Chapter 1

Reginleif found herself walking across a frozen wasteland, the vastness and impossible geometry of it defying all the parameters of reason and reality. The air was howling and harsh, yet she did not feel its frozen touch upon her bare skin – she was loosely dressed, lacking the thick furs that were integral for survival in Mannheim, yet her body was at ease. Around her were columns of glistening ice, shattered in a myriad of pieces that lazily hovered in midair; they were perfectly still, forming fractured lines of glass-like frost that extended upwards into the very heavens. Reginleif looked up, and, in the far distance, she saw herself. There was no sky to speak of, not in the standard sense – for nothing was of the natural world in this land of impossibility – only a mirrored version of the ground she stood on. The volva looked up and her doppelganger looked down, though the opposite was most likely true when perspective was to be considered. Reginleif wondered if this was an illusion – a falsehood created by this place of dreams – or if she was looking at herself in earnest, another aspect of her being going through the same ethereal journey. She was not sure.

The cawing of two crows pulled Reginleif away from her trance. The birds flew in the space between the mirrored worlds, swooping down and landing in front of the volva. Their landing riled up the snow-packed ground, summoning a frozen twister of blinding white that momentarily obscured the woman’s vision. When the blizzard subsided, Reginleif saw the figure of a young child – herself – next to a great and gnarled oak. The memory lacked any color or warmth, for it was made of the same snow that had engulfed her surroundings; it felt real to her nonetheless, for such experiences were forever engraved in her psyche. The child, the volva’s younger, more innocent self, approached the great tree and looked up. Nestled atop a branch were two crows – the very same crows that had accompanied the woman throughout her life. The girl and the crows talked, as Reginleif did almost daily throughout her youth, touching on things and topics both important and unimportant. Not once had Reginleif questioned this interaction – as to why a human can commune with crows – for the answer was always there, in her heart: a trace of divine blood ran through her veins, a faint sliver of the Einherjar’s own godly powers.

The crows had confirmed as much when they first met, while Reginleif was still young and pliable; her bloodline, however distant, was connected to the very beings her order, that of the Volva, deemed as gods. Reginleif never could communicate with other animals, or other crows, but that did not matter. Her limited divine blood only allowed for this interaction alone, fostering a relationship with the twin crows that carried with them what seemed like eons-worth of wisdom. That was to be expected, as crows are said to have been the messengers of the old gods before Ragnarök.

Unexpectedly, the crows lunged from their ghostly branch and flapped their wings, summoning yet another blizzard. Reginleif covered her eyes as best as she could, slowly making her way forward. “What is the meaning of this?” she called out, searching for the sleek, black silhouettes of her guides. Her guardians. As her words were swallowed by the chaos that threatened to engulf her, everything settled down, giving way to yet another living memory, carved from the ethereal ice that dreams and thoughts are made of.

She saw Osesigne, her former teacher and mentor, staring at Reginleif’s younger self while riding a longboat that was headed towards the open sea. There were other ships by the high volva’s side, all sailing south, urged by Osesigne’s obsession: Sigurðr. Reginleif had hated her then, with the specter of her past self, standing alone at the coast, conveying that very same emotion.

“You hated her for leaving you,” cawed one crow, landing on the volva’s shoulder.

“You thought she was mad,” spoke the other, cooing into the woman’s ear.

“How couldn’t I?” hissed Reginleif. “To think you can replace the Einherjar, our gods, based on legends and myths?! To head south and never return, seeking a whisper of Sigurðr’s, the Dragon Slayer’s, legacy that might very well not exist?!” The woman paused. “To leave me behind…”

“She was right,” cried out one crow. “In her folly there was truth!” agreed his twin. “You know this!” called out both creatures as one.

“Enough!” exclaimed the woman, shooing away her feathered guides with a wave of her hand. As the two crows flew away, no doubt preparing yet another vision to torment her aching mind, she thought of her growth since Osesigne left. With her teacher’s departure, Reginleif secretly mourned while stewing in her resentment; however, that did not stop her from taking action. Without delay, despite her sorrow, the volva did her best to maintain Osesigne’s network of informants and sphere of influence – while forging alliances of her own in the meantime. Eventually, Reginleif came to be known as Faithbearer: this title she had gained through her unyielding devotion to the Einherjar, preaching of their divinity to all who would listen. However, as her wisdom and worldly experiences blossomed and expanded at an impressive rate, Faithbearer Reginleif slowly came to the same conclusion as Osesigne – though it pained her to admit it. The Einherjar were divine, yes, but their refusal to accept the mantle of godhood was problematic. At times she thought that such denial was but a test of faith: a ploy to separate the true believers from the pretenders. That, however, was unlikely…

While others, enemies of her once teacher, proclaimed Osesigne as lost or dead, Reginleif knew better – her intuition told her otherwise. In her heart, she knew her mentor to be alive. The survivors from Gudmund’s men reported she left the Konungyr with a group of her followers to venture further south in secret; no news of her had emerged since. She was absent, yes – for quite some time – but being absent was worlds apart from being dead. As of late, Reginleif found herself being more similar to Osesigne with each passing day. Her influence grew, though it was hard fought, for the volva had to keep at bay those that would see her silenced and muzzled.

“No,” she finally admitted what she knew to be true deep within. She turned to look at the ethereal specter of her departing teacher, perched atop her longboat while the milk-blooded south lay ahead. “Osesigne was right to leave me behind…” The volva took in a deep breath, fully releasing herself from the misguided hatred she harbored for so long. “She knew of the shortcomings of the Einherjar while I did not. She knew that our people needed a solution – a replacement even…”

“What good are gods who refute their divinity?!” echoed the voice of the two crows in unison, interrupting the woman as they circled above her. “What good are shepherds who do not lead their flock?!”

Before Reginleif could respond, a third blizzard was summoned. The scene was shifted to that of a great lodge, engraved with shamanic runes and perched in the middle of a gaggle of buildings. A village. The village she grew up in.

A childish giggle rose from behind the woman as an ethereal echo of her younger self passed right through Reginleif’s body, heading for the great lodge that dominated this new dreamscape. The volva followed in close pursuit as the heavy twin doors swung open and the spectral girl, filled with the innocent joy afforded only to the truly young, ran inside. In a separate room, before a great desk and surrounded by haphazard piles of stacked tomes and loosely bound scrolls, she found a man: Reginleif’s father.

Frode Runesald was a great shaman and leader of men; there was no denying it. Those qualities had deemed him worthy to act as Timoleon’s, the eldest and most powerful of the Nord shamans, personal lorekeeper, recording secrets and legends revealed only to the truly wise and knowledgeable. The information contained within her father’s records was invaluable, containing knowledge that gave substance to many of the myths and legends of the Nords – in some cases making the unattainable seem within the realm of possibility.

The icebound child tried to climb onto her father’s lap, eager to show him a flower that she had just picked. Frode shooed her away, too engulfed in his work. Too busy to be a father to his daughter.

“Why did you leave his side?” swooped down one of the crows, landing before Reginleif.

“Why did you become a volva? Why did you choose to venerate the Einherjar over the old gods of your father?” added the other crow, joining his twin’s side.

“Did you do it because of your faith or was it out of spite?!” cried out both voices in an avian shriek.

“The Volva and the Shamans have always been at odds with each other!” retorted the woman. “That man was a fool! The Shamans are fools! They worship old gods. Dead gods. The Volva venerate the Einherjar: as intractable and unaccepting as they are, they are still divine. Unlike the old gods, the Einherjar and their legacy are alive!” Reginleif’s tongue came to a halt, bitterness coating her mouth like pooling saliva. “My father, like others of his kind – like so many of our people – is tied down to the past. He is unable to see past his decaying faith and his obsession with the gods of old. If the Nords are to prosper, they need new deities: divinities that are alive, active, and willing to guide their followers as gods should.”

“He has knowledge!” responded both of the crows, now speaking as one. “A fool? Perhaps. But even fools are privy to secrets, yes? And your father had so many secrets…”

Reginleif could hear the cacophony of countless scratching quills, noting down mysteries that lingered only in the shrouded annals of forgotten history. She saw the door to her father’s study slam shut, as it had so many times during her upbringing. Frode was always so protective of his works, spending countless hours writing and researching – cutting himself off from his family and the world at large. The volva now understood why: his quill was the key to vast pools of knowledge, and knowledge was more powerful than any army when in the right hands.

“Secrets are often questions in disguise,” cawed the crows. “And only through the right question will the answer you seek be revealed!”

Reginleif slammed her bare foot onto the icy ground, raising her voice with evident annoyance.

“Again, you speak in riddles. You’ve always spoken in riddles. Talk plainly for once!”

The crows looked at each other, giving the impression of grinning, though their beaks would not allow for as much. “Patience,” they responded as one, their voices splitting once more for the words that followed.

“Your path is set.”

“You know where you must go next.”

“However…”

“A choice must be made!”

“Will you arrive there peacefully?! Words and guile can overcome all obstacles, yes? Violence is not needed when your tongue can cloud the judgment of your enemies!” called out one of the crows, making its suggestion clear.

“Will you arrive there forcefully?! Words are weak and take time, correct? You have no time. Violence is justified when the goal is that of destiny itself!” disagreed its feathered twin, proposing a differing route.

As the dreamscape around Reginleif began to collapse, folding upon itself and dissipating into a vast, yawning void, she realized where she had to go; however, the path she would choose to get there was still unclear. Her father’s repository of knowledge held most of what there was to know in Mannheim: fate itself was guiding her there. From the secrets of the Shamans, those tied down to the old gods, she would find the answers she sought. If the Einherjar would not accept their role as gods, who or what could take their place? How would the seemingly impossible become possible?

To find such answers, Reginleif first had to reach her father. Would she approach him peacefully or through force? Peace, even when used to hide deception and subterfuge, meant the avoidance of death and bloodshed – a rare luxury when it came to Mannheim. Force, on the other hand, was a concept all too common for the Nords: violence was but a tool, a means to reach lofty and fated goals.

As the impossible realm was distilled into awakened nothingness, the crows called out one last time.

“The first step of your path now lies before you… More will follow!”

Reginleif plummeted through the abyss as her dream unraveled, her mind and heart aching to make this first step that would mark the beginning of her journey.

Which path will Reginleif lean toward?

Choice

• Peace! – Even when filled with deception, non-violence is always preferable.
• Force! – When the end justifies the means, violence is acceptable.

Chapter 2

The attack came swiftly, accompanied by a frozen gale that sliced through the camp like an icy spear. Reginleif marched from her tent as soon as she felt the ground reverberate with the subtle pitter-pattering of approaching footfalls, knowing full well that her own warriors had no reason to cause such a commotion so early in the morning. Cries had already begun to ring through the stillness of an otherwise peaceful dawn, with the Volva’s men rushing to get into formation as soon as the enemy raiding party was spotted. The opposing force had emerged from the nearby thickets, rising from the bone-white forest in a soundless march and with murderous intent in their hearts. A well-aimed arrow had made sure the main lookout would not live to witness another day, but the brave soldier had managed to let out a harrowing cry before his body was greeted by the tightly packed snow, falling prone and bleeding out in a matter of moments. Reginleif had previously ordered for her men to leave their armor on and keep their weapons close, with sleep being allowed in shifts, a decision she was now immensely grateful for. Her warriors had thought her paranoid – for they considered their location to be too remote to hold any true threats – but the lands of Mannheim often reward the overcautious, for dangers can arise from both other Nords or the many monsters that co-inhabit the frozen wastes.

As the dirge of clashing weapons began to multiply, Reginleif was already running to join her men, taking long, graceful strides and brandishing her unique, makeshift spear; the shaft was once a ceremonial staff, though the Volva had decided to give a deadly edge to it by attaching the sword of an enemy champion that had opposed her in the past. Curses and honor challenges flowed freely throughout the battlefield, exacerbating the already swelling tide of violence. As a main mass of conflict was formed, Reginleif saw an opportunity to outmaneuver her enemies while the main bulk of her troops had them bogged down. Stubborn and bloodthirsty as bears, she thought, seeing the ruddy complexions of the men that had dared to attack her bivouac, charging with little thought behind their movements. The Volva signaled her personal entourage of Valkyries to follow her, moving with noteworthy speed and precision in a tight arc around the battlefield and landing behind the main line of the opposing force.

As the Faithbearer and her war-maidens charged into their enemies, like a blade being thrust into exposed flesh, they appeared as if wreathed in golden-hued sunlight, although ashen-gray clouds lingered far and wide across the heavens. Reginleif joined her makeshift spear alongside the more conventional weapons of the Valkyries, generating an explosion of punctured meat and steaming blood. The aggressors broke down soon after Reginleif’s strategic blow, crumpling like aged parchment; those few that survived dropped their weapons and surrendered, hoping to salvage their lives – even if such scenarios were rare during the bloody clashes of the Nords as a whole.

Once the heat of combat had begun to cool down, Reginleif addressed the defeated warriors, who were now on their knees and lined before the Volva’s camp. “Who is your leader?!” barked the Volva, glowering at the captives.

“He’s dead,” came a gravelly voice from the edge of the row from a gaunt, ginger-haired man. “I was his second.”

Reginleif took a long gander at the man, furrowing her brow as she approached him – her weapon at the ready. “Who sent you?” she said, her voice stern and cold as the air that blew through them. She noticed runes tattooed across the man’s arms; they paid homage to the old gods, the dead gods.

“Your father,” stated the captured warrior, making no effort to lie or hide information. “Frode Runesald.”

Reginleif laughed, unable to contain it and confusing both the captive and her own men. “So, the old shaman has finally made his move, she thought. He cannot bear the shame of his daughter becoming a Volva, and thus he tries to bring me back in chains. The Faithbearer twisted her neck as she looked at the line of captives, a fresh wave of snow falling down like ethereal powder from the heavens. She could slay them, sending a clear message to her father that she would not be subdued, or she could let them go, urging old Frode to let down his guard and hide her true intentions. While in the realm of dreams and prophecies, her heart had chosen peace as her guide; now was the time to reinforce said leaning. Either way, this was an opportunity for her to approach her father – he had chosen to come after her, perhaps driven by misguided parental longing, and now she had every right to react herself. Regardless, the shaman’s archive was her true target; his tomes and boundless knowledge were what she was after. The routes she could take towards her goal were many, but, as with most cases in life, she could only walk one path.

What will Reginleif do with the captured warriors?

Choice

• Kill them.
• Spare them.

Interlude

Reginleif stared ahead from the edge of the forest; the village that had brought her into this life, which was ruled by her Shaman father, lay before her – still and almost peaceful amidst the snow-covered landscape. The air, even when shielded by the thick foliage that surrounded her, stung the Volva’s skin, forcing her to bury her face in the thick furs that were draped over her shoulders. Reginleif and her warriors were well hidden by the forest and had gone unnoticed thus far; the element of surprise was on their side if they chose to attack. The Volva averted her gaze from the settlement that stood looming in the distance, turning to face the Valkyrie that had approached her from behind.

“Mistress,” spoke the young woman, lowering her head with reverence.

Reginleif dipped her chin in response, nodding as she acknowledged the war-maiden. “Hilda…”

“Mistress, your warriors are at the ready. They are spread out across the forest’s edge and are well hidden. Come nightfall, we can emerge and take the village by surprise. It will be a tough battle, but—”

The Volva turned around, motioning for the Valkyrie to join her at her side. “Tell me, Hilda, what do you make of this village? Do not be rash with your answer; assess our target first and answer with care.”

The young woman moved next to her commander and looked ahead, the settlement of Forde Runesald perched atop a minor hill amidst bare, snow-covered land. Above it were ominous gray clouds, hiding the sun and letting through sparse streaks of beamed sunlight. The village itself was surrounded by a wall of sharpened palisades – the fortifications crowned by a deep ditch in turn. “I see our prey,” finally answered Hilda. “I see our enemies hiding in their nest while their hunters linger out of sight in the shadows. They are exposed, for they do not know of the danger that lies so close to their hearth.”

Reginleif shook her head with a hint of disappointment, raising her arm and grasping her subordinate’s shoulder with her gloved hand. The Volva smiled as she spoke, turning her head and locking eyes with Hilda. “You remind me of myself, you know, when I was younger. You see yourself as a hammer and the world as your anvil – so eager to strike, to bend the iron atop it to your will. Things are rarely so simple… That is a lesson that has fully settled within me only recently, and I wish for you to learn it faster than I did.”

The Valkyrie seemed embarrassed for a moment, her ice-blue eyes looking down from within her helmed head. “I meant no disrespect. I only meant to say that—”

“Our target is tougher than you make it out to be,” interrupted the Volva; her voice had a faint maternal hue to it. “It is fortified and elevated – that alone would be a challenge. There is no proper shelter for us to utilize outside its walls; we will be exposed to the arrows of our enemies and the storm that is brewing above us. Yes, we could take my father’s village in time – but at what cost? Many men will die when they need not to.”

Hilda looked up again, her gaze questioning. “Then what, mistress? What do we do if we are not to attack?”

Reginleif’s smile broadened. “I will present myself to my father – alone – and he will accept his enemy willingly and with open arms…”

Not too long after the brief discussion with Hilda was concluded, Reginleif emerged from the forest alone. Her warriors had slunk back deeper into the woods, their weapons tamed for the time being. As she moved towards the main gates of the village, the woman heard avian cawing come from above. Two crows jutted out from the clouds, disappearing into the gray heavens again with one last cry. Once before the settlement’s entrance, Reginleif waited, the gates creaking open to reveal her father and an entourage of armed men.

Frode was older than she remembered: his beard was grayer, and his shoulders had begun to slump. Despite his age, the Shaman was still an intimidating figure – tall and gaunt, with piercing green eyes that glinted from underneath his cowl. Frode approached his daughter with some caution, his usually stern visage softened from disbelief and hope. “Reginleif,” he spoke. “The lookout speaks the truth. You have returned to us. Willingly. Why?”

“I have seen the errors of my ways, father,” answered Reginleif, taking a step forward. “The cause of the Volva is one filled with madness, and I shall be part of it no longer!”

The Shaman moved towards the woman, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “I sent warriors after you, in despair, yet you showed them mercy and released them…”

Reginleif moved towards her father, her voice turning into a whisper as she lurched forward and hugged the man deeply – weaving her hands through his layered fur robes as if she were searching for something. “I have wronged you, father. You showed me love, and I spat on it. Please take me back. I miss my family. I miss you. I wish to reforge our bond and be the daughter you so deserved. I am a Volva no more…”

As tears rolled down his daughter’s ruddy cheeks, Frode’s resolve finally broke, shedding some of his own. He clasped his hands around his daughter in response and spoke, holding back a sob. “No, my dearest daughter. My flower. The joy of my life. I failed you as a father. So engrossed was I in my studies that I failed to see the true blessing in my life – you. I welcome you back, Reginleif. Your family and your clan await you with open arms.”

Her face buried in the Shaman’s shoulder, feeling her father’s figure quiver with years’ worth of pent-up guilt, the Volva could not help but smile.

As father and daughter went towards the village, an aged yet regal woman approached the duo, addressing Frode. “So, I see you have made your choice.” 

“Yes,” responded the man, dragging his sleeve over both of his eyes. “Our daughter will join us once more. She has repented and is therefore absolved.”

The two women locked eyes, and Reginleif was the first to speak. “It is good to see you, mother…”

Chapter 3

Slipping away from the gathering at the drinking hall had been easy enough for Reginleif. Wishing to celebrate his daughter’s return without delay, Frode had invited the entire village to a spontaneous celebration, laying out food and drink on great tables and filling the great stone hearth at the center with dried wood to stoke a proper fire. The villagers ate and they drank for hours, until the momentum of the festivities dwindled away into exhaustion. Many of the settlement’s warriors and villagers had subsequently passed out on the spot, with their heads resting on crowded tables and hard wooden benches – the rest had already made their way to their homes, hoping to salvage what little sleep they could before their toils began once more come morning. The Volva had played the role of the elated daughter well enough, partaking in the celebration as part of her cover; each time her ale mug was filled, she would spill its contents when no one was looking, careful not to get intoxicated like many of the others. Thus, Reginleif was able to stealthily depart from the drinking hall, her father and his warriors being none the wiser about the treachery that was about to unfold.

It was still dark outside, yet the woman knew that the morning was not too far away; she had to move quickly and get her prize now. Her father’s lodge was easy enough to find even without light, for Reginleif had traversed the rutty pathways that were sprawled across the village countless times while she was still in her father’s good graces, and she knew which route to take by memory and instinct alone. She glided through the darkness like a thief – though the Volva did not see herself as one – not daring to light up her torch in fear of getting discovered and moving instinctually. The air seemed colder than when she had first arrived, and the void-spun heavens rumbled with the echo of distant thunder: a great storm would be unleashed in not too long a time, adding to Reginleif’s sense of urgency as she entered her once-home.

The inside of the lodge was devoid of light; assured that the place was empty, it was only then that the Volva ignited the torch she had brought with her, using it to illuminate her path. Her father’s abode had not changed much since she was last there; it was filled with the trinkets and paraphernalia that were expected of all Shamanic households – runes and carvings venerating the dead gods of the Nords in one way or another. Even the great door leading to Frode’s study looked the same: made of thick slabs of wood and reinforced with iron strips and studs, getting in by force would be a time-consuming endeavor. Reginleif had no such time to spare, but that did not matter – for she had a key. With deft and nimble fingers, she had snatched the key when she first embraced her father outside the settlement’s gates, knowing that the old Shaman would fail to notice the theft while the expected festivities took place. It was a risky plan, that was for sure, but Reginleif knew her father and the customs of her clan well enough: the return of the leader’s daughter demanded that the ale flow freely alongside a roaring celebration, spawning large enough of a distraction for the Volva to reach her goal.

Carefully placing the key inside, Reginleif unlocked the door with a harsh click, entering her father’s study while her heart thudded in her chest. Lighting the main brazier and placing her torch on a mount on the wall, the Volva was now free to rummage through the stacks of tomes and scrolls that were piled all over the room, looking for something that would give her a better, deeper understanding of the Einherjar and their divine nature. As she searched, she heard a flapping noise behind her and swung her body around, drawing the dagger that was sheathed at her waist and ready to lunge at the potential intruder. Instead, she saw two crows – her avian guardians – from atop a column of books and documents that nearly reached the ceiling. Reginleif had begun to get irritated, having failed to find the all-important piece of lore she had hoped to uncover in this place, and addressed the twin birds with an irritated tone. “Well, what do you want? Are you here to spew more riddles my way, or are you willing to grace me with something tangible for once?” The crows did not say anything in response, simply twisting their heads and pecking at the leatherbound tomes they were perched upon. Reginleif let the moment pass and bit her lip, her mounting anxiety sinking in her stomach like a stone. When she spoke again, her anger was crystal clear, with the woman lunging forward and stretching her arm upwards in an attempt to swat away her jet-feathered harassers. “For once I need you to talk, and you insult me with silence? Damned be both of you!”

In her anger, the Volva stumbled and crashed against the book-mound, causing the uneven pillar to collapse in its entirety. The crows cawed, as if they were laughing, and flew away, leaving as swiftly as they had arrived. Reginleif cursed some more and got up on her feet, grinding her teeth as she tried to calm her nerves. “Blasted birds,” she mumbled. “I’m half a mind to get a bow next time I see them…”

As she was about to step away, Reginleif noticed something curious on the wall the collapsed mound was once pressed against. One of the stones stuck out; its edges were worn and discolored, as if they were ground against their brethren in perpetuity. The woman leaned over and touched the stone, forcing her fingers into the jagged crevices that surrounded it and noticing that it was loose. Carefully, she pulled out the stone and found a dusty cavity behind it, a hidden item lying in wait wrapped in a weathered piece of cloth. The Volva pulled out the mysterious item and removed its shroud, realizing that it was a large tome. She traced her fingers over its cover, brushing her fingertips over the emblazoned form of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, and the runes that accompanied it. “Forgotten histories…” she spoke under her breath. “Secrets of the old gods…”

Without delay, Reginleif moved towards the nearest table and set the book atop it, opening it with great care and flicking through its pages. There was a lot of knowledge stored here, she thought, important by the looks of it. To immerse herself in all of this would take some time – time she most certainly lacked at the present moment. She noticed something sticking from the side of the tome – a bookmark made from a strip of leather. She rushed to said section and found the ink to be bolder here; it was not as faded as the rest of the book, as if it had been revised and worked on recently. A title caught her eye, and she knew she had found what she had come for. “Of the Einherjar and their Legacy.” If she was to find answers regarding the nature of her chosen gods and the potential awakening of new ones, this book could be the key to gaining such knowledge – years of being familiarized with her father’s work confirmed as much in her gut.

Reginleif left the open book on the table and hurried to pick up some other potentially useful items that had drawn her attention: lesser tomes, scrolls, and some folded maps – shoving them into a sack she had brought with her. So engrossed was the Volva in her thievery that she felt to notice the arrival of the person behind her – her mother, Astra. The old woman was holding a torch with one arm, keeping it over Frode’s prized tome of secrets that Reginleif had carelessly left unguarded. “You betray us once more,” said Astra bitterly. “I knew from the moment you stepped foot through our gates that you were up to no good. You took advantage of your father’s love to do what? To steal from him?” The Volva’s mother waved the torch over the uncovered tome. “To steal this?!”

Reginleif took a cautious step forward, keeping her arms close to her sides; her dagger was pressed against the underside of her right forearm, hungering in its steely silence. “Easy now, mother. Don’t do anything rash…”

“Stay away from me,” asserted Astra, the torch still firm in her hand. “Leave us alone and never return! I will not have you steal your father’s greatest labor – even if it means burning it…”

Reginleif quickly assessed the situation in her mind and found only two possible paths forward. She could pounce at her mother and incapacitate her, knocking her out for long enough for her to escape. However, the torch brandished by Astra was the real hazard; even though its flame was weak and dying out, it still posed a threat to the tome she craved. Struggling with her mother could risk the book getting damaged. The Volva was sure she could prevent and mitigate most of the harm that was aimed at her prize – for Reginleif was a powerful and seasoned combatant, while her mother was old and relatively frail – but the danger was still there if the two came to blows. There was, however, another option: Reginleif could simply slit her mother’s throat and be done with the entire affair in a much swifter fashion. Her dagger had seemingly gone unnoticed, and a spurt of spilt blood seemed far less catastrophic than the threat of fire. As Reginleif stared into her mother’s eyes, the same choice seemed to appear before her once more. Would she choose violence or the more peaceful alternative to achieve her goals?

How will Faithbearer Reginleif deal with her mother in order to secure the tome?

Choice

• Reginleif rushes forward, aiming to disarm the old woman and incapacitate her without too much harm.
• Reginleif leaps forward with her dagger at the ready, slashing at the old woman’s neck with lethal intent.

Epilogue

“Praise be to ya, Reginleif, daughter of Frode!” roared Jarl Gunnar One-Eye to the Volva’s annoyance, grabbing an ancient golden goblet and filling it with stale ale from his drinking skin. “I’ve never seen this much treasure in my entire damn life. There’s enough gold in here to make the High King blush!” The large man took a hefty swig from the cup and spat it out almost immediately, coughing from the clumped-up dust that had risen to the surface.

“Save your praises for when we get back to Mannheim,” stated Reginleif flatly. “The lands of the Old Dominion are full of danger, and we are far from safe still.” The woman moved towards the sizeable capsule they had so painstakingly labored to acquire, staring into its frosted translucent surface and examining the curled-up figure within.

Gunnar waddled towards the Volva and slapped her on the back, belching with authority. “Come now, lass. You got your little prize, and I got my treasure. There’s no need to be so glum!” The Jarl raised his free, muscle-bound arm and swung it around, gesturing at the great subterranean necropolis, Ierapetra, that engulfed the Nord raiding force. “We still have much of this place left to explore. I’m sure we can find more magical trinkets to cheer you up…” He paused. “And more gold for me to take!”

Reginleif turned around with a sneer, swatting away the man’s oversized hand without much effort. “A Wælcyrge is not a mere trinket, you shortsighted fool. Such beings were used by the gods of old to create the Einherjar. Its recovery is of great importance to our people’s future.”

“Aye, save your breath, woman,” said the Jarl with a burp. “It was stolen by that dried-up old husk we saw earlier during the times of Ragnarök. The Fire-something or what have you. You said so already!”

Denying the Jarl the chance to continue with his retort, the Volva brought two fingers close to her mouth and whistled. Her personal following of Valkyries emerged from the crowd of scrambling Nords without delay, gathering around their leader with their weapons at their ready. Tensing at the sight, Gunnar moved his own weapon slightly but did not fully draw it.

“Take the Wælcyrge and move out,” ordered Reginleif, the Valkyries positioning themselves around the stasis-pod and lifting it up as soon as the command was issued. Turning her head to face the Jarl once more, the Volva spoke with the same authority. “We need to head out. Gather your men.”

“I think not,” stated the man flatly. “I came here to gather loot, and that’s what I’ll do. You best wait for me to finish!”

Reginleif felt anger shooting across her body like electricity, causing her muscles to tense. As she opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted. The voluminous tomb city echoed with the crash of falling rubble – a large stone or two, perhaps – coming from further inside its belly, where the Nords had retrieved the lost Wælcyrge. The woman felt her skin prickle as she stared into the sparsely illuminated darkness, turning to see that the Jarl had mirrored her concern, his forehead strained and wrinkled.

“You move ahead with the bulk of the warriors, Gunnar,” conceded the Volva. “We can safeguard both our spoils like that. Leave behind a few of your best men, and I’ll guide them. If there’s anything of worth left to take, we’ll find it and bring it to you. This plan will save us the most time, and we’ll get to leave this accursed place a moment sooner. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” nodded the man, gesturing to some of his warriors to follow Reginleif as she moved deeper into Ierapetra.

Within the innermost heart of the tomb-city, Andronicus sat as he had done so for years – motionless on his throne. Since he first awoke into undeath, he and the rest of his comrades had resigned themselves to a restless slumber, fueled by the horrors they had witnessed in their past lives – of the Northern Crusades and of Ragnarök. In his dream, Andronicus sat atop the jet-black surface of an ever-expanding lake; its darkened waters were akin to solid ground when it came to the Archimandrite’s withered body. There, within his mind, there was neither light nor sound; this Andronicus welcomed, for it gave him the semblance of peace he so craved.

Then the waters became disturbed, and fleeting images of destruction assaulted Andronicus’ inner sanctum. The Firebringer, for that was what he was, saw glimpses of a vast tree – Yggdrasil, the World Tree – consumed by waves of gluttonous flame. Then came the stench, though his nose had withered away into nothingness long ago. The aroma was crisp; it reeked of frost – of Mannheim.

Parchment-like skin rubbed against yellowed bone, and dried-up sinew tensed into action – Andronicus had awoken once more. His first sight was that of ruin: his resting place had been defiled, and his greatest prize, the Wælcyrge, was gone. Then he felt them: their shallow breathing and beating hearts assaulted his senses, and he knew the intruders were still nearby. Mannheim, he thought, and a mixture of anger and excitement overtook his senses. Rising as if carried by invisible strings, Andronicus began to move. The tomb city around him groaned with multitudinous unlife, and the words escaped the Archimandrite’s haggard lips like a whisper. “So, it begins anew…”

Crucible of Wills – Vote

The time of reckoning has arrived! The Nords and the Old Dominion reignite a centuries-old rivalry, with the Volva known as Faithbearer Reginleif leading an expedition to the ancient tomb city of Ierapetra – nestled underneath the haunted lands of the Old Dominion. Within the necropolis, the Nords seek a mythical being known as a Wælcyrge. A divine servant of the old and perished Nord pantheon, the Wælcyrge was instrumental in the creation of the god-like Einherjar in ages past, such a being carrying within it invaluable divine knowledge and secrets. In the Volva’s way stands the entombed Archimandrite known as Andronicus the Firebringer; a veteran of the Northern Crusades that once plagued Mannheim, this unliving preacher rises to confront those that dare encroach upon his mortuary sanctuary. Having taken the Wælcyrge, slumbering within a stasis pod, as a prize during his time in Mannheim, Andronicus now awakens to find the divine creature missing – stolen by the Nord intruders that have broken into his vast, subterranean home.

Now, the faded memory of Ragnarök stirs once more as the denizens of Ierapetra rally to face the thieving northmen. Desperate to escape the awakening necropolis, Reginleif rushes towards her fleet of ships, waiting to ferry her back to Mannheim, while Andronicus gives chase in an unyielding effort to reclaim his most treasured prize. Amidst dead and forgotten lands, the melody of clashing steel rings proud once more, with fate dictating that there can be only one victor! Will the Nords escape with their divine prize, or will the undead warriors of the Old Dominion halt the intruders and put them to the sword?

Vote for the faction you wish to win below. The vote will last until the 24^th of February 2025, and the end result will influence the future of Conquest’s world. To read the full story of this saga-worthy clash and immerse yourself in a grand narrative, feel free to interact with the Crucible of Wills: Ashes and Faith lore campaign pack!

Which faction will claim victory?

Choice

• The Nords!
• The Old Dominion!