Fljótdís- Daughter of the North Read online

  Table of Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part II

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Excerpt

  About the author

  Fljótdís

  Daughter Of The North

  By

  Sanita Trumpika

  This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Sanita Trumpika

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without a written permission of the author except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  To Lynn, my guiding light, without whom none of this would be possible.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  The ship slipped away. Flames mirrored in the dark waters and clouds of grey smoke rolled toward those who watched reverently on the shore. The strong scent of burning wood made the air heavy and difficult on the eyes. Even this powerful and restless river was calm today as Fljótdís watched her father disappear in the inferno. He had died a noble death for his king and his land. She was absolutely sure that by now he already feasted in the Halls of Valhalla together with the gods and his ancestors and with all the heroes he so loved.

  The sky had been torn apart by Thor’s Anvil when the messenger bringing the news had arrived in the night. The great man, the King’s Second in Command and Fljótdís’ beloved father, was dead. And with his death, in some ways her life had ended as well. Her father had been the only one she had left. But now he was gone, too.

  All those talks about courage and going to Valhalla didn’t sooth the pain. No matter how many times such teachings glorified the warrior’s death, it was glorious only for the fallen ones. Those who stayed behind were destined to live with the pain of loss. And even thoughts of loved ones feasting with the gods did not fill the emptiness in the chest.

  The fire swallowed the boat completely. The last embers sank to the depths. This river was the bringer of life and at the same time it was everyone’s grave. Even the sky was the colour of ashes today and the strong northern wind fluttered the capes of the onlookers like flags on a silent battlefield. Last night, biting frost and a flurry of snow had visited the village, but by the morning light, it had all turned into a sad, cold rain.

  People drifted away, eager to warm themselves by the hearth with a horn of strong drink. They headed to the Great Hall to celebrate their friend’s joining with the gods. But Fljótdís stood frozen, her focus never leaving the place where her father’s boat had disappeared. The wind sent a chill through her long, dark hair and she tightened her cloak, shivering to the bone. Icy raindrops slid down her back behind her fur collar. She hadn’t let a single tear run down her cheek, hadn’t said a word while the others voiced their farewells to her father. But now that she was left alone, the weight of loss was about to bring her to her knees.

  Her thoughts were broken when she felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder. A woman of incredible beauty stood by her side, her golden curls dancing in the wind under the hood of her emerald green cloak. It was as if the goddess Freyja herself had come to bid farewell to the King’s most trusted warrior. But no, this wasn’t Freyja. It was her stepmother, Irena.

  “Come, child, your father is in Valhalla now, nothing more to be done.” The words were said with deceptive gentleness, but her hand remained firmly on Fljótdís’ shoulder. “You won’t bring him back by standing here all day.”

  Fljótdís looked into her stepmother’s face, trying to find any sign of tears or genuine sorrow. But Fljótdís knew better than anyone that this woman didn’t mourn for her father. Since the death of Fljótdís’ half-brother, Irena had hated her father with all her heart, if indeed the woman had a heart at all.

  Irena had blamed Father for everything, first and foremost for what she felt was the stealing away of her son. When given the option, her beloved boy had chosen his father’s path, the warrior’s path, instead of holding on to his mother’s skirts. It had led to her son’s death, and it was something Irena could never forgive.

  Fljótdís returned her attention to the river. “And I won’t bring Father back by feasting all night.” She held her head high and steadfastly refused herself any show of emotion. This was not the right time, not in front of Irena. There was a moment of impasse as the two women stood in silence and watched the river’s dark moods.

  “You have said your good-byes, Fljótdís. You have responsibilities to see to now.”

  Fljótdís swallowed hard. She knew exactly where this conversation was going. “I don’t want to hear any more. You don’t have to tell me what my responsibilities are. At this moment, they are to my father’s memory.”

  Irena took her stepdaughter’s face between her hands, locking her attention. “Listen to me, I know you loved your father, but it’s time to start your own life, the life you were meant to have. I will show you how to be a great woman. I will teach you how to have power and influence. Your beauty will enslave men and their kingdoms. The power that flows in my blood, I am ready to share it with you, child.”

  Fljótdís returned her stepmother’s gaze evenly, and something in her eyes made Irena take a cautious step back.

  “You offer me only manipulation and sorcery, Stepmother. How could you think I would value such hollow trickery?”

  Irena threw back the hood of her cape in frustration as she watched the anger of righteousness grow in Fljótdís eyes. “Foolish child, because you were born female, of course. Women are not meant to fight wars with swords and shields, no matter what is said in fantasies around the fire. We fight with wit and cunning and persuasions of the body. It’s how our victories are won. It’s a great gift I’m offering you, Fljótdís, a chance to become a woman of prestige, perhaps even legendary. And it is a one-time offer.” She pulled her hood back over her golden cloud of hair in impatience.

  “I have no time for these childish games of pride of yours, Fljótdís. What will you choose, me, your only living relative who could teach you the most precious of arts, or the ways of your dead father, a man who died because of his stubborn ways?”

  Fljótdís gave her a look that was laced with threat. “I already gave you my answer many years ago. I will always choose my father’s ways. That won’t change. Not now. Not ever.”

  Irena masked her displeasure with a cool and practised smile. “Very well, so be it. But mark my words, you will come to regret your choice one day, Fljótdís. I can afford to be generous now. I wish you luck with your life of men’s breeches and blood and steel instead of gold and silk. It is a poor and unwise choice, my dear, but it is yours to make. Now come, the King and the others await your presence.”

  “I will come later.”

  Fljótdís left no more room for
discussion and Irena took her leave, her hollow smile melting in the heat of her disappointment.

  She would always choose Father’s ways, Fljótdís assured herself. No sorcery would ever change it. She took a deep breath and swiped away the tears that streamed down her face with a vengeance now. As she stood at the river’s edge and watched the grey currents race by, it was as if she were witnessing all the days of her youth run downstream toward the sea.

  In her own good time, she returned to the Great Hall where she was greeted warmly, as always. Everyone had known her father. Every man in this village had admired him and been jealous of his greatness at the same time. Now, they all said what a great warrior Gunnar had been and how much they would miss fighting beside him on the battlefield. Fljótdís nodded and thanked them all, while deep in her heart she craved only to be alone, alone with her pain and the decisions she had to make.

  She sat at a table and poured herself some mead. The dark brew tasted bitter on her tongue. A glance around the Hall brought her only looks of pity. She hated every bit of it. But with each horn those men emptied, Fljótdís saw something else kindle in their eyes, an almost predatory desire. The more they drank, the braver their looks became.

  Yes, she was young, but she was not a fool. She was almost eighteen autumns old. Most women her age were already married and had carried several strong sons to honour their husbands. But she was not interested in such a life. She was born to carry a sword, not babes in swaddling. She was born to fight.

  Not everyone agreed on that, though. Many men desired her. More than a dozen had asked her father for her hand. Father never turned them down but sent them to her to be judged. He loved her too dearly to marry her against her will. But she had turned down each suitor, no matter how wealthy or famous he was. She had no interest in subjugating herself to any of them. They were all found lacking and unappealing in one way or another.

  Now that she was alone and Father was no longer there to protect her, these men would fly around her like hungry crows following the scent of fresh carrion. Some would try to push things too far. But it didn’t scare her. She was able to cut a man’s throat effortlessly and very soon she would prove that to the world. She wasn’t a helpless woman. She had been raised as a shieldmaiden. And if she had to kill every man in this damn town to protect herself, she would do it without hesitation.

  The King stood and everyone’s attention was immediately on him. He looked at Fljótdís with a drinking horn in his hand and she shifted in her chair uncomfortably.

  “Fljótdís, I knew your father well. He was a great man. The best warrior in my Kingdom, I must say.”

  Everyone in the Great Hall cheered their agreement with King Harald, but he raised his hand and the room grew quiet.

  “Your father now feasts in Valhalla, Fljótdís, side by side with the gods and the bravest and noblest of men. He celebrates in the company of heroes. And their feast is surely a damn sight better than ours.”

  The crowd’s laughter was loud and raucous.

  “Silence!” The King was highly annoyed that others were intruding in his little personal show. He was a man who enjoyed a bit of drama. “I want to say that our friend Gunnar Torson is not really gone. He lives through his daughter, beautiful Fljótdís. And I, as your father’s lord and friend, offer my help and protection whenever you need it.”

  Fljótdís nodded politely. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The King raised his drinking horn. “To a man, a warrior and a father! To Gunnar!”

  “To Gunnar!” A thunder of many voices echoed in the Hall and everyone drank their horns empty in honour of their common friend and Commander.

  Fljótdís watched people dance and laugh in celebration of her father’s life. Everyone was joyous, everyone except her. Fljótdís noticed that her stepmother was having a very sparkling conversation with the King. Everyone knew that Irena was the King’s sorceress, his Vǫlva, but now there was something more going on.

  She couldn’t blame the King. Irena was like a sirene, like the most dangerous of the goddesses. Her alluring beauty made men adore and fear her at the same time. She had strong powers and they were used against everyone who decided to harm or not obey the King and his iron will. That made her extremely dangerous. Men were drawn to danger.

  All of this nightmarish noise and intrigue was stifling. She just wanted to leave this madness and return to her house by the river where she could withdraw under the furs till tiredness overtook her and sent her into calming darkness. She finished her mead and stood up. With a polite nod to the King and the crowd, she headed out of the Hall. But Irena caught her at the door, grabbing her arm forcefully.

  “You cannot leave now, Fljótdís. The guests, the King, you must stay. It is your duty.”

  Fljótdís yanked her arm away. “Apologise to the King for me. Tell him I appreciate all that he has done to arrange this feast and to honour my father. But I do not feel well. I’m going home.”

  Irena watched her disappear out into the darkness. Such an abandonment of the festivities was inexcusable, a social embarrassment to the family. She would have to smooth things with the King. Luckily, she was very adept at that.

  Fljótdís spoke with the guards outside the Hall. They were decent men. They had fought side by side with her father and offered her any help that she needed. Everyone wanted to offer some help tonight. She thanked them and refused the offer to be escorted to her house. She didn’t need an escort. She needed time to think.

  The road was one she had known since childhood. It led through the village and outside the great wooden gate, along the forest side, over an empty field and then straight to the river. She could walk the road with her eyes closed and always find herself at the door of the river house.

  The welcome chill of the night air was a gift. The rain was gone. Now everything smelled of wet grass and dead leaves, honest and of the earth. She listened to her own footsteps on the road and pulled her hems up out of the mud. This damn dress was not comfortable and it would be nothing short of a death trap in combat. Luckily, there were no battles to be fought tonight.

  Her stepmother had insisted that she must look “serene and feminine” today to pay proper respect to her father’s memory. She had agreed, just this once. Irena had chosen the gown for her with great care. It was a very flattering dress, but she hated it. Gowns and precious stones were Irena’s playthings, her wages for the life she led. Fljótdís preferred the sensible practicality of men’s clothing since she spent most of the day practising with weaponry, hunting, fishing and doing other simple chores. No matter how hard Irena tried, she wasn’t able to make a proper maiden out of her.

  Fljótdís turned off the road and crossed the field. A small sound made her stop. Footsteps. She looked over her shoulder and saw a man. It sent an icy shiver of warning down her spine, but he turned back on the road that led further into the forest.

  Her senses on the alert, she continued on the path. She hoped those men from the Hall admired her father enough to not try something stupid. It was a foolish hope, of course. When mead clouded their minds, even the most honourable man could become an animal.

  She was relieved when the little path started to lead down toward the river. She saw her house. It was truly her house now, the house she would have to protect on her own.

  If only her brother were alive...

  She was already at the door when a strong arm wrapped around her neck, taking away her breath. It was so sudden and ruthless that for a moment she lost any sense of what was happening and what would happen next.

  “Hello, little bitch. We were waiting for you.”

  The stench of her attacker’s breath made her gag. She searched for the knife at her belt, but it wasn’t there. The cold steel of her own knife pressed against her cheek.

  “Now you be a good girl and give us what we want. I have often wondered if it’s possible to fuck a woman to death. I say, let’s find out. And afterwards, maybe I’ll take a shit on whatev
er is left.”

  Fljótdís didn’t give these threats any space in her mind as she watched another man emerge from the darkness, the man whose silhouette she had seen on the road. She would have to defend herself against two enemies.

  Now was the time for calm and strategic thinking. It took little imagination to guess what they would do to her. Whether they would try to kill her outright afterwards or just beat her and leave her to die was not a question she cared to consider. Neither of these things was going to happen. She had not yet given herself to any man, and these sons-of-whores were not going to be the first.

  Her words were acid, their promise very real. “The only thing I will give you is your death.”

  “Mind your tongue or I will cut it out of your head!”

  The attacker whirled her around and shoved her against the door. She felt the hardness of his arousal press against her belly. Good. Now he was vulnerable.

  The other man approached them. He was bigger than the first one. These men were outlaws, their clothes torn and dirty. They had probably been exiled as traitors or something even worse and they had nothing to lose. But they were not immune to pain.

  Fljótdís sent a heavy kick to her captor’s groin and he let her go with a rasping grunt. But the bigger one was quick and he grabbed her tightly, throwing her to the ground. A brutal hit to her head took her to the edge of unconsciousness. There was a loud ringing in her ears and white spots danced in chaos before her eyes. She felt him between her legs, tossing up her dress, tearing away her clothing. She felt his dirty hands on her skin and it made her sick to her stomach.

  But from deep in the spinning darkness clouding her head, she recognized that this was a call to battle. She had to free herself. Adrenaline and anger rushed through her blood as she reached toward her left boot where her dagger was hidden. The touch of steel on her fingertips was like a gift from the gods. This deadly piece of weaponry was her comfort, her power, her protector.