"--bitch-begotten whore--"
    She had bitten him, bitten him hard, catching his bottom lip within her teeth; and
now blood painted his chin, was channeled by saffron-hued beard into crimson ribbons
that streamed against soiled tunic.  He spat more ribbons, more blood aside, then smiled grimly and spat it also into her face.
    She did not know why a man was honored for defending his life, while she was called names as she defended hers.  Or why a man was granted a clean death, a warrior's death, taken up to Odin's Valhalla, while a woman, equally victim, was degraded. Abused. And killed without honor; or died of dishonor, because the body gave up hope.
    She would not, and did not--and so he was forced to take it from her:  her body, and thus her life.
    Bitch-begotten whore, he said--because she was not a whore, and therefore fought to preserve that which another honored:  virginity, modesty, a quiet demeanor.  But he took all from her, this man, this warrior;  raped her soul as well as her body, and the demeanor others had honored was now vilified because she sought to change it, to preserve what had been hers, was meant to be hers, until she chose otherwise.
    First with himself.  Then with his ax-hilt.
    "Bitch-begotten whore."
    What did he think she should do?  Let him do as he would without protest?
    Permit him to do such as this?
    He bore wounds of her now, though she doubted any would scar.  Bitten lip, clawed face, before the nails broke, before her fingers were crushed.  Before teeth and jaw were shattered with a single great blow of his hand.
    So much broken, now.   Inside and out.
    He used her again, slick now with her own blood as much as spilled seed.  And complained of her, that she no longer fit.  But that was his fault, too;  the ax-handle had torn her.
    Little time left.  No glory, she though;  no battlefield song of a warrior's honorable death.  Just--death.  Without glory, honor, song.  A woman, apparently, merited none.
    No Valhalla for her.  No Valkyrie come down from the heavens to carry her from the field.  There was no provision for slain women in the honor of Odin's hall.
    No hope either, now, for reparation.  Revenge.
    She gave nothing.  He took it.  Took it all, including her life.
    "Bitch-begotten whore."
    The last words she heard.
 

    Vision was a red haze of sunset, of blood.  He squinted, blinked, twitched his head in a tiny, wayward motion meant to rid his eyes of the veil so he might see again.  There was much to see, he knew:  the battle was ended.  There was a victor, and also a vanquished.
    He was uncertain which he was.
    By the hand of Tyr, god of war, had he lost? Had he won?  Was he lost?
    To either side, he might be lost.  Might be dead.  How they counted him, lost or won, was wholly dependent on which side was victor.  He did not know himself.
    Wind howled down the field, whipping a frenzy among the dead, for what rode upon the wind was a vanguard of beasts and steeds come down to collect the souls.  The living saw nothing save the remains of the battle, the aftermath of war.
    He felt it then, felt the wind, heard it's song, saw the vanguard stoop out of the darkening sky, riding friezes of lowing clouds.  A Brisingamen of beasts strung like monstrous ornaments torn from Freya's throat, adornment for the dead.
    Ah.  He was dead, then.  Or dying.
    His old name was as dead.  He bore a new one, now:  einheriar.  A warrior dead in battle, bound for Valhalla.
    He felt no pain, neither of body nor soul.  Ther was glory in life, glory in battle, glory in death.  He would go to Valhalla, bow to Odin, eat of the great boar, Saehrimnir, roasted by Andhrimnir, Odin's own cook; and drink of the mead from out of Heidrun's teats, Odin's sacred goat--and he would never be alone, never lack a woman.  Never truly be dead within the hall of Odin.
    A red haze, a smear against his eyes, bloodying the world.  It obscured his vision of those who came to claim him, to gather up fallen heroes.  He heard them still, fleet steeds and panting beasts;  felt it still, wild wind wailing down the field.  And welcomed them all, for he knew what rode them.
    Valhalla, and Valkyrie.
    She came down then, upon a storm-gray wolf.  Was it Freki?  Geri?  Was it one of Odin's pets come to honor him?  He saw its amber eyes, slitted as if it laughed;  saw its perfect teeth in a snarl that was also a leer.  And the woman upon it.
    Flags of wheat-gold hair whipped back in the haste of her journey.  She was made of the songs they sang over mead, the glories told of Valkyrien over roasted boar.  A woman for each of them, claimed the warriors; as many as could be had by an inexhaustible man, for what was Valhalla but perfection in a male, and reward for an einheriar's valor?  Warm hall, fresh mead, well-tended boar, and women for every warrior.
    Oh, by one-eyed Odin, death was no distress.  Not when it promised this.
    He would have stood for her, but the ax-blow had shattered a leg.  Would have sat for her, save ribs were splintered to fragments.  Would have bowed his head to her, but for the hole where his throat had been.
    None of it mattered, now.  She was as he had been promised, as they each of them had been promised, and his foretold future was infinitely preferabel to his painful present.
    Fierce maiden, fierce smile, baring perfect teeth in a leer that matched the wolf's.  Hair settled now from her ride, whipped no more by the wild wind.  She wore a cloak of it;  as she bent to him it spilled down over shoulders to drift across his face, to mingle with his beard.  He feared his blood would sully it.
    She saw it in his eyes:  distress that he would soil her.  And laughed.  Nothing of him could soil her, nothing of blood, of viscera, of the produce of battle.  She was one of Tyr's blessed maidens, and thus inviolable.
    "Einheriar," she said, "will you come with me?"
    At her voice, the wind rose.  The wolf--Freki? Geri?--shook storm-hued pelt, and panted.
    When he spoke, no voice issued;  he had nothing left of his throat save a sliver of bloodied bone.  But she heard him.  Knew the words: indeed, come, and gladly.
    "Then come," she said, and put out her slim, strong hand.
    His body trembled.  Fingertips barely touched.  Behind her, the wolf growled.
    "Come," she said, impatient. "Are you not worthy of Valhalla?"
    How dared she question it?
    Fingertips touched.  Clawed.  With effort, he gripped her hand.  With no effort, she gripped his.
    "What are you?" she asked.  "Hero?"
    Einheriar!  Had he not died in Tyr's name?  How could he be other?
    His turn for impatience.  Still the wolf growled.
    "More," she said.   "Oh, indeed, more than hero--or less.  I think you are not worthy to be hosted in Odin's hall."
    Fury kindled.  --bitch-begotten whore--
    The Valkyrie bared perfect teeth.  Lightnings were in her eyes, and thunder in her laughter.  "This is what I am.  Now see what I was, when you were done with me."
    And there was nothing of beauty in her, nothing at all save the truth he had made himself in the woman he had killed:  flattened nose, shattered teeth, broken jaw unhinged.  And ax-born blood flowing down her thighs to mingle with his own.
    He knew her then, knew her, and wept with fear.
    She bent to his torn ear.  "You gave me to Tyr," she said.  "Now I send you to Hel."
 

This story was NOT written by myself but by Jennifer Roberson (in case you missed reading that at the top).  This is my favorite story.  It was taken out of the book "Warrior Enchantresses" published by Daw Books Inc. in 1996.  I just wanted to share with you this story of ultimate revenge.

A Wolf Upon The Wind©1996 by Jennifer Roberson.

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