The Northmen Series Box Set

by T S Florence

  “I’m sorry,” Freya lowered her bow, turning to Jack, “Maybe Newcastle would be nice. Maybe I can find a viking settlement nearby and stay there,” she said, quietly.

  “Sure. People in Newcastle are familiar with vikings anyway. We often have them coming and going to trade and make deals with us. You wouldn’t be too much bothered,” Jack said earnestly.

  Not being bothered. That sounds like what I really want. A hut in the mountains, like the one I grew up in with father. Where we were not bothered by strange men, where I was free to hunt and forage for food. That was a good life.

  “I want to go for a walk,” Freya said to Jack.

  “Ok great, give me a moment,” Jack said to Freya.

  “Alone,” Freya said.

  “Are you sure it’s safe? Sutherland land is close by,” Jack said.

  “I’ll be fine, I’ll take my bow,” Freya said.

  “If you’re not back within two hours, I’ll come looking,” Jack said.

  “Thank you, Jack,” Freya said, grateful that there was one person on this earth who seemed to harbour some good feeling towards her.

  Freya walked along a grassy cliff top, the land to the left turning into vast openness, a long drop down to the sharp rocks below, the waves that crashed against them sent a thundering noise up along the cliff face. She could see the Sutherland castle from where she walked, the huge grey walls looked like an ominous figure, jutting out of the ground, shooting up in a continuous line from the cliff it was built against.

  What will become of me father? Is there any hope for me? Freya continued to walk along the cliff top, squeezing and realising her bow, feeling the familiar hold of it settle in her hand. It was the only constant of her life since she was a child, everything else changing.

  “Freya, Goddess of Death,” a cold, dark voice startled her, speaking in her native language.

  She reached for her bow and arrow, as she shot around, to find who had spoken to her. It took a moment for her to notice the man who had been standing just down a hill, waiting near some boulders that had kept him from view. Freya’s heart turned to ice. It was him. The man from the battle. The man whose eyes had haunted her dreams ever since she shot down the giant man, Magnus, in her escape of Ivar the Cruel.

  “I’ll shoot you if you come any closer,” Freya said, panic closing around her throat like a fist, causing her voice to shake and jump.

  “I’m not here to harm you. Well, not yet,” the man said. He was devastatingly handsome. More handsome than her dreams gave him credit. His black hair hung down to his shoulders, tangled by the wind and salt spray of the ocean. He was tall, lean and muscular. He looked fearsome. Not like the average warrior. He looked calculating, intelligent, and ruthless. He looked heartless.

  “You’ve come for revenge,” Freya said, aiming her bow at his chest.

  Due to Freya’s reputation, all it took was the aim of her bow to cause men to think twice of continuing an unwanted conversation. But, this man did not stop, nor did his expression change. He continued to walk towards her.

  “I hear you lost all of your men,” he said, his cold eyes weighing her courage.

  “Your leader killed most of them in your attack,” she said.

  “And you killed my friend, Magnus,” the man said, his voice like gravel, grating against her skin, causing goosebumps.

  “He was charging me with a raised axe. He would have killed me,” Freya said. And he haunts me to this day in my dreams, as do you. So what are you doing here? Why you?

  “Yes, he would have, probably,” the man said with an impassive face.

  “Who are you?” Freya asked.

  “Skald,” he said, and Freya noticed that the man had not yet shown any emotion during the conversation, even where his life was threatened.

  “Skald the heartless?” She asked?

  “Believe everything you hear,” he said, showing a smirk that was more an example of a secret kept, rather than a display of happiness.

  “People say you are incapable of feeling,” Freya said.

  “I feel physical pain, sometimes” Skald said, eying her bow, as he stepped closer.

  “And what are you doing here,” Freya asked.

  “I was hoping to see you. Now that I know you are here, I know I am in the right place,” Skald said.

  “Why must you know where I am?” Freya asked.

  “Listen to me,” Skald ignored her, “If you come across two brothers, Gregor and Gorm, before you see me again, do not trust them,” Skald said.

  “Why?” Freya asked.

  “They mean to harm you,” Skald was close now, closer than Freya let men get to her in battle.

  “And why are you warning me if you mean to harm me too,” Freya looked at him. He must be tricking her. What if these men were here to rescue her? Maybe it was Skald who she should be cautious of, for he was there when she killed his friend. He is the one haunting my dreams.

  “You might have more luck with me,” Skald said, giving another one of his infuriating smirks, that Freya knew should not be mistaken for warmth or kindness.

  “I’ve heard enough. If there’s anyone I can’t trust, it’s you,” Freya said, pulling the arrow in her bow tight, aiming at his face.

  “Aim it at my heart, Goddess of Death, for that’s where all my trouble lies” Skald said, pointing to his chest, before turning around, and walking toward the Sutherland castle. Of course he is with the Sutherlands, but who else would accommodate him while he was aiming to take revenge on me?

  That night, Freya slept worse than usual. The part of her dream where Skald pierced her eyes went for longer than usual, and now, he did not simply stand there, but he took a step closer. His icy gaze penetrating her soul, his hand reaching out to her. Freya woke in a cold sweat, sitting up in her bed, panting for breath. It was almost daylight outside, and a knock came at her door, causing her to jump, in her already frightened state.

  “Lady, you’ll need to come with us,” A rumbling voice sounded from behind the door. Dougal MacKenzie. A short, stout man, with a pot belly and scars covering more of his body than not, he was an ugly and bitter man, and had resented Freya for all of her rejections of his advances.

  This isn’t normal. “To what do I owe the honour,” Freya said, her nerves wreaking havoc inside her body.

  “You have some men who have come to collect you. Some men who say they are brothers of your fallen soldiers and want to assist you,” Dougal said from behind the door.

  “Very well, let me change,” Freya said, her voice quaking. It has to be Skald, who else could it possibly be? Freya’s hands shook as she fumbled with changing out of her night dress and into her day clothes. I don’t want any more warriors’ assistance, I just want to be left alone. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of men. Freya frantically searched for her belongings throughout the room, hitching her bow and arrows around her shoulder and onto her back, she felt a little more secure. Four arrows meant four men who would not be taking her, she thought.

  Freya’s senses were more heightened than they had been in days. She felt the cold stone beneath her feet as she walked barefoot down the stairs to meet the men who had come for her. There were two men in the great hall laughing with Dougal. They were gigantic men, both two heads taller than all those around them, and were clearly brothers. Both had dark brown hair and beards, heavily scarred, and unkind faces. The scars on their faces made their skin look too tight, and the cut coming off the larger man’s lip gave him a perpetual smile, though not a kind smile, but rather a smile of a man who would cause you to harm if you blinked in his presence.

  “Freya, the Goddess of Death,” the slightly larger man with the scarred smile said.

  “I do not go by that name any longer. Who are you?” Freya asked, feeling perspiration bead on her forehead.

  “Straight to business, are we? I’ve heard you’re a cold bitch,” the large man said, causing his companion to shift his lips, slightly, though Freya did not know if
it was in approval or disapproval of his comment.

  Dougal laughed, before interjecting, “This is Gregor, and his brother Gorm.” They have come to talk to you about their brother, Magnus. And by talk, they mean to take you with them,” Dougal said, erupting with laughter.

  “You traitorous bastard,” Freya scowled at Dougal, reaching for her bow.

  “I wouldn’t do that, lass,” Dougal said, motioning to the several guards who already had their swords drawn “I tell ye what, take me as yer husband and suck my cock nightly and I won’t let these men take ye with them,” Dougal gave an ugly smirk as he said this.

  “Why would I want to marry you, you weren’t strong enough to become laird of your own lands, and a woman needs a strong man. You couldn’t protect me from these two even if you wanted,” Freya said.

  Dougal began to stride towards her, but the silent brother, Gorm, grabbed his shoulder. “We want she unharmed,” Gorm said, in broken English, causing his brother, Gregor, to roll his eyes.

  “Verra well, take the lass and fuck off then,” Dougal said.

  “Where is Fraser?” Freya asked, as Gregor and Gorm seized her.

  “He’s glad he’s finally getting rid of ye, so don’t be worrying about if he’d care that these kind men have taken ye,” Dougal said, turning his back and leaving.

  Gregor shoved Freya into Gorm’s arms, and took her bow from her back as he threw her over the back of his horse, tying her hands and feet.

  “You won’t be needing this any longer,” Gregor said, as he snapped the bow over his knee and threw the broken pieces on the side of the muddy trail.

  Freya felt the scream catch in her throat, her nerves preventing the scream, and so the two brothers walked out with the Freya. And Freya knew that her short life was done, as she was broken, along with her only possession that had kept her father’s memory close to her since his death.

  21

  Skald

  It was still dark when Skald woke. He woke earlier than usual, because of the tension between himself and Magnus’ brothers. Skald did not trust Gregor, for Gregor was cunning, just like himself. Gorm, on the other hand, seemed simple. He had not heard more than a sentence come from the man’s mouth.

  Skald put on all of his war glory, wrapping his black wolfskin around his shoulders, and put his sword over one shoulder, and his bow on the other, the two crossing each other on his back, and finally, a quiver full of arrows, enough to take down a small army.

  He was loaded like a pack mule as he walked out of the stables, to check on Erik and Haaken, who had been ordered to keep a watch on Gregor and Gorm through the night. A river of red ran from beneath the hay stack, where Erik and Haaken had been stationed, and Skald’s icy blood pumped in his veins, in anticipation fo a fight.

  “Ragnar,” he called, as he started throwing hay out of the way.

  It didn’t take long to feel the rough fabric of a poorly woven tunic. Erik and Haaken had been slaughtered. This wasn’t a simple killing, for their throats had been cut, and their eyes gouged from their sockets.

  Rage fuelled Skald into action as he launched himself from the stable, shaking Ragnar awake.

  “Wake up, damn you,” Skald said, his voice coming out deathly smooth. Rage was the only emotion he had felt since his parents’ deaths, yet it had stopped having a physical effect on him by the time he was a teenager. His channeled his rage, using it as fuel.

  “What’s the problem?” Ragnar asked, his deep frown lines set in his brow.

  “Gregor and Gorm killed Erik and Haaken. They have gone to take Freya,” Skald walked to the horses, loading his equipment with an efficiency that can only be learned through years of repetition.

  He stroked the neck of the black beast, whispering into its ear.

  “You have a new owner now, girl, and today you will gallop like Odin’s own steed” he said, admiring its muscular hind legs. This horse was built for speed.

  “Find a horse,” Skald said, turning to Ragnar, who was inspecting the bodies.

  “The damn bastards gouged out their eyes, but why?” Ragnar asked.

  “This is Gregor’s way of telling us that we shouldn’t have been watching him,” Skald said, recognising another man’s inability to feel for others.

  “Where dye think you’re going with those horses?” Logan Sutherland came storming out of the castle, in an attempt to stop Skald and Ragnar.

  Skald threw Logan a bag of gold. “Chase us and it will be your own death, chieftain,” Skald said, as he eyed him, taking his measure.

  They kicked the bellies of their horses, the cold morning air whipped their long tangled hair back, as they rode hard to the MacKenzie lands. Thoughts of Gregor and Gorm getting to Freya before Skald caused him to feel the need to throw up, even though he had not yet eaten for the morning. It must be a special kind of fury, Skald thought, pushing the unfamiliar feeling down, deep inside.

  As they came in sight of the gates, Skald observed two Scotsmen stood before a man on a horse. They sounded like they were arguing. As Skald and Ragnar rode near, all three of them stopped arguing and looked at the pair suspiciously. Skald recognised the man on the horse as Isla’s Englishman, Jack Ashborn. But where was Freya, he thought, his fury and feeling of sickness beginning to bubble back to the surface.

  The look on Jack’s face changed, showing that he recognised the pair of warriors “What happened to Isla, is she ok?”

  “Where is Freya?” Skald asked, ignoring Jack.

  “Who are you?” A balding, fat man asked Skald.

  “Who he fuck are you?” Skald said, the words coming out unusually cool, causing to reach for his sword in anger.

  “I’m Dougal MacKenzie, and I’m the cousin of the cheiftan. I could have yer tongue for speaking out at a MacKenzie like that,” he said, holding the hilt of his sword in a sign of aggression.

  “Where is Freya?” Skald asked again.

  “He sold her to two vikings, this morning,” Jack spat towards Dougal.

  “So she’s gone, then?” Skald asked.

  “Yes, she was gone when I woke,” Jack said.

  Skald kicked hard into the horses belly, causing it to lurch forward. He reached back to the hilt of his sword, always ready to be used, always begging to sing the song of death. In one swoop, the blade took both men’s heads. The two Scotsmen’s’ bodies stayed standing momentarily, before toppling onto their freshly felled heads.

  Jack looked at them with a shocked expression, not saying a word. Skald hopped down from his horse, and undid the second man’s sword that was tied around his waist, and threw it to Jack. “You’re coming with us,” Skald said, as he turned back to his horse. Something that was laying half off the muddy caught his eye as he was readying himself to jump back onto his horse. Freya’s bow.

  Skald recognised it instantly, for it had been in his dreams ever since she used it to kill Magnus, and he had seen it again, when he confronted her in the field, just the other day. It must have been broken in a struggle, Skald thought. He picked it up, the break was clean, and it was now in two pieces.

  “Let’s go, it won’t be long before these men are found,” Ragnar urged.

  “What of Isla?” Jack asked again.

  “Ivar killed her uncle. They both live in Newcastle now,” Ragnar answered Jack.

  “So she did love Ivar the Cruel after all,” Jack said, with a smirk on his face. “I’m glad she’s ok.”

  “Ivar the Clever,” Skald repeated.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “We do not call him Ivar the Cruel,” Skald said.

  “Oh… Ok then,” Jack said.

  Skald leaped back into his saddle, taking the reins and rode his horse hard. He could see tracks of two horses in the mud. “These are their tracks,” Skald said, trusting his scouting instincts, which had won many battles and cost hundreds of Scots their lives.

  “Where do you think they’re taking Freya?” Jack asked, his English voice irritating Skald.

&nbs
p; “If I knew that then we wouldn’t be using their tracks,” Skald clipped.

  “Have you used a sword before, Englishman?” Ragnar asked.

  “I’ve trained since I was a boy. I’m the son of a blacksmith, but I’ve not fought with any Scotsmen” Jack said.

  “How did you get all the way through Scotland without killing a single damn Scot?” Ragnar asked.

  “Freya never required me to kill a man. She either had her men do the fighting or she would take them down with her bow. She never missed once,” Jack said.