Heartflame

Bjor stared at his daughter, who lay unconscious next to the ice witch on the frozen stone floor. Her long red hair covered the wounds on her face, and only the slow rise and fall of her breathing let him know that she was still alive.

In stark contrast to him. His chest heaved frantically as if his lungs were being constricted by an invisible band. His insides felt like they were freezing solid. Broken and bloody, he knelt in the snow and dirt, unable to look away from her. She looked so fragile lying there in the snow. He knew what was coming. He knew that by trying to save her, he had doomed his village.

When the ice witch came to claim the pledge, he never imagined it would be his daughter. She was already fourteen winters old, far too old for a pledge. Yet the bone dice chose her. Blind with rage and fear, he grabbed his smithing hammer and attacked. He even managed to land a blow before she jerked and twitched, and he suddenly found himself bleeding in the dirt before her. Not that he ever stood a chance against an ice witch. But that didn't matter now. He had lost her. He had lost everything.

Bjor heard a scream and looked up. The heart flame flickered as the ice witch slowly reached for it. The flame quivered on its stone pedestal as if it feared the touch. With a quick, determined grasp, the witch's claw-like hand enveloped the flame, which instantly extinguished and died. The flame that had protected Bjor's village from the cold for decades was now nothing but black smoke. For a brief moment, the smoke lingered in the air, as if the heart flame was bidding a final farewell before being carried away by the north wind.

Then came the darkness. But not from the absence of light; it was midday, and the twilight of the day still illuminated the world. No, it was as if the air had changed. Bjor felt an eerie crackling flow through the streets and alleys of Seewyrm. He tasted the black cold on his tongue, biting and foul. The shadows grew longer and began to move.

Something creaked like frozen branches breaking, and Bjor lifted his head. The ice witch's head slowly turned in Bjor's direction. Under her vast dark hood, he could not make out any features. Only her rattling breath was visible, rising like small clouds from the darkness. She was small, maybe reaching Bjor's chest, but she was thick, almost misshapen. Her long black coat was speckled with white ice flecks and bulged at the back as if she were carrying a sack of potatoes underneath. When she spoke, her voice sounded like glaciers breaking apart, and after each word, she had to gasp for air as if speaking were an immense effort. And each word felt like more of his skin was peeling away from him. "We take. This child. As a pledge. No mortal. Shall disturb the ritual. Or prevent us. From taking. What is ours. So it was. And so. It will always be." Slowly, she raised her arm and extended her claws toward Bjor; her bony, bluish-black finger seemed to want to impale him. "Now you must. Pay the price. May the cold. Be merciful to you." And with her last word, she and Bjor's daughter turned into snow. They stood there like statues of white marble, frozen in the cold of time.

A silence followed, broken only by the constant howling of the wind. Although nearly the entire village had gathered around him in the festival square, no one said a word. Bjor crawled to Una's snow-covered body and touched her beautiful face. He smiled. People said she had inherited her mother's beauty and her father's temper. His smile turned into a grimace. How did my temper help me here? he thought. His fingertips broke through the surface and left a small hole in her cheek. Bjor hastily withdrew his hand as if he had touched something hot. In the next moment, her form crumbled into an unrecognizable heap of snow. The grotesque statue of the ice witch stood for a moment longer before collapsing as well. Parts of her fell onto Bjor's back, heavy and deathly cold.

This woke the village around him from its paralysis. It was the final proof that all of this had truly happened and that, come nightfall, the cold would come and devour the village. Screams and moans filled the air. Curses and imprecations were hurled at Bjor. Some even kicked or struck him in the side and back before his brother Ulfrik could stop them. But none of that mattered anymore. Una was gone. Like her mother. No, thought Bjor. Svanhild was with the gods. Una was in a much worse place.

"Bjor!" Someone called his name. Was it Ulfrik? Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him up. "Bjor, come." He let himself be led through the crowd. Occasionally, a blow or kick came his way, or someone spat at him and cursed him, but his brother kept most of the villagers at bay. Bjor couldn't lift his head. His thoughts were heavy, and he saw only his feet stumbling through the snow.

Then Ulfrik suddenly stopped, and with a jerk, Bjor was also held in place. Someone blocked their way. Bjor looked up and saw the face of Hildir. The ice-blue eyes stood out like frozen lakes from his weather-beaten face. A scar ran across his forehead. What could be seen of Hildir's mouth in his wild, silver-threaded brown beard was pressed into a thin line. As befitted his status as chieftain, his long hair was braided into seven plaits that hung over his broad shoulders.

"Hildir," said Ulfrik.

Bjor noticed how the crowd around him fell silent once more. Only a soft whispering mixed with the wind. They were all waiting for their chieftain to pronounce his judgment. Would he be banished? Or would they be merciful and kill him outright?

Hildir looked at Ulfrik. An angry shadow crossed his face. "Take him to the longhouse," he said through clenched teeth.

Ulfrik nodded and pulled Bjor along. Hildir began to speak and addressed the crowd, but Bjor could not follow his words as his brother dragged him quickly towards the longhouse.

The longhouse of Seewyrm was built on a small hill, somewhat apart from the other houses. The rocky path leading to it was lit on both sides by torches, which flickered in the wind and stretched long shadowy fingers towards Bjor and Ulfrik. The longhouse itself was about thirty feet long and ten feet wide, and with its arched thatched roof, it looked like an overturned ship. Two guards stood in front of the heavy ironwood entrance door. Bjor knew them, but his mind refused to recall their names. He could only think of Una and how she had crumbled into a heap of snow before his eyes. Why wasn't I stronger?

As they approached the guards, Bjor saw their hands move to the short swords at their hips. Ulfrik said something, and the guards let them pass.

In the center of the building glowed a large fire, its smoke rising through the open roof hatch. On normal days, many people would sit here around the fire, spread out on simple chairs and benches made from tree trunks. But today was not a normal day.

Bjor collapsed onto a chair beside the hearth and stared into the flames. Slowly, the shock subsided, and pain filled his body. His arm and ribs burned. Something throbbed at his temple in the steady rhythm of his broken heart. He touched the spot with his fingers and then stared at the dark blood on his fingertips. Red like Una's hair.

Fragments of memory floated to the surface of his mind like dead fish under a frozen lake. Una, braiding her hair. Bjor, dancing with her at the midsummer festival. Una, smiling. Bjor, yelling at her because she had done something foolish again. Una, crying afterward. Bjor, feeling ashamed and drowning his sorrow in mead.

The full extent of his actions and what had happened crashed over him like a black wave on the sea. The weight pressed him down. He trembled. Deep sobs broke from him, and he buried his face in his calloused hands. His body shook. Una.

"Bjor!" Someone shook him.

"Una! No!"

"Bjor!" He was pulled up. "Damn it, look at me!"

Bjor lifted his head. Through a veil of tears, he could see his brother looking at him with his hazel eyes. The usual mischievous sparkle in them was gone. Now they were cold and hard like frozen clay.

"Ulfrik..."

For a moment, his brother just looked at him. Unspoken words hung between them. Then he patted Bjor on the shoulder. Once. Twice. Each time a little harder. On the third pat, Bjor seemed to break down, but then his brother enveloped him in a strong embrace. Once again, something inside Bjor broke, and tears and snot soaked Ulfrik's brown vest.

"Frozen shit!" cursed Ulfrik after a while, which felt like many winters. Slowly, they separated, and a long string of snot remained on Ulfrik's vest. "Nice," said Ulfrik, wiping the snot off with his hand.

"Forgive me..." said Bjor.

Ulfrik hesitated. "It can be fixed."

Bjor wiped his face. "Can it?"

The door of the longhouse flew open, and a gust of wind made the fire flicker. Hildir stormed in, followed by a few snowflakes and two people. Bjor had no time to look at the two, for Hildir charged at him, pushed Ulfrik aside, and punched him in the face.

Black flashes exploded before Bjor's eyes. He stumbled backward over a log and crashed to the ground.

"Hildir!" shouted his brother, grabbing Hildir to hold him back.

"Damn you, Rolandson!" shouted Hildir. Spittle flew from his mouth, and his eyes burned with rage. "Let me go, Ulfrik, so I can beat your brother to death!"

Now Ulfrik shoved Hildir back and raised his fists. "Then try it, Hildir Eisulfsson!"

The two men stood facing each other, fists clenched. Both waited, watching, to see who would strike first. But it did not come to that.

"That's enough!" thundered a deep voice behind Hildir. Then a heavy wooden staff struck the ground three times. Bjor recognized the voice immediately, even though he could not see clearly through his pain-filled eyes. Thorfinn Graubart, the village elder. He had long snow-white hair tied into a simple braid. He still radiated an authority and dignity that even the black ice seemed to retreat from.

"Hildir," he continued, "see to it that the village doesn't burn down the longhouse, and prepare everything for our departure."

Still looking at Bjor's brother, Hildir said, "With all due respect, Thorfinn, but the village demands justice!"

"And justice it shall have." Thorfinn came closer. He leaned on his staff and dragged one leg. An old injury; Bjor could no longer remember how long ago it was or what had caused it. He also couldn't remember how old Thorfinn actually was. He had been old when Bjor was still in diapers.

"Ulfrik, help your brother up. He should stand when I pronounce his fate."

Ulfrik pulled Bjor to his feet again.

Thorfinn positioned himself before the two brothers, first looking at Ulfrik, who lowered his head. Ulfrik looked as if he were twelve winters old again, having set Hildir's storehouse on fire with Bjor. Bjor could still smell the smoke and feel the blows they received afterward. Then Thorfinn's gaze settled on Bjor. Bjor stared back with swollen eyes. He could not see hatred in Thorfinn's eyes, not like in Hildir's, which seemed to want to burn him alive. What he saw was almost worse: disappointment and resignation.

Then Thorfinn raised his voice: "Bjor Rolandson. Through your actions, you have doomed the village and condemned its inhabitants to certain death. Therefore, I banish you for life from this community. May the cold be merciful to you."

Ulfrik cursed loudly. Hildir clapped his hands.

"Hildir! Don't you have something to do?" Thorfinn snapped at the warrior. Hildir struck his chest, signaled to the two guards, and together they left the longhouse.

Bjor wiped the bloody snot from his face and sank exhausted onto a log. He was not surprised; he had even expected this verdict. His brother must have expected it too; otherwise, he would have defended him. But what else could the village elder have done? No one had ever been executed in Seewyrm. Even the gravest crimes were punished with banishment. Often, Bjor thought this was a worse punishment than death.

As the heavy door closed, Thorfinn sighed heavily and sat down opposite Bjor. "No one has cost me as many years of my life as you two." He ran his hand through his hair.

"Bloody sheep shit!" cursed his brother and began pacing the longhouse. Things in his way were kicked aside.

"What will happen to the village now?" asked Bjor.

"We pack our things and make sure we reach the next village before the black ice catches us. That's what happens, Bjor Rolandson!"

"To Isengrim?"

"Isengrim is a day's journey away in good weather!" said Ulfrik. "Even if we manage to leave in the next few hours, we'll never reach Isengrim before twilight fades!"

"Then you'd best say goodbye to your brother now and help the village, Ulfrik Rolandson, before you tear down the entire longhouse!"

Ulfrik stopped. Bjor lifted his head and their eyes met. Ulfriks jaw worked. His hands were still clenched into fists. Something glistened in his eyes. Then he grabbed Bjor's hand and pulled him into a strong embrace. "Follow us at a distance," he whispered in Bjor's ear. His voice sounded as if he were speaking through thick fog. When they parted, Ulfrik quickly wiped his face to hide the tears, and a hint of his former mischievous smile crept onto his lips. "You can build something of your own near Isengrim."

Bjor smiled sadly. Both knew this was not possible. No one took in a banished man or wanted one near them. This law was as old as the black ice itself. As Bjor looked at his brother, another piece of his heart broke off and shattered like an icicle falling to the ground. "Warm embers and safe paths."

For a breath, Ulfrik hesitated. Then he grasped Bjor's forearm. "You too, brother." They released their grip, and Ulfrik left without another word.

Silence pressed through the cracks of the longhouse and settled on Bjor like a cold, wet blanket.

"I'm sorry," said Thorfinn after a while and stood up.

"Aye..." said Bjor.

The village elder stepped up to Bjor and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I had to wait until no one else was in the room," he said.

"Thorfinn?"

"Two weeks ago, Einar Stormwing returned from the capital. And besides the usual gossip about which chieftain had been with whom, he brought an incredible story. He had heard rumors that a hidden section deep within the ice had been found in the Crystal Library. There were maps and records hidden there, written before the Frost Night."

Bjor's mind was slow, still buried under a thick layer of ice. Here and there, he surfaced through air holes and could catch a breath. "Maps?" he asked.

"Maps," confirmed Thorfinn. "Einar said they were maps showing the locations of the ice witches."

Bjor stared at Thorfinn. The ice in his mind cracked loudly, and he suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the village elder hard by the shoulders. "Are you sure?"

Thorfinn squirmed slightly in Bjor's grip, but his voice remained steady as he said, "Einar Stormwing may be many things, but he is no liar. His word is as good as gold."

Bjor let go of Thorfinn. His mind had broken free from the ice too quickly and was now panicking, trying to scramble back onto solid ground. "A map to the ice witches. A map to Una!"

"Bjor..."

"No, listen to me!" His mind now moved more slowly, the ice beneath him cracking dangerously. "I couldn't save Svanhild..." His voice broke slightly, like the ice in his mind. "I couldn't save Una..."

"It's still just a rumor," said Thorfinn. "Do what you will with this knowledge." Thorfinn struck his staff on the ground and left. "Farewell, Bjor."

Bjor stood there for a long time, watching him go. A sudden gust of wind made the longhouse shudder. In the fire, a thick log broke with a loud crack, sending up a shower of sparks.

He could save Una. And if there was even a small glimmer of hope, a small candle in a stormy sea, he had to try. Or die trying.

"Una," said Bjor and stepped out into the snow.