

  Her spear shot out, a myriad of thrusts as she tested his defence. Blocking them with swift parries, he pulled his axe from his belt with his left hand and then he was stepping forward, bringing down a powerful strike which knocked her tightly held shield to the side. Then he was stabbing, thrusting and desperately trying to break through her defence.

  Metal clashed, sparks flew as the tip of his spear finally broke through a small gap in her defence, hitting hard, silver plate before her wild eyes met his, a sneer passing her lips and then her shield came down with a loud crack and the haft of Bjorn’s spear snapped in two.

  Jumping backwards, he reached for his seax and parried with his axe as she thrusted forwards. Usually, it was deep-cunning to take small steps forwards to close the distance in a duel, however, the crone’s spear gave her much longer reach and doing so would mean certain death. Bjorn knew this, and yet he still had to win and to do that he needed to get inside her defence, close the gap, and let his blade find the unarmoured parts of her body.

  With a roar like that of a bear, Bjorn charge forwards, dropping his right shoulder as the crone thrusted her spear at his chest. Taking it directly on his brynja, riveted rings cracked, snapping off but he did not stop. Gripping the haft of her spear under his armpit, he swung his hips powerfully to the side, wrenching it from her grip.

  Then his axe came down, grating loudly against shield as its beard found leverage and he pulled it down before thrusting his seax towards her throat.

  Checkmate, he thought as the blade bit her flesh.

  The galdrwoman smiled a toothy sneer. “Not bad. I can see why they call you Ironside. But now you will die.”

  Faster than his eyes could comprehend, her hand grabbed the blade of the seax stopping it dead in its tracks. Blood welled in her palm, dripping and spilling onto the silver of her armour and then her shield was bashing into his axe hand, his wrist snapped and a devastating pain ricocheted up his arm as she wrenched his seax forwards and headbutted him squarely on the nose.

  Blinding pain, a flash of light as his nasal cartilage crumpled, blood pouring over his lips, the taste of warm iron. And then she lifted the shield and brought it down on top of his head and he saw stars, Asgard, the largest longhouse he had ever laid eyes on. Midgard was spinning and he was falling, then a wrenching weightlessness as she grabbed his brynja, pulled him towards her and he felt the cold kiss of his own seax sliding through his gullet. He tried to speak, but all that passed his lips was blood.