The Treaty Before the Great Winter. Viking Saga Chapter 4

Prey that divides the fire – Chapter 4

The journey back was as heavy as wet leather, yet there was something intoxicating about it: that old feeling of carrying life in the form of flesh, fat, and bones in their arms, that the death of the game had momentarily defeated their hunger. Men and women took turns carrying, the straps cutting into their shoulders, and with every step the snow cracked like thin glass. But when the horizon opened up to reveal two settlements on opposite banks of the Skjaldra, Eirik sensed that relief was just another kind of tension. They were returning as allies, but each carried their own calculation in their eyes: how many shares would each get, who owed whom, who would have to look whom in the face when not only the reindeer but also their honor was divided up. Fog rolled over the river, thick and low, and in it the sound of water murmured like the whispers of old witnesses who never tire. Frostfjall in the distance resembled a judge who says nothing because the verdict has long been written in the snow.

God of the sign: Nóttfadir, Father of Three Moons

a being who appears when the sky cracks like ice. He is not interested in good, only balance: those who take must give back. His sign is three moons in one night and a black sun at noon.

The first crack came as trivially as most disasters do: with the question “how much.” One of the Hrafnvik, a young warrior with a still soft face but already old eyes, remarked that the wounded Deer Spear had “almost missed his mark” during the hunt, and that their share should therefore be smaller because the risk was greater on the side of the Raven Shields. The words fell into the silence like a piece of dirt into clean water, and ripples spread in all directions. Haldor’s man with the bandaged arm, pale and angry, stepped forward and pointed at Eirik and Sigrún, who were standing closest to the animal: “If it weren’t for our girl, Hrimkron would have smashed you against the rock!” And that was no longer an argument, but a spear in the form of a sentence. Jorund’s chin trembled, not with fear, but with the feeling that someone was pulling his name. Eirik took a breath to quell it, but then another voice spoke up, older, rougher, the voice of a man who had seen hunger as a creature with its own fingers. “What about the footprint?” said one of the Raven Shields, a man named Styr Wolf-belly, who had a reputation for being able to survive on tree bark alone, and therefore thought he was right about everything. “What about the three-month trail? Things like that don’t walk on our shore. They brought it with them. Or they summoned it.”

When the word “trail” was mentioned, the atmosphere thickened so quickly that it was almost physical, as if an invisible wall had risen around the campfire. Eirik felt his stomach churn, knowing that this was precisely the moment when people would rather believe a story than reality. The trail was unknown, and therefore useful. Guilt, fear, insult, and plans could be pinned on it. Haldor didn’t move, but his warriors closed in like a trap snapping shut. Brynja raised her hand to speak, but before she could utter a word, Sigrún stepped forward. Her voice was not that of a girl begging; it was the voice of a person who bears responsibility and knows that no one will take it away from her. “The trail is a sign,” she said. “Not from Hjorthegn. Not from Hrafnvík. From the sky that has cracked. If you use it as a weapon against each other, you will do exactly what Nóttfadir wants: you will break yourselves, and the winter will take you piece by piece.” Several people shifted uncomfortably, because hearing the truth is unpleasant when the truth demands change.

But Styr Wolf-belly laughed, briefly and nastily, and pointed at Sigrún’s runic weapon. “You speak of signs because you wear them on wood, girl,” he hissed. “And your mother speaks with springs. Perhaps you brought this upon yourselves to force us into a bargain that will feed you at our expense.” There was a hiss around the fire. Someone from the Deer Spears shifted the spear in his hand, and the tip caught the light. Someone from the Raven Shields responded by placing his palm on his axe. And at that moment, Eirik thought he heard the real sound of winter in the distance: not the wind, but the thin crackling sound of something breaking inside a person. He stepped between them, spread his arms wide to show his empty palms, and spoke harshly, quickly, as if putting out a fire with mud. “The spoils will be divided according to the number of mouths and according to injuries,” he said. “And the trail will not be used as a club to beat strangers over the head. If anyone is brave enough, let them come with me and find who it belongs to. Otherwise, shut up and start salting the meat.” It was rude. And that’s why it worked on some people: rudeness is sometimes the only language fear understands.

Jorund rose slowly, and for a moment Eirik saw in him not a chieftain, but a man who feared for his children and could only express it through harshness. “We’ll split it,” he said. “But I want collateral.” In their world, the word collateral was often translated as hostage, only said more nicely. Haldor looked at him for a long time, then nodded. “There will be security,” he said. “But it will be mutual. And it won’t be a child. It will be someone who understands words as well as blood.” Eirik’s throat tightened. He knew where this was going. He knew that politics was as hungry as winter. Brynja smiled slightly, not triumphantly, but sadly, as if she had seen exactly this in the steam rising from the springs. “Sigrún will go to your shore,” she said. “And you will send someone of yours to ours. Not as a prisoner. As an eye to watch over the agreement, so that it does not turn into a lie.” The air grew heavy. Sigrún did not look away, but Eirik felt something stir within him: part of his mind screamed that this was madness, while another part whispered that it was the only way to prevent the betrayal that the dream had shown them.

And then it happened. Not an explosion of violence, as one might expect, but something worse: a small, precise act of sabotage. One of the bags of salt—the largest, most important one—tipped over. White salt spilled into the snow like scattered teeth, and in an instant it mixed with dirt, ash, and blood from the slaughtering site. Someone had done it on purpose, Eirik could tell by how cleanly the rope had been cut. And salt was more than food for the winter; it was a chance to preserve life. Everyone froze, and for a moment it seemed that even the fire had stopped crackling. Styr Wolf-belly exhaled as if someone had hit him, and immediately looked around, too quickly, too eagerly to find the culprit. The deer spears tensed their shoulders. The raven shields clenched their jaws. Brynja closed her eyes as if she heard footsteps in the distance. Eirik felt that now it was no longer just a matter of who would get how much meat. Now it was a matter of whether the treaty would survive the first poisoned needle that someone had stuck into it.

On the shore of Skjaldra, the fog thickened, and for a moment, a shape emerged from its white belly—tall, slender, unnaturally calm. No one but Eirik noticed it, or at least no one admitted to seeing it, because to admit it would be to summon it. The shape did not move like a human. It was more like a shadow that had decided to have a body. And where its eyes should have been, three pale points glinted, like the reflection of three moons in water. Eirik’s heart sank, and in that moment he understood that the trail was not a warning of winter. It was an invitation. Someone—or something—was watching them, and when they argued, it fed its power. Sigrún stood in the middle of the circle of people, her fingers touching the runes on the spear as if caressing the weapon to calm it. Their contract had begun to burn before they had time to sign it, and the flame was silent, creeping, just like betrayal.

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