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.