Fljótdís- Daughter of the North

by Sanita Trumpika

  She met Ari’s gaze as their swords pierced the last guard from both sides. He nodded in appreciation and looked around at where the battle stood.

  “Enough!” Harald’s voice boomed louder than the thunder. Each man finished his bloody work and gathered around the King, bringing a few hostages who were seen as quite important people in this village.

  Ari and Fljótdís joined the crowd. Fljótdís looked down at the four hostages who trembled on their knees. There was a man in strange garb, a priest probably. Father used to talk about such strange men who served an even stranger god. The next one was a fat man dressed in fine clothes and jewellery. The young one at his side with dark hair and green eyes looked to be his son and the beautiful woman with fair skin and shining golden brown locks was the young man’s wife most likely.

  “Please, have mercy!” the old man with the golden necklace begged Harald. “I am yours. Just let my son and his wife go.”

  Fljótdís understood each word he said. Most of the Northmen did. These lands were raided so often that this was nothing new. Father had known this language and many more, and he had gladly shared all of his knowledge with her, knowing that one day she would take his place.

  She regarded the couple in front of her with mild interest. Even pale from fear and perhaps raped already, the woman was beautiful and graceful. Her husband held her hand. She raised her eyes and looked at Fljótdís. Her eyes were deep blue, like the ocean on a calm day. Tears flowed down the woman’s cheeks, but there was something more in her eyes, courage.

  The priest was killed without a moment’s hesitation. But Fljótdís paid no attention to it. She was too taken by this woman. But the King’s words broke her free of her distraction.

  Harald leaned down close to the rich man. “Tell us where you have hidden all of your treasures and we will free you and your family.”

  “His riches were not found?” she whispered to Ari.

  “We searched the whole village but found nothing. They have hidden everything.”

  “Will King Harald let them go if they say where all the goods are hidden?” Deep in her heart, she already knew the answer and now she read it in Ari’s face.

  She looked down at the beautiful woman, who now stared at the ground. The woman laid one of her hands lightly on her belly. Fljótdís frowned. The woman was with child.

  “I am asking one last time!” Harald’s demand boomed like thunder. “Where are the treasures? Where are they? Tell me, or your son will die first.”

  One of Northmen raised his axe above the head of the wealthy man’s son.

  The rich man’s face was wet with tears, as much for himself as for his son. “In the barn.”

  The King nodded with satisfaction and motioned to a few men to go and check the barn. They returned with chests full of silver coins, golden plates, jewellery and fine silk from the Far East.

  Fljótdís’ jaw dropped when she saw such wealth.

  “There is more, my King,” one of the men said to Harald. “This son of a bitch is as rich as Fáfnir.”

  The King laughed and looked around at his loyal army. “Are the gods not smiling on us today, my friends? We have captured such bounty. The gods will be satisfied!”

  “All hail to the gods!” everyone hurried to agree.

  Then, still keeping his smile of triumph, Harald looked down at the trader and nodded slowly. Ari took his axe and stepped behind the wealthy man. With one quick move, his head was parted from his body.

  “Father!”

  The young man cried out in shock. Perhaps he still clung to hope that now that his father had been sacrificed, there might still be some hope for his own life. But Harald only smiled. Ari raised his axe again and the head of trader's son rolled to the King’s feet.

  Fljótdís didn’t even blink, but the beautiful woman screamed in horror. Ari stopped behind the woman, blood dripping from his axe on her blue dress. But Harald raised his hand.

  “Hold, Ari. If Fljótdís is the warrior she claims to be, let her do it. She needs to prove herself.” The King said it coldly and without giving her a single look, having grown bored with his own games. He turned and headed to the barn to see all that would be added to his coffers.

  The woman lifted her gaze, the only sign of her true feelings the trembling of her hands folded tightly over her middle. Kill her. Fljótdís shivered. It was a strange feeling. This woman was an enemy, just like those men she had killed a few moments ago. Why did she suddenly feel this uncomfortable and unwanted sense of compassion? There was no room in her life for such weakness. It was useless, pointless, and it might well get her killed. Still, this woman was carrying a child, a new life was growing in her belly and she had raised no weapons against them.

  But a hard rain of realism as old as her ancestors’ blood began to sweep across her heart. This woman had been rich and attractive to men. And, yes, she displayed courage. But she was nothing now, no more wealth, no protection, and in her coming poverty, her beauty would soon fade.

  No doubt she had been sold into marriage to the rich trader’s son, whether with her consent or not. Now that she had nothing, she had no more advantages. The villagers probably hated and resented her for her spoiled wealth. They would not help or support her now. There was nothing in it for them.

  She and her child would be shunned, even banished. She could not return to her family as a beggar. She was not a virgin. Worse, she carried the child of a dead man, a man who could not support her, a man who had died dishonourably. Her beauty would only get her men wishing to use her for a night’s selfish spillings. And her child would grow up with a burning desire for revenge against the Northmen who had brought his kin so low. To let this woman live, despite her current courage, would not be wise.

  Be true to who you are, to your heritage, to your father’s warrior legacy. You do not know mercy. The voice in her head was like a bolt from Valhalla.

  Ari cut through her uncertainty and raised his axe. “I’ll do it.”

  “No.”

  “It’s the King’s order, Fljótdís. It must be done and it must be done now.” Ari had no patience for her hesitation.

  She shot him a glance. “And I will do it, Ari! The King’s order was given to me.”

  “Are you sure?” His voice was devoid of sympathy, doubting her.

  She nodded. “I am sure.”

  Ari stepped back and Fljótdís withdrew her knife. The woman’s eyes were locked on her. Strangely, there was no fear in them. Perhaps she understood the impossibility of any future for herself and her child as well. The woman covered her belly with her hands as if to somehow shield her unborn child’s eyes from what was about to happen. She nodded calmly. She would do this with dignity as a gift to her child.

  Fljótdís took her gently by her golden locks and bent back her head, revealing the pale neck and a necklace of precious stones that would soon be robbed from her body. With one swift move, she cut the woman’s throat and the woman collapsed to the ground. The life drained away from her ocean blue eyes, together with the life of her unborn child.

  She waited for something, a miracle, a sign, some feeling of power and confirmation that she had done the right thing, a bird in the sky, a parting of the clouds. There was only stillness and emptiness and a dead mother at her feet. She had done the King’s bidding, but it did not feel honourable. She turned sharply and headed back toward the camp. She needed a strong drink. It was what warriors did after a day of triumphant slaughter.

  She felt like she hardly knew herself. Her hair was wet with blood and her skin was caked with it everywhere. She smelled its iron, felt its salty taste in her mouth. She looked at her reflection in the pond as if she were looking at some stranger she was seeing for the first time. Glimpses of the village woman’s face teased among the rippling waters. She swiped at the waters angrily.

  That woman was of the enemy, she assured herself. She had to die. You did what you had to do, what you would have had to do, even without the King�
�s order. If you are so bothered by this, you are a disgrace to the heritage of your ancestors. You are a failure to yourself and to Father. Is that how you want things to be? Do you want your future to be nothing better than that of the village woman, a slave to a man, unable to fight for yourself and for your king? Do you want to die, clutching your belly to protect a child who will never see a sunrise?

  She scrubbed the blood from her hands and face with a vengeance. Pain ran through her arm and she discovered a small wound under her shoulder, a cut she hadn’t even felt before. She cleaned it quickly and tied it with a piece of cloth ripped from her tunic. It was good to have this activity to distract her from her thoughts.

  Ari emerged from the trees.

  “Ah, Fljótdís, here you are.” He was careful to keep any hint of real worry from his words. “You disappeared on me.”

  Her smile was not an easy one. “As you can see, there is no mystery about my whereabouts. I’m right here. This was a good day, was it not?”

  Ari nodded. “A day of great plunder is always a good day.”

  She cleaned the blood from her sword with a great deal of concentration. Ari came closer and put his finger under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. She wanted to look away, but she made herself hold his inquiring gaze.

  “Are you sure you want this life, Fljótdís, to kill, to be in real danger, to face death and deliver it, to serve the King and obey his orders, no matter what they are?”

  She pushed his hand away as things locked into place in her heart again. It was what she needed, to hear these questions from Ari because to hear them from him showed her herself in a far clearer light than any reflection in the water ever could.

  He was unsure of her at this moment, and he was asking her the questions she feared to answer when she asked them of herself. For him to ask her these things gave her the courage to stand up and defend herself, to let the truth of her convictions sound forth for them both to hear. There would be no more hesitation or doubt.

  “Yes. That is exactly what I want.”

  Ari nodded and smiled. “Then today you made your father proud.”

  “It’s all that matters to me.” She returned her sword to its scabbard. “Are they celebrating already?”

  “Yes. And the King wants to have a few words with you.”

  This took her by surprise. “With me? About what?”

  Ari’s expression revealed nothing to her. “And what do you suppose he wants to talk to you about? Come along, now. You’ve kept him waiting too long already. And straighten up your clothes.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to rejoice or to say good-bye her life. One could never be sure with the King. He was a man whose happiness often came with the swing of a battle axe.

  The revelries had begun in force. Loud music and laughter filled the air. Raucous drinking songs rang forth from every corner of the camp. A few of the younger women captured in the village were ravaged brutally and without mercy in front of the others. Fist fights broke out over whose turn was next. The women cried out in pain and pleaded with their attackers, with some even begging to be killed. But no one listened. The women’s wishes for death would be granted soon enough.

  She saw one of the women lying dead in a pool of her own blood. Her dress was torn to rags and her face had been so badly beaten there could be no guess whether she had been attractive. It hardly mattered to these warriors. It had not been her face they were interested in.

  She felt sick to her stomach. She saw no valour in this savage frenzy. For the Northmen, it was just entertainment, the spoils of war. The village women had no value to them, no hearts, no meaning. She wanted to turn away from the sight of the dead woman. But she also knew that she was still being judged by these warriors who now, in their drunken confusion, looked at her with glazed eyes and a hint of misplaced lust. It was time for her to move on.

  When she reached the King’s tent, she looked back briefly to see the shieldmaidens drag the dead woman away. She was very glad the King had not assigned that job to her. When she turned back, Ari stood before her, catching her by surprise. He inclined his head toward the tent, his face expressionless.

  “Get in there, girl. He wants to see you alone. Now.”

  She swallowed hard. This didn’t sound good. Why would he want to see her alone if the news was good? Had she shamed herself in some way in the King’s mind? Had she brought dishonour to him somehow? There was only one way to find out. She smoothed her tunic, squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

  The King sat at his dining table, making quick work of a tender pheasant taken from the village larders. Dressed in a clean tunic, his hair braided carefully by his slave servants, he paused in his feast and brought his powerful gaze to bear on her.

  She was not some foolish girl whose head was filled with silly romantic tales. But she had to confess in her heart of hearts that this was no ordinary man. Cruel, but charismatic, she found herself drawn to him in an almost primal way. But he was her King and she was a warrior, his warrior. As a show of respect, but also to break the magnetic hold of his eyes, she bowed her head slightly.

  “My King.”

  He smiled at her almost as if she were an old friend. “Fljótdís. Come and sit down.”

  She nodded dutifully and took her place at the other side of the table as he poured her a goblet full of red wine, another “gift” from the village.

  “Incredibly good wine,” he remarked as he handed her her drink. He patted his own goblet affectionately. “These locals have good taste when it comes to wine. Not like those wild ones outside.”

  She took a sip. The wine was very sweet, like nothing she had tasted. It struck her as too decadent.

  Harald stood up and put another plate on the table. He raised one eyebrow over the fact that she was slow to drink the wine. “The wine is not to your liking? What drink do you prefer, pray tell?”

  She kept her eyes focused on her goblet, embarrassed that he had seen her hesitation at his generosity. She had to wonder where this conversation was leading. It wasn’t right to have the King serve her dinner and she hoped it wasn’t because it was her last meal. “I rather prefer mead, my lord. But this wine is fine indeed.”

  He smiled and filled her plate with food. “Mead, is it? A true daughter of the North. Please, you must be hungry.”

  If the news was bad, she might as well hear it on an empty stomach. “My lord, I thank you for your generosity, but may I know why you have called me here? Not to feed me, I’m sure.”

  Harald sat down at the table and gave her a considering look. With studied care, he refilled his silver goblet. For a long moment, the only sound was the music and shouts from the feast outside the tent. The King took his time, savouring the wine as he regarded her. Fljótdís sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She held his gaze evenly and waited.

  So, was this to be a contest of some kind, a little personal battle between them? She would give her life to protect his man without hesitation, but the fact was, she was not ready to surrender her pride to him, and that could be a problem. She hoped he couldn’t see how hard her heart was beating over this little game of his.

  The King put his goblet down and leaned forward. “I like your honesty, Fljótdís. And your courage.”

  Never in her dreams had she hoped to hear such praise from him. But she cautioned herself that her life or death had little meaning to him in the bigger scheme of things.

  “You have my thanks, my lord.”

  Harald took his goblet and moved toward to tent’s entrance, indicating that she should accompany him. Fljótdís followed at a respectful distance. He raised a small corner of the tent’s flap so they could see what was happening outside.

  “See all those men celebrating?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “My warriors. Some are greater than others. Some can barely fight and yet the gods love them, so they survive. Isn’t it so?”

  Fljótdís took a sip of wine. “And t
he point is...”

  Harald laughed. “Impatience. I like that. The point is that all of these fighters are men. Of course, I have some shieldmaidens here, too, but they are...shieldmaidens. But there are no women among my closest warriors, those who protect me personally.”

  So, here it was. He was going to break his promise to her, and he had brought her here alone so that the others wouldn’t see him go back on his word. She had worked so hard for this. Anger began to rise in her, but she held it at bay until she heard the treacherous words spoken.

  “I watched you in the village.” His gaze wandered casually among the feasting men. “You fought honourably. Surprisingly well for the first time. And you fulfilled my command. You did as I ordered you to do.”

  The King returned to the table. Fljótdís stayed where she was and gave him a steady look, still unsure of where she stood with him. She would say what she felt to be true.

  “That woman had no future, my lord. Nor did the whelp in her belly. They were both lost to this world long before they felt the kiss of my blade. She had courage, but she was finished.”

  Harald expression showed admiration for her rational and independent spirit. “Not like you, eh, daughter of Gunnar? You have no need of a man’s strong arm holding you to him, nor a warm babe wiggling in your belly?”

  He was toying with her and she knew it. She sensed that he was watching her face for any sign that these things might hold sway over her heart to the smallest degree. Again, she would give him the truth. “No, my lord, I have no need of either.”

  He stroked his chin, considering her. He rose and came to stand very near her.

  “Very well. I will have you in my personal guard. You will still be under Ari’s protection and obey his orders. For all your courage, you are still young and inexperienced. I’m sure you are convinced you know all there is to know, but believe me, you still have much to learn and Ari is an excellent mentor. Be that as it may, Ari is the leader of my men, and from now forward, everywhere Ari and I go, you will follow, day or night, peace or war. Do you understand?”