The Northmen Series Box Set

by T S Florence

  “What do you know of Ivar the Cruel?” The woman asked.

  “I am his, and he will want me back.” Isla said.

  “It appeared to me you were running from someone, so I am not so sure you would want to go back to him” the woman laughed. “I am Freya, Goddess of Death, and if Ivar the Cruel wants you, then he will need to pay.” Freya said, recovering her composure after learning of Ivar.

  Ivar

  “They are in the land of the Scots, Ivar,” Skald said, having scouted ahead. Even with Skald’s cold heart, Ivar could see the hesitation in his eyes. They had not stepped food in the land of Scots since the day Ivar’s father had died and Ivar had never planned to return. It was his absence from the land of Scots that resulted in smaller bands of Vikings encroaching the land, attempting to set up lives in the harsh landscape, with harsher people. Many failed and many died.

  “Then we go into the land of the Scots” Ivar said, his stomach tightening at the prospect. Women make men weak. Weak men die. A smart man, a man unaffected by a woman, would not be entering, but this was also about gold. Isla was worth a fortune that would feed an entire army and their children for the rest of their lives. It would create wealth and security for generations, something afforded to very few in this cold, hard world.

  The only positive to come of this was the tracks of many horses were far easier to follow than the tracks of just two horses. Because of this, they camped for the night, sheltered by a cliff face, on a rocky hill. Hundreds of Vikings ready for battle meant that any small bands of Scots would not dare come close. It would take days, possibly weeks for the Scots to raise an army large enough to go to battle against Ivar.

  Ivar stared into the fire, wondering if Isla was safe, wondering if Isla was alive. Who had her? What if Scots had taken her and held her in a castle? How then, would he get her back? He shuddered at the thought. Any man would be glad to take Isla and lock her away, keeping him for herself. Her beauty was unmatched by any woman throughout the lands. His stomach pained at the thought. His men were silent, as they sat there, staring into flames. Some men sharpened swords and axes, some polished their armour, some braided their beards, some painted their faces, for they knew, they would be going to battle.

  Ivar often slept well before battle, which was something few men could say. But that night, he was restless, as were his soldiers. Being back in the land of Scots was a daunting thing for any man, no matter how battle hardened they were. The Scots, they were not like he English. Scots attacked without care for their own lives. They howled like demons brought down from Valhalla to take their lives. They relished battle, like the Vikings. Ivar believed it was the Englishmen’s god that made them weak, preaching love and forgiveness. These things did not inspire men to battle.

  By the time the morning sun began to show first light, Ivar’s men were ready to battle. They knew that their prey would not be far away. Of all the things Ivar wanted answers to, it was Isla’s companion. Who had taken her, was it one of his own men? Surely not. It must have been an Englishman. Perhaps a treacherous Englishman. Ivar vowed to himself then, when he discovered who had taken Isla from him, he would tear their beating heart from their chest.

  Sure enough, after a mere several miles of travel, they came upon a camp. A camp of no more than 100. A camp of Vikings. Ivar sent Skald in, for one Viking walking among another group of Vikings went unnoticed, at least for a time. They were well hidden by the thick wooded forest that the camp was set up in, providing them with the element of surprise. After what seemed like an eternity, Skald returned.

  “Your princess is there, lord. And do you remember the woman I told you of, Freya the Goddess of Death? She is here. If we capture her, we will be famous for it.” Skald said, a glint in his eyes that Ivar noticed was something deeply unusual for Skald to show.

  “She is not my princess, she’s a tool for bargaining” Ivar spat, searching the camp before continuing, “I’m not concerned with taking any captors besides Isla. We get her, and we kill anyone who gets in our way. Prepare yourselves,” Ivar shouted.

  A shield wall was a terrifying thing. But it was a thing that made close bonds with your fellow man. You stood side by side, telling death to come and take you, and then defying death, telling them you will see him another day. This was the shield wall. There was no glory in it, however. It smelled of fear, of death. The poets could make anything sound glorious, even the shield wall. And so they attacked, side by side, charging in their shield wall.

  11

  Isla

  Isla jerked upright, waking Jack next to her. They were contained in a small wooden cage, left in the open with little more than blankets to keep warm. The nights in Scotland were cold, far colder than those in the southern English lands. Isla watched as her captors shouted to one another, picking up their weapons and shields and pulling on their armour. They swilled Ale, Isla supposed, to take away some of the fear. Ivar had come, Isla was sure of it.

  “He’s found us,” Isla said.

  “He will kill me,” Jack said.

  “No, I won’t let him.” Isla said, putting her hands on his shoulders.

  “I accepted my death when I decided to find you,” Jack said, giving her a smile.

  The shouts became louder, the ringing of metal clanging against shield, the sound of men dying. Please don’t be hurt, Ivar. Isla could not stop the ache in her heart, the worry in her mind, for the man who was so readily going to trade her life for gold. Hearts do not choose who to love, she thought, realising the ridiculousness of her worries, as men were dying. She felt an urge to break free of the cage, and to help the injured men.

  Finally, the attacking party broke through the edge of the wooded area, and into the clearing. There he was, Ivar. His face covered in blood, fury in his eyes. He looked like a god from a painting, his great white bear fur hanging over his shoulders, men turning to flee his sword, which seemed to sing in the air, as it landed on its prey. Ivar the Cruel. Isla could see why men would give him this name. He looked like he would decide the fate of all those around him, his sheer force of will, bending the fate of men who dared step in his path to her. To Isla.

  His eyes locked with hers, and he broke free from his shield wall, stepping forwards. Isla’s captors were in disarray, running about the place. Isla saw Freya running for their cage, breaking the chain that held them in.

  “Come with me,” Freya said. Isla could not think of what to do, so she sat on her behind, refusing to move.

  “Isla,” Jack said with urgency in his voice.

  “Come with me, and I will let you join my people,” Freya said, her voice full with urgency.

  “Isla” Jack said, looking to her, “if I stay here, I will be killed, please come”

  “I can’t, he will never stop looking for me, people will continue to die until he finds me,’ Isla sobbed, as she sat on the ground. Freya looked at her with pity, Jack, with desperation. “Go, I will make sure he does not pursue you,” Isla looked up at jack, “you must go!” She screamed.

  Isla turned back to the battle, bodies were littered around Ivar, his great white fur soaked, dripping red onto the forest floor. Ragnar was swinging his axe with two hands, men were running from his sight. He had blood lust in his eyes, swinging his axe like an extension of his body. He leaped from one challenger to the next, bringing down mighty blows that cut men in half from top to bottom. Men began to notice his ferocity, and turned to run from him. He, like Ivar, was covered in blood. But unlike Ivar, Ragnar had a smile on his face.

  She saw Skald, darting in and out, manoeuvring his body around the failed strikes of his opponents, whipping his sword in like a cobra’s head, slicing and cutting, tearing them down strike by strike. He showed no emotion, no sign of exertion. His eyes looked dead. In between his opponents, she noticed him looking up at Freya, a hint of a smile crossing his blood-stained face as he weighed her with his mind. Then another attacker would step forward, challenging him, and the smile would disappear, emotio
nless calculation taking its place.

  Magnus, the huge figure, standing out on the field, almost as intimidating as Ivar, saw Freya standing at the cage with Isla and Jack. He turned and started running towards them. Freya, her eyes set on him, pulled her bow from her back.

  “No,” Isla screamed at Freya, jumping to grab her, but Jack grabbed her, holding her back.

  Freya loaded the arrow to her bow. Magnus, like Ragnar, had been using his axe with two hands since leaving the shield wall, and would not have protection against an archer. Freya loosed her bow, and shot true. Isla watched the huge figure fall to his knees, the arrow piercing his chest. She did not see the extent of the blow until he landed on his front. The bow had made it through to the other side of his body, piercing through his heart, and sticking out his back. Magnus the Mighty was dead.

  Isla fell to her knees, unable to make any noise, she gasped for air, her heart thundering in her chest. Freya grabbed Jacks arm, and with a small band of soldiers, they retreated. The battle, as quickly as it had started, was over. Silence fell upon the forest.

  * * *

  Ivar did not go to her when he battle was over. He did not even look her way. He had sent Ragnar to collect her from where she sat, in a heap of confusion and pain, all her desperation and will to live gone. If Ivar decided to sell her to her Uncle, then so be it. She deserved death. Enough people had died for her.

  Only two of Ivar’s men died, one being Magnus. The two bodies were carried through the land of Scots, until they reached the ocean back in English territory. Isla sat and watched as the two bodies were sent out to sea, their bodies burned on rafts lit by flaming arrows. She had not witnessed Viking burials until that point in time. And it was for a man who showed her nothing but generosity and kindness when she most needed it.

  The men did not travel any further that night. Instead, they set up camp where they had sent off their comrades, and drank. They drank until there was no more to drink. But they did not celebrate, they mourned. Ivar sat with his men, they talked in hushed tones, in language Isla could not understand. Skald approached her, as the night grew old.

  “It’s not so easy to witness when it’s not your coward king dying in battle, is it” Skald said.

  “You don’t know what I feel,” Isla said, her voice tired.

  “So that was Freya, the Goddess of Death?” Skald asked.

  “Yes. How did you know?” Isla said.

  “Her success as a Valkyrie Shieldmaiden is renowned, men claim she is the best shot with bow and arrow in the country, and her beauty is sung in songs that span many countries. She is famous, princess” Skald said, his eyes flickering with desire.

  “She killed your friend.” Isla said.

  “That she did, and I will kill her for this, but it will sadden me greatly.” Skald replied.

  “Maybe I can take her to bed before I punish her for taking my good friend’s life” he continued, talking more to himself than to Isla. He walked away, looking up at the stars, as if contemplating what he would do if ever crossing paths with Freya again.

  Isla looked over, catching Ivar looking her way. As she met his eyes, he drew away, joining back into the conversation he was having with his men. Shortly after, he approached her cage.

  “With whom did you escape?” Ivar asked, showing no familiarity or warmth that he would have, just days earlier.

  “A friend” she said.

  “The friend in the cage, who left with Freya?” Ivar asked, not caring to use the full title that she had earned through battle.

  “Yes.” Isla said.

  “Was he your lover?” Ivar asked.

  “Excuse me?” Isla asked, perplexed at his question.

  “Did you lay with him like you lay with me?” Ivar asked, his face expressionless.

  “No, he was a friend” Isla said, feeling embarrassed.

  “You did not wish to lay with him?” Ivar asked.

  “No!” Isla responded, her voice raising.

  “Why did he leave?” Ivar asked, his voice cold.

  “Because you would have killed him,” Isla said.

  “And I will, if I ever see him,” Ivar said standing to turn.

  Isla’s face grew hot “What right do you have?” She growled.

  “He gave me the right when Magnus died trying to get you out of the trouble he made” Ivar said, his voice like ice, laced with venom.

  “I made that choice, take your anger out on me” Isla said back, after trembling at Ivar saying Magnus’ name.

  “I will.” Ivar said.

  “You always knew my Uncle would kill me, didn’t you?” Isla said, shuddering as a cool breeze blew in from the ocean.

  Ivar looked down, his jaw flexing, then looked into her eyes. “Yes.” And he turned away, his great white fur still attached to his back, now a crusty red with the stale blood of his enemies. He walked a short distance to a wagon, grabbed some animal furs, and handed them through the cage that Ivar had ordered his men to carry, with Isla in it.

  Isla sat shaking, despite having the furs; never had an exchange with Ivar left her so affected. She thought she knew the man, now she saw that she knew nothing at all. Ivar the Clever. Ivar the Cruel. Both names accurate in their own right. He had fooled her, an innocent deer caught sleeping with the wolf, unknowing of the wolf’s intention to save it for dessert. Things had changed now, and Isla saw it more clearly than before. She saw no kindness in his eyes, only distant guardedness. She did not see him weep for his lost friend. Maybe this man was more like Skald than she realized, only better at hiding it.

  They were not lovers, they were enemies. They were fated to be enemies from the day she watched him ride into Newcastle on his great horse, wearing his great white animal fur, still fresh from the kill that made him into a man. It was that day that Ivar decided he would haunt Isla for as long as she lived, and for what reason? she did not know. What is it that I do that inspires men to hate me so. My uncle, Tomlin, Ivar? My father didn’t hate me. Maybe he took all the love from all the men in the world and selfishly kept it for himself? Maybe that is why these men cannot find it in their hearts to show any sign of compassion.

  The thought of her father, not in this life anymore, caused Isla to erupt into sobs, lying alone. Isla did not sleep that night. She lay on the furs, replaying the image of the arrow piercing Magnus’ heart, the great man falling to his knees, no fear in his eyes. There was no healer on earth who could have saved Magnus once Freya had loosed her bow. She imagined her father, buried in the ground, no longer on this earth to protect her from the people who so desperately wanted her gone. Well father, soon, I will join you in heaven, and I can spend eternity listening to your stories, your advice, and receiving your love.

  Ivar

  A battle that should not have happened. A battle that could have been avoided. And it was my fault. Ivar lay awake, physical pain gripping in his stomach and chest, causing him to toss and turn throughout the night, the loss of his close friend Magnus weighing on his conscience like slave’s chains, binding him to a path that he no longer wished to be on.

  What price was he willing to pay for the gold? What price was he willing to pay, to sacrifice Isla’s happiness. Now and then, he would raise his head, looking to her cage, to see her also moving restlessly, more awake than the men he had assigned to watch over her through the night.

  She cannot leave that cage until we meet the uncle.

  The next morning, the men were quiet, more so because of the after effects of too much ale and wine than because of the loss, for Magnus was a close friend to Ivar, but that did not mean the whole group would feel the loss like he would. He looked to Isla, her pretty, tortured face, looked hauntingly out to sea. Her eyes blackened from lack of sleep.

  Did she feel the loss of Magnus too? They seemed to get along well. He was kind to her and she saved his son’s life. Ivar’s mind fought his heart, determining to keep her in the cage.

  Isla

  His face was weary, his
eyes sad. Fighting is a necessity, Ivar had told her. I do not like losing men needlessly. And I lost you your closest friend, Magnus. There were not words she could say, even if she wanted. She watched him order his soldiers about, quietly preparing for the trek ahead. Her back grew sore from sitting in the cage. She looked into his eyes. Ivar, please. She needed him now more than ever. The man who was kind. The man with the heart big enough to sacrifice his own happiness for theirs. Let me take away your pain. And so she kept looking, willing him to look at her. But he would not.

  The landscape was cruel, mountainous and rocky. The weather was rainy, windy and cold. Isla shivered in her cage as they marched on, Ivar out of sight, as he lead the band of warriors to Newcastle. And this is how it ends. In chains, to be put to death, like Tomlin. Like Magnus. But the difference? They were afforded the opportunity to fight for their lives. Isla would be handed over like a sacrificial lamb. Her only crime her birthright to the throne. A throne she did not want. A throne that had caused her pain throughout her life. For leading people was not a privilege, but an obligation. Something that you did not choose, but was thrust upon you.