Page 42 of Don’t Let Me Go

The seeress tilts her head as if listening to music that only she can hear.

“Your son is safe. He found the new land that he sought. And you will behold his face before the next winter.”

Erik sighs in relief, and my brother-warriors raise their voices in a cheer.

“What of Brattahlid?” he asks. “What of our future?”

Again, the seeress tilts her head in silent communion.

“Brattahlid will be strong as long as Erik the Red sits on the great seat.”

Another cheer rises up, and Erik nods approvingly. “The winter will not be too harsh, then?”

“No harsher than you are accustomed to.”

“And our crops?”

“Will thrive in the spring. As they always have.”

“And what of the sickness?” Erik asks. “I have heard rumors that it has returned all along the seacoast and that no village

is safe. I lost fifty men to it when it first struck Brattahlid three years ago. It nearly destroyed this settlement. I must

know if it will come again.”

Ulfhild’s silence sends a shiver through my body.

“Well?” Erik asks, his voice edged in fear. “Will the sickness come to Brattahlid?”

“No,” Ulfhild answers, shaking her head. I breathe a sigh of relief, as does every man in the hall, until the seeress opens her eyes and points at Ragnar. “The sickness is already here.”

Ragnar rises in protest, his eyes wild, his face drenched in sweat. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a

word, his legs buckle beneath the weight of his weariness. He collapses into my arms, dragging us both to the floor.

“It is true,” Erik says, rising from his chair in horror. “Ragnar has brought the sickness upon us!”

The men scatter like rats as they flee to the far side of the hall.

“Please!” I beg, turning my tear-filled eyes to Ulfhild as I cradle Ragnar in my arms. “Help him. You must help him!”

Ulfhild shakes her head. Her eyes are not without pity, but her words are without mercy. “There is no cure for the sickness

but death.”

“Take him from here!” Erik commands, turning to his brother. “Light a pyre. We will purge the sickness out of Brattahlid with

fire.”

“No!” I shout, jumping to my feet and unsheathing my sword.

“Rorik, put down your blade!” Erik shouts. “Ragnar must die!”

“You will not touch him!” I answer, spitting the words in defiance. “None of you will touch him!”

I cannot defeat one of my brother-warriors in battle, let alone all of them. But the wolf is in my blood. I will die before

I let harm come to Ragnar.

The men look to Erik. At his fatal nod, they will have their order to kill. I am ready.

But the nod does not come.

The witch moves to Erik’s side and whispers in his ear. The Great Hall goes silent. All I can hear is Ragnar’s labored breathing

and the howling of the wind moving through the valley.

“Let them go,” Erik pronounces.

His words should bring relief, yet I cannot believe them. Nor can my brother-warriors, who stare at Erik in amazement.

“Take Ragnar and leave this settlement,” he commands, turning his terrible gaze on me. “You may try your fortune in the wild,

but if you are found in Brattahlid hereafter, you will die. Now go!”

I do not hesitate. I sheathe my blade and help Ragnar lift himself off the floor. He has not spoken a word, and I know not

if he even understands what is happening, but it makes no difference. I will be his eyes and ears. I will be his strength

and his legs. Just as he has always been my heart.

The fear-struck men part for us as we make our way out of the Great Hall. At the open door, the winter wind bites at my face,

hungry for my warmth. I turn back to the hall and take one last look at my brother-warriors, at Erik, and at the seeress.

“ Witch ,” I say, spitting the word at her with all my contempt. “I helped you. I sang for you.”

“And you sang well. But now your song is at an end.”

I open my mouth to leave her with one final curse, something to bring the stars crashing down upon her traitorous head, but

a strange smile plays across her lips and silences me.

“Do not despair,” she says, her eyes shining as if lit by a fire that burned within her soul. “When one song ends, another

always begins.”

With a slow, deliberate nod, she bids me farewell, and I carry my Ragnar into the endless winter.

Of all the nights to be banished, we could not have been cursed with one more terrible than this. The snow falls upon us,

as relentless as the wrath of an angry god, and the bitter chill that cuts through our bones is enough to drive a man from

his senses.

Even so, I push forward through the storm and out of the settlement, supporting my weary Ragnar, who wheezes in my arms like a dying flame.

“Stop,” he groans against my ear. But I pay him no heed.

We must keep going. We’ve just made it onto the slope of the shallow mountain that edges our settlement. If we stop here,

our tracks in the snow will be easy enough to follow for any man wishing us harm. Though I cannot imagine anyone will trail

us into this wilderness. The snow is falling hard and fast tonight, burying the land in a freezing white death. Only fools

would brave a storm such as this.

“Stop!” Ragnar shouts. His legs give out and he collapses to the ground. I kneel beside him and try to lift him, but my arms

are too weary, and my breath is short. The strain of carrying Ragnar even this far has stolen what little strength I have.

“We cannot rest,” I tell him, laying my body next to his to warm it against the brutal chill. “We must get over the mountain.”

When Ragnar and I first came to Brattahlid, we discovered a small cave on the western slope. It was to there that we would

steal on warm summer nights when we could not bear to be without the other’s touch. If we can but reach that cave, there is

hope he may survive the night.

Already Ragnar’s skin is ice to my touch despite his burning fever. He will not last until dawn. Neither, in truth, will I.

But in the cave, we will have shelter. There Ragnar may rest. Then we shall steal a boat from Erik and leave this land. Perhaps

we will return to Húsavík. Or if not to Iceland, then to any place where my Ragnar will be safe.

“Rorik, listen to me,” he urges, his voice straining to form each word. “You must go back.”

“We cannot. Erik has banished us.”

“Erik has banished me. You can still return.”

“I will not leave you.”

“Rorik—”

“No!” I shout, taking his face in my hands. “You are my bond-brother. Where you go, I go. Now and forever. Even unto the Field

of Death.”

I press my lips to his, sealing my oath with a kiss, but his lips are cold as stone.

“You are half my heart,” he whispers, his sea-blue eyes twinkling as they did the day we first met.

“And you are mine,” I tell him.

Ragnar smiles and closes his eyes. Then he is gone.

I lay my head upon his silent chest and hold him in my arms. Around our bodies, snow falls, unrelenting as a wolf. I no longer

mind. The wolf-snow is our friend. It covers us in its great white fur, hiding us from all the evils of the night.

It buries us in a grave with our one full heart.