As his powerful, Berserkr’s Wrath enhanced legs lifted him into the air, time seemed to slow. Bjorn looked out and saw blood, so much blood. The muddied pit which Fafnir had made into a nest of treasure and carcasses ran scarlet. Bodies were strewn everywhere, drengir were on fire, arms waving, skin reddening, peeling, melting as brynja rings became embedded in flesh.

  On the ridge archers nocked their arrows ready to fire another volley. Horick’s mouth was open, veins popping, fangs protruding, spittle flying as he yelled the order to draw.

  Below drengir were hacking and slashing at Fafnir’s limbs and belly and though he could not see her, Bjorn was certain that Ullr was underneath the dragon, giving him a taste of her own brand of fury as she slit his belly from chest to bladder.

  Sorry, but this trophy is mine, he thought.

  Then he was gritting his teeth, two-handed axe held high over his head, arms pumped and large, shoulders and back braced and ready to swing downwards. He fell towards the nape of the dragon’s neck, drawing on all of his strength, and slashed down.

  … And kept falling.

  The axe sliced through the dragon like butter and Bjorn felt his strength fade as Berserkr’s Wrath left his body. The tangy taste of iron splashed his lips, covered his face and the rest of his body and he was crashing into the mud, falling, rolling, covered in blood. Chest heaving, he opened his eyes to the sky to see fangs, shocked, yellow eyes, and scales falling towards him.

  “Fukka,” he swore, rolling to the side just as the huge head smashed into the ground with a thunk, spraying mud all over him, a torrent of blood falling from the neck-hole like a crimson waterfall, waterboarding him until he rolled further out of the way. Pushing hard against the slippery mud, he forced himself to his hands and knees, coughing and spluttering as he vomited blood, throat stinging, body aching.

  Experience threshold met, advancement to level 3 will begin immediately.

  Runes appeared before him and the world stopped. Risking a quick glance at the battlefield, he saw chaos. Drengir on fire, silent screams in the weave’s stillness struggling to escape their maws. Shieldmaidens stood strong, shields braced, faces terrified. Archers adorned the ridge, arrows paused mid-flight.

  Turning back to the runes, Bjorn already knew the best place for his skill points. Placing them in strength would make his Berserkr’s Wrath skill that much more potent, so that is what he did.

  Your free points have been applied. Due to your class’ [Berserkr] affinity, you have gained 1 extra point to strength and vitality.

  “Looks like you won,” Hrafn said, the sound of flapping wings reaching Bjorn’s ears as the raven hovered above him and time resumed. “Though Fafnir was weaker than I had expected. Your grandfather must have sapped most of his power, that was merely a raindrop in the storm of his former self. Still, you have won.”

  “No thanks to you,” Bjorn said through the retching.

  Then all he could hear were cheers and battle cries and when he lifted his head he saw drengir punching their weapons into the air, blood soaked and dirty, but proud, elated. Whether that was due to their victory, or merely that they had survived, Bjorn did not know. Their demeanours had changed immediately though, in the few seconds between the weave-paused time and the present. “Only one thing left,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “Your brodir?” Hrafn asked.

  “The heart,” Bjorn replied. “Then Ivar.”

  “That is two things…”

  Staggering, ankle stiff and sore, Bjorn moved underneath the dragon, looking up at its slit belly. He was surprised that it remained standing after death, proof of its former strength, of Bjorn’s for slaying it, despite what Hrafn has said.

  Ullr was crouched on the floor, panting, widened eyes staring at the severed head a few paces away from her, valknut shield with a dried blood stain over it heaving on her back with each rasping, deep breath she took.. She barely seemed to notice as Bjorn reached up, seax in hand, and sliced through the chest cavity. She didn’t even react when he snapped the ribs, pulling them outwards as he reached inside and grabbed the beast’s heart – which was the size of his own head.

  Then he was cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby, staring at it.

  Here goes nothing, he thought as he sank his teeth into it. Tangy iron splashed down his throat, blood running down his gullet like a stream, choking him. The heart felt like gristle, triggering his gag reflex as he moved to take another bite. Then time stopped, and runes flashed in front of his eyes.

  Thank the gods, he thought. Eating the entire heart may have been too difficult of a battle for me.

  Quest Complete:

  To Slay A Dragon:

  Thought to have been slain by the great hero Sigurd, Fafnir has returned.

  Reclaim the honour of your clan and slay him.

  Objectives:

  Slay Fafnir 1/1

  Eat Fafnir’s heart (optional) 1/1

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  Reward:

  It is said that there is knowledge inside a dragon’s heart

  Item Consumed:

  Fafnir’s Heart (unique)

  You have obtained the knowledge of an ancient djoful. All weapon proficiencies have been increased by +1.

  Time resumed and Bjorn was grinning. Plus one to all weapon proficiencies was no small reward, not to mention the battle fame he would surely claim from slaying the famed Fafnir. As he staggered past Ullr, he dropped the rest of the heart into her lap and she looked up at him, eyes staring past him, almost uncomprehending, as blood stained her breeches.

  “You said you wanted this,” he said, and Ullr looked between Bjorn and the half-eaten heart.

  “Should I… eat it?” She asked, eyes lingering on the fresh blood dripping from his beard, and Bjorn shrugged, then he was walking away and she was left kneeling in the mud, staring at the heart.

  Back in the clearing a new kind of chaos had ensued. The dying moans of burned drengir wafted through the stale air. Others were staggering around in a daze; some were dragging bodies into a pile and Horick was descending the muddy slope with his archers.

  Bjorn ignored all of them, making a beeline for Ivar. His brodir was laid out in the mud, blood leaking from his crotch. He groaned, clutching the area with burned hands, face convulsing as he rocked side to side.

  “You’re alive,” Bjorn said as he rushed to Ivar’s side, dropping to his knees and looking into his brodir’s bloodshot, pained eyes.

  “Barely,” he groaned.

  “That is what you get for rushing into battle without using your clever,” Bjorn said, hammering his fist into the mud as he looked over the pool of blood swamping Ivar’s waist. “You were supposed to be the deep-cunning thinker.”

  “And where has that gotten me?” He replied, voice rasping, croaking, lips contorted with pain as he chuckled sadistically. “Everyone respects Bjorn Ironside, brave warrior and son of the famed Ragnar Lodbrok. I am supposed to be king of Denmark; I am supposed to take father’s seat at Lejre. Yet I have no battle fame, no glory of my own. Horick has known me since I was bairn and even he was only interested in parlaying with you. Slaying the dragon, that would have earned me a saga tale or two, no? Made them respect me.”

  “What is the point of glory if he is not alive to reap its rewards?” Hrafn said quietly, tutting and shaking his beaked face.

  Bjorn looked at his brodir’s face for a long moment, mouth slightly agape, eyes blinking. Then he scooped him up in his arms, carrying him like a babe as he ran towards the entrance to the muddy boneyard.

  “You bleed too much, brodir,” he said. “I will take you to the galdrwoman in Jomsborg.”

  Ivar looked like he wanted to protest but with each thunderous stride that Bjorn took, his brodir winced and words seemed to be unavailable to him.

  “Where are you going, Dragon’s Bane?” Horick shouted merrily.

  “Jomsborg.”

  Horick’s arm shot out, grabbing Bjorn’s shoulder and halting him. Then he was looking down into Bjorn’s arms, eyes gazing upon Ivar for a moment. Then he let go and nodded.

  “Then go,” he said. “Tell them I sent you. Seek out our galdrwoman. And you’ll add an extra chest of gold to our deal.”

  “After your archers tried to stick me like a pig,” Bjorn growled. “I should kill you. I haven’t. The breath you still hold in your lungs is payment for your galdrwoman.”

  Bjorn turned, locking eyes with Horick, who stared back for a long moment. The drengir in the mud were all looking at them, halting their goings on to watch the two leaders in their deadlocked staring match.

  “That is fair,” Horick said eventually, lips twitching as he spoke. “But we will talk later. It seems we have much to discuss.”

  Bjorn nodded, then turned and ran in the direction of Jomsborg.

  ***

  Bjorn leaned against the wooden walls of one of the only steadings in Jomsborg that was untouched by flames. Tapping his foot impatiently, he watched as freedmen and women dragged bodies onto small boats filled with hay, shields, and weapons. He watched as chained thralls bent their backs to the slap of knotted whips, removing debris from the many ruined steadings in the small town.

  His brodir’s drengir watched as well. Sitting idly in their longship, weapons belts strung around their waists as they waited, ready, primed.

  “How much longer will it take?” Bjorn growled, slamming his fist backwards into the wood, cracking it slightly.

  “Patience,” Hrafn squawked. “The galdrwoman knows medicine. Has healing-clever. Ivar will be fine.”

  “Earlier you said she was Weave touched.”

  “She might be,” Hrafn replied. “The only way to know is to ask, but that would mean revealing yourself as well. Not a worthy trade off if you ask me.”

  “I was wrong,” Bjorn said, fist slamming wood, eyes hard. “I should have gone to him right away. Instead I chose the heart. Chose myself.”

  “That power will help you take your vengeance,” Hrafn said, pecking the top of Bjorn’s head. “What difference would a few moments have made anyway?”

  “I do not know,” Bjorn sighed, stepping away from the steading and pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to calm the head-throb in his forehead. “I hate waiting.”

  Just then, he heard the sound of clanging steel, thumping boots crunching on twigs and leaves, cheerful men and women chatting loudly and he turned his head to see the procession of Jomsvikings marching back into the town, Horick and Ullr at the head of them. Her face and hands were covered in blood.

  “Dragon’s Bane!” Horick shouted cheerfully as drengir marched off into the town, many of them carrying chests of overflowing treasure, grinning from ear to ear. “Shame you left so suddenly, look at all this loot.”

  “My share?” Bjorn asked.

  “You, my friend,” Horick began as he leaned against the wall, smiling up at Bjorn, “get the best prize of all: battle-fame. With all of these titles at your behest it is a wonder you know when someone calls for you. How many is it now? Ragnarsson, Ironside, King of Sweeden, and now Dragon’s Bane. And here I stand with just a single name,” he shrugged.

  “I can think of a few more names for you,” Bjorn muttered.

  Horick’s smile waned and then the door creaked open and the galdrwoman was hobbling outside. She was covered in blood, her arms, forehead, hair, clothes, all drenched in bright scarlet. Bjorn looked down at her with questioning eyes, Horick hovering at his shoulder.

  “He is alive, for now,” she said. “Though he might wish he had died in battle when he sees.”

  “Sees what?” Bjorn and Horick asked at the same time and the galdrwoman moved to the side, lifting a weary, wrinkled arm and nodding inside the steading.

  Bjorn rushed through the door with Horick right behind him, the smell of trapped iron hit his nostrils, gagging his throat as he entered the dark, stagnant room. Cloths covered with blood littered the floors and Ivar laid naked on a stained table covered with dripping, bloody furs. His body was soaked with blood and sweat, brow glistening in the fire glow. He turned his head weakly as Bjorn approached, a grim look on his face.

  “Kill me,” he rasped, eyes pleading, lips trembling, cracked, tears cresting his swollen cheeks, dripping to the floor as they mixed with his sweat.

  “Brodir…” Bjorn said as he saw the injury, eyes widening. “Your favourite sword…”

  “Kill me,” he pleaded again, chest heaving, body shaking. “I cannot live with this shame. The doors of the great hall are forever closed to me now. Let me die, let me become draugr so you can kill me again, for good.”

  Bjorn shushed him, grabbing a wet flannel and placing it to Ivar’s head. He was burning hotter than Helheim.

  “His fever is bad,” Hrafn said. “He might die.”

  “He will live,” Bjorn rasped in a harsh tone.

  Horick moved out from behind Bjorn and his eyes widened as he looked at the bloody mess between Ivar’s legs. He gasped, then took a step back. Steadied himself and then he was moving to Ivar’s side, patting his shoulder and forcing a grim smile.

  “You always wanted many names,” he said. “When your father sent you to us as a bairn, you told me you wanted to have so many names that the skalds would have to write an entire verse just to introduce you in their tales. Just like your brodir,” he smiled sadly, gripping Ivar’s shoulder tightly. “Well, you have one now. They will call you Ivar the Boneless and foemen will cower when they hear of your ferocious battle-skill. For a man without flesh-lust keeps his mind solely on the enemy before him.”

  Ivar chuckled, then coughed, stomach convulsing as his upper body twitched up and down. Bjorn glared at Horick, fist clenched by his side, eyes bulging. He lifted his arm but was halted as Ivar spoke.

  “You are an arseling, Horick,” he said with a slight laugh, and Bjorn unclenched his fist and took a deep breath.