Fljótdís- Daughter of the North Read online

  While the brutal bastard made ready to enter her, she took advantage of his distraction and with all her strength plunged the knife into his solar plexus. She heard the satisfying sound of a rib crack as the blade found a vital organ. His howl of pain split the night but was cut off as blood filled his lungs and robbed him of air. She quickly kicked him off and with one swift move cut his throat. It surprised her that it wasn’t that different from hunting animal prey as she had done all her life. This man was her first human kill and it was very satisfying. This was not a kill for food. This was a kill for justice.

  But this battle was not yet won. On full alert, she rolled aside to avoid the first man’s axe. She jumped to her feet, the dagger in her hand. Her head ached and the world spun around in a mad whirlwind before her eyes. But this was a matter of life and death and she had to keep her wits about her.

  To her surprise and relief, the attacker was overtaken by sudden panic. She saw it in his face in the pale moonlight. What man expected to meet death by the hand of a young and unprotected woman? She had taught the bigger man a lesson. Now it was his friend’s turn.

  Perhaps realizing her abilities or maybe seeing the lethal rage in her eyes, the man abandoned his fallen comrade and tried to run. He didn’t get far. The dagger struck deep into his right thigh as swiftly as an arrow and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. There was no more hope of escape.

  Fljótdís approached him with caution. He was still alive and therefore still a danger, no different from the wounded boars she had hunted. He thrust his big knife at her in desperation, but she kicked the blade out of his hand with ease and picked it up for her own use. He lay howling in agony and cowardly at her feet as she pulled her own weapon from his leg.

  “Gørðu svá vel...” He pleaded for mercy pathetically through his pain. The question remained was there any mercy in her heart?

  “I told you I can give you only death.” She raised her knife in readiness. There would be no mercy for this son-of-a-dog and a rush of righteous power sped through her at the inevitability of it. He had tried to rape her and may well have had plans to kill her as well. Retribution would come down swift and hard upon anyone who ever tried to do the same.

  “Hel taki þik!” Her words of damnation would send him to Hel’s depths without remorse.

  With a war cry of vengeance, she took the knife and sank the deadly blade straight into the man’s heart, deeper and deeper as the warm blood spilt over her hand. It was a euphoric and empowering feeling that came from a place inside her that was both shadow and flames. She pressed the blade inside his chest longer than necessary to be sure all life had left him, to be sure that Hel had swallowed him.

  Her legs were weak and shaking from the fight as she stood up, but at the same time, she felt exhilarated. Yes, on the outside she shivered to the bone, but on the inside she felt the burning heat of strength beyond measure. She was alone, yet she had taken care of herself. She had fought this battle without the help of anyone and she had won. Her enemies lay dead at her feet and she hoped that her father had seen her do these things from his new home with the gods in Valhalla.

  Beyond everything else, she hoped he was proud of her skills and her courage in her first true battle for her life. This war might have been a small one, a personal one, but she had tasted victory. She wanted to drink more deeply of that feeling, wanted it to last forever. But she also needed to gather herself.

  The river called to her as it always did. She went to the water’s edge and leaned down to wash the blood from her hands and the blades. Rivulets of crimson joined the restless currents, carrying away the filth of her attackers. Many bright stars shone in the dark heavens tonight.

  Mani played hide and seek, emerging from the clouds to show off his marvellously bright moonglow, throwing silver sparks and dipping his gleaming feet in the waves of the flowing river. The wind was strong this time of year. It sent the fallen leaves of autumn into a swirl, dancing high toward the sky.

  But as she stood on the shore, she saw only emptiness in the dark waters, emptiness and her own reflection in the moonlight. How different she looked now, no longer the girl of an hour ago, but a woman who had defended herself against the brutal power of two men who would have seen her destroyed for their own carnal pleasure. She wasn’t angry or ready for battle anymore. She felt nothing but the aching in her head, the soreness in her muscles and the weight of unbearable tiredness. The elation of victory was a currency quickly spent.

  Her heart had always been so close to these waters. As a child, she had looked upon the river almost as a mother, as someone who taught her to hide her wildness behind a facade of calm. This river flowed in her veins, it was a part of her. Whenever she felt sad or angry or scared, she came here. It was a sanctuary of shelter and comfort. She often tried to understand what these waters were trying to tell her, what secrets they kept and what wonders they had seen on their journey to the sea. But she was just a human, unable to comprehend.

  Why had all the world so quickly turned to death? Summer had gone cold. Nothing would bring it back, not the gods, nor the great Norns. Father had been her life and now his ashes were at the bottom of the river. The night felt very indifferent to her sorrow. All her dreams and hopes, all her security was now nothing but ash. She had nothing but the house. The gods knew she might be better off with her father in Valhalla.

  His words echoed in her heart. “You must choose your own path, Fljótdís, the path you are ready to walk all your life, from the early days to the very gates of Valhalla. Once chosen, you must never let anything keep you from that path.”

  She breathed in the cool scent of water and moss, the promise of frosts and the cold winter to come. Father was right. She must choose her own path, a path that would take her to the rewards of Valhalla. She didn’t need gowns and jewels. She didn’t need a husband and children. All she needed was a true blade in her hand and a victory to be won. All she needed was to hear that blade’s song on a bloody battlefield.

  She was born and raised to be a warrior. And nothing on all of Midgard could change that. But she moved toward the house with care, reminding herself that this night was not like other nights. She would deal with the bodies in the daylight. Let them lie on the harsh ground for now with no respect.

  The house was empty and cold. It was a relief. She opened the large wooden chest that stood near the hearth and took out a long object bound in layers of grey wolf fur. She placed it on the table and unwrapped it with reverent respect. It was a magnificent sword. She raised it before her eyes and the moonlight through the little high windows illuminated its perfect shape and craftsmanship.

  It wasn’t some rough and dull sword. This one was made for her, light and deadly. The handle was very simple, but the long blade was covered with carved protection runes. Only the best Dwarvish blacksmiths could create such an exquisite weapon. And on the day she had been given it, her father had also gotten her the stunning tattoo of a Valkyrie in flight that adorned her right forearm. The tattoo was a symbol of courage and the figurative promise of a place of honour in Valhalla when the time came.

  But more than that, for her, though it had never been said in so many words, it had always been her father’s way of including her mother’s spirit in that all-important rite of passage. The sword and the tattoo defined her. These were things that could never be taken from her.

  Too weary to light a fire, she sat down heavily at the table and pulled the fur around her shoulders to gather at least a bit of warmth in her body. She took the sword in one hand and her dagger in the other. She was armed. There were two bodies outside the door. Whoever else passed that warning tonight would only meet the same end.

  Chapter 2

  King Harald smiled at her warmly.

  “I was sorry to hear about the unfortunate incident at your home yesterday, Fljótdís.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but it was a trivial matter quickly settled.”

  The King was a handsome man, ta
ll, gracious and wise. Any woman would give everything she owned to wear the Queen’s crown. But since his wife’s death, no matter how willing and vigorous they might have been in bed, he had found no woman worthy of that title, and that disappointed every woman in the land.

  The Great Hall was full of people. Each of them had come with their demands, complaints and pleas. Fljótdís had come with only one request. Dressed as a warrior with her sword at her hip, she stood in front of the King with her head held high. Her dark hair had been disciplined into a strong braid that reached halfway down her back and her grey eyes burned with determination. She knew she was a formidable figure, and the wary eyes of those in the crowd gave her a feeling of satisfaction.

  The King sat back in his royal chair and regarded her with a hint of amused curiosity. His throne was covered with the pelts of noble beasts and rich carvings that depicted his many victories and triumphs.

  “So, you have not come seeking protection. Then why have you come before us, dear child?” He gestured toward her sword with a somewhat paternal expression. “I sincerely hope you have not come to remove me from my throne.”

  The crowd laughed at the King’s wry joke, as they always did, but Fljótdís paid them no mind. She squared her shoulders and spoke so all could hear.

  “I want to serve you, my lord, serve you as my father did.”

  The Hall went silent. They probably thought that this was some kind of little play she was putting on for the King’s enjoyment. There were a few shieldmaidens who fought for the King, but it was clear that Fljótdís didn’t want the status of a shieldmaiden. She wanted more.

  “Serve me?”

  The words could be misconstrued as a request to be his mistress, and she was quick to clarify. “Yes, my lord. I want to be one of your warriors, one of those who guard you. And in the name of the gods, I ask that you to give me a chance to prove myself worthy of such an honourable responsibility.”

  One of the King’s men laughed at such a suggestion. “A female in the King’s guard?”

  Fljótdís knew there would be such mockery. Was it too much to ask? Was it too much if a woman wanted to be a true warrior, to serve something higher than motherhood? True, she hadn’t been given a chance to test herself against anyone but Father, but she was very sure of her skills.

  Harald raised his hand and the Hall grew silent. He leaned forward in his chair and looked down at her.

  “Do you see any women guarding me, dear girl? Besides, you are too young, little more than a child. But I will be gracious, for your father’s sake. I can allow you to join the shieldmaidens on our next raid. It will give you a chance to get all of these wild ideas out of your system.”

  Fljótdís took a look around the Hall. He wasn’t going to give her a real chance. Even if she was able to go to war as a shieldmaiden, a young woman wouldn’t be able to fight next to the King. She would end up carrying someone else’s weapons or wiping someone else’s arse. No, she would not give up so easily. She hazarded a step closer.

  “My lord, isn’t it true that the mighty Odin himself chooses women as his Valkyries, those who serve him in a most important role on the battlefield to bring the bravest of the brave to dwell with him?” She felt the secret thanks of every shieldmaiden in the crowd, but there was a sly smile on the King’s face.

  “True enough, Fljótdís, but they are of use only after a man is dead. What protection do they offer to the living? And for now, I am more concerned with staying alive.”

  There was muttered agreement among the men. She was losing them, and the King would soon run out of patience with her request if she didn’t give it everything she had.

  “You knew my father, my lord. He was a great warrior and his loyalty to you was beyond measure. Everything he knew, everything he saw and did, all his knowledge he shared with me. I was taught to fight from the moment I could stand.”

  The King gave her the kind of look he might give a five-year-old, but there was no stopping now.

  “I know you have no reason to believe what I say, my lord. You must be shown the truth of my words. Please, in the name of my father’s memory and the respect you felt for him, I pray you to let me prove my skills. I swear to you that I can defeat any of your men. Do not fool yourself into thinking I cannot protect you just because I do not have a cock hanging between my legs.”

  The King snorted with amusement at her language. “You speak well for yourself, my girl. Yet, I must decline your request.”

  “My King, your pardon for the interruption, but if I may...?”

  Fljótdís turned toward the lilting female voice from the back of the room. There stood her stepmother, Irena, in all her grace and beauty, dressed in golden necklaces and forest green silk, gifts from the King, no doubt. At her waist was her silver dagger studded with great jewels. Though not a queen yet, she had the bearing of royalty. Her curls fell over her full breasts like a waterfall of sunlight and as she passed, she took away each man’s breath with the scent of her costly perfume.

  Her voice was like satin, her smile like sweet nectar. “My lord, why not let the girl prove herself. I have seen her growing up and practising. Let her have her chance and we can be done with it and get on to more pleasurable matters.”

  The King sat back and watched Irena’s swaying hips with open interest as she approached. The woman’s smile was intoxicating and extremely enticing. She gave him a coy pout.

  “Give the child a chance, my lord, or knowing Fljótdís, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  All her life, she had tried to avoid Irena’s sorcery and her manipulative ways. Father had strictly forbidden his new wife from using any sorcery on his daughter and Irena had kept her promise so far as anyone knew. But now this damn woman wanted to destroy the one thing she was trying so hard to achieve on her own.

  Irena’s expression was poisonous as she turned to face Fljótdís. “I know just the thing to put an end all of this once and for all. Let her fight Ari.”

  A rustle of protesting voices whirled in the Hall. What Irena proposed was an insult. Ari was of the highest rank among the King’s personal guard. He was the man who now took Fljótdís’ father’s place, a great warrior, a master swordsman. It was outrageous to make him fight with a mere girl just to satisfy her spoiled delusions. And yet, no one dared to defy the King’s seductive Vǫlva.

  Ari stepped out of the shadows. He was a huge man. His massive hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Any rational human being would be right to fear him. He was as strong as a mountain, and when he swung his sword, it was like the mighty god Thor swinging his hammer. Enemies trembled at the mere sight of him on the battlefield, and rightly so. Ari was fearless and merciless in battle. But many said he had a good heart as well.

  His voice was like that of a bear. “My lord, let the girl fight me. I will be gentle. If Fljótdís wants to try my hand, I will gladly give her that pleasure.”

  Harald considered the situation, knowing that the crowd was restless over it. He wanted to keep the crowd’s favour. But he also felt a strong desire to see Fljótdís fight, if only to be beaten into submission, a submission he was more fired to see than any victory she might somehow steal. He wanted to see her on her knees, her extraordinary eyes begging for his mercy.

  The idea of this match aroused him far more than he might have expected, particularly with Irena standing so near. He wondered if the Vǫlva sensed his attraction to her beguiling stepdaughter. It worried him a bit, but the need to see Fljótdís in action was now paramount in his mind, no matter the consequences. He raised his hand regally.

  “Very well, Fljótdís. If you can defeat this man, I will consider your request. But only consider it, understood? I promise nothing.”

  Fljótdís nodded her understanding, her focus already on Ari as the blood began to race through her veins. Here was a true test of her skills, perhaps her only chance to show the world her value to the King. She drew her sword with practised grace. It was made of strong steel, bu
t it was not a match for Ari’s ulfberht, a huge blade crafted for breaking skulls and bones. Still, she had no room in her heart for fear. She gladly accepted this challenge. If this was to be her only chance, she was going to grab it by the horns.

  Harald nodded at Ari and the battle-hardened warrior attacked without hesitation. He was much quicker than she had anticipated and the end of his massive blade sliced into her left forearm, drawing first blood. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. The hit had been precise, not to incapacitate her, but to issue a powerful warning. Ari took a step back and raised one eyebrow at Fljótdís as a question of whether she was still sure she wanted to keep going.

  Fljótdís knew they all expected her to quit. They thought of her as nothing but a young girl shocked and defeated by the sight of her own blood, putting a quick end to her silly adventure. The deep cut hurt like the fires of Muspelheim. Ari had marked her for life. But this was not her first wound or even her first scar. It only made her more determined to win. But she had underestimated the great Ari. And perhaps she had underestimated her own foolishness in trying to prove herself this way.

  There was no turning back. She already had a mark against her and she needed to make up for that quickly. She resumed her ready stance and nodded to Ari that she was prepared. No matter where Ari’s sword slashed, she avoided it, manoeuvring around the big man like a snake. She was everywhere and nowhere at once.

  Everyone watched this elaborate dance, entranced and speechless. Then a loud clang of steel resounded through the hall. Their swords impacted, throwing a barrage of sparks into the air. To everyone’s surprise, Fljótdís blocked Ari’s attack. It was as if a needle had stopped a battering ram.

  She could not explain it, but she felt invincible. A force had awakened within her, unleashed by the hard realities of combat and the power of having a perfect weapon in her hand. It was the same feeling she had had the night before when those men had tried to take her.