Fljótdís- Daughter of the North

by Sanita Trumpika

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him and for the first time in her life, she heard a low chuckle from Ulrik over how captivated she was. She wanted to smack him one, but that would have only proven his point. Instead, she drew her sword and marched straight across the meadow, mindless of all the practice skirmishes she disrupted on the way.

  She was just in time to witness the warrior crush his training opponent to the ground in a swift and deadly manoeuvre that could only be termed perfection and there was a quickening sensation somewhere deep inside her that made her draw in a sharp breath. She collected herself in a hurry. He stood up to his full height. She had not had to look up that far since Ari. There was a long scar on his cheek, but it only added to the impact of his looks. She squared her shoulders and gave him a look of authority to go with her question.

  “Who are you?”

  She was a bit disappointed that he didn’t favour her with a smile, but his extraordinary blue eyes were full of mischief and playfulness. Their colour was shocking and she forced herself to stay calm.

  The man inspected his sword’s blade for any dullness caused by the exercises. “I am a warrior.”

  She snorted at his answer. “I can see that. I wonder what kind of warrior you are when your opponent isn’t a pig farmer.”

  Without warning, she raised her sword and advanced toward him, barely missing his left ear. He let out a shout of surprise but was immediately at the ready. He blocked her next attack.

  “Dammit, woman, what is this? I’m on your side, remember?”

  “Just a simple test of your skills. What, are you too tired? Maybe we should have the shield maidens bring you a chair and a shawl.”

  She attacked again and again, so quickly that the warrior had no chance to advance. But he took his time, gauging her moves and her style of attack. He made an aggressive move, but she blocked it easily, running her sword down the length of his blade and causing sparks to fly in his eyes. He winced.

  She used this moment to mount another hail of quick attacks. He was forced back, but still, he blocked her every move, clearly suspecting that she might actually kill him with this game of hers. She blew him a kiss which set him off.

  “To Hel, woman, enough of this,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She lifted one eyebrow. “Surrendering so soon? Poor tired thing. I’ll get you your shawl personally, Grandmother.”

  She stepped back, teasing him.

  He gave her a deadly smile and brandished his sword high above his head. He attacked her in earnest now. But again their blades met each other, shining in the morning sun. The light touched on his scar and she was momentarily distracted, wondering how he had gotten it. There was a nagging familiarity about him that she couldn’t place. She paid for her mind’s meanderings. The warrior gave a mighty strike and she nearly lost her blade. This man was too distracting.

  The fight was incredibly equal. Both of them were strong and both were not ready to give up. For Fljótdís, this was a gift. At last, she had met someone who could stand against her and give back to her what she gave. She could show him his place, wound him in the arm or the leg to bring him down, but she wanted all her warriors sound and whole for the battles that were coming, especially this one.

  In the split second she hesitated, he gave her sword a smashing blow from the bottom. It was out of the ordinary, unexpected, and her sword flew a few steps away. Convinced he had the upper hand, he sliced open the thigh seam of her breeches, drawing no blood, but revealing a fantastical tattoo on her upper leg, the stylized figure of a wolf surrounded by intricate knots, all symbols of power and protection. He was distracted by it for only an instant before he pressed the gleaming tip of his blade to her neck.

  “Your game, but I won.” He grinned down at her in triumph.

  She noticed the gathering of men who were now watching them with great interest. They waited to see if their Commander had truly met her match. The warrior noticed them, too, and he turned his head to give them a broad smile.

  That was exactly what she needed. A distraction. One swift move and she was behind him, grabbing his braid and twisting his head back. She held her dagger firmly pressed against his neck and a cheer went up from the crowd.

  “Be a good boy and drop the sword,” she whispered in his ear. He hesitated and she pressed the blade deeper till a small trickle of blood ran down to his chest. “I said drop it. I have enough warriors that I can afford to lose one without shedding a tear.”

  One of the men in the crowd shouted, “You better do what she says, my friend! You have no idea who you are dealing with.”

  He dropped his sword. Fljótdís nodded to Ulrik to take it. Once he was unarmed, she released her hold, satisfied that the matter was closed. It was her second mistake. He grabbed her and knocked her to the ground, pinning her hands above her head.

  “And now the game is truly over.” His smile was so dazzling and convincing that for only a moment she didn’t care about winning anymore. He was on her, pushing her to the ground, his eyes delving into hers, challenging her, calling her up to him. Again the warmth filled her, this time impacting her whole body. But this was also surrender and that was not something she would ever accept. His grip around her hands was too powerful, so she needed another plan, one that had always served her well.

  She gave him a deceptively sweet and submissive smile and then punished him squarely in the balls with her knee. No permanent damage, but enough to let him know who was in charge here. He growled and let her go and she quickly punched him hard in the solar plexus, robbing him of breath. He collapsed next to her and before his next thought, she was on top of him, her knife once again at his throat.

  “My game, remember? I can do this all day.” She had to admit to herself that she was glad to see the pain start to fade from those dangerous eyes of his. Now she saw a mixture of surprise and esteem there. And confusion. He still struggled for breath.

  “Not sure if...I could handle your games...that long, but it might be fun to try.” Her blade was still pressed firmly against his neck. “Have we... met before?”

  Fljótdís was breathing hard, too. “I don’t think so. But I encounter many men each day. Some are the best fighters in the realm.” She didn’t give him a chance to ask if she included him in that number, but gave him a sly smile. “And some lose their heads over me.”

  With these words, she stood up and simply walked away. Loud shouts of pride and whistles of approval followed her.

  Ulrik shook his head and gave her a theatrical teasing bow of admiration as she passed by. She raised her fist at his humour as she might to an older brother and continued on her way.

  The defeated warrior sat up and watched the dark-haired woman take her leave. His first thought was that she was a goddess, all grace and beauty, as wild and strong as a Valkyrie. But she was even more desirable than a goddess because she was real flesh and blood, a woman with the heart of a warrior and a body that even after the damage she had caused him made him hard as steel with wanting her.

  He was acting like a besotted teenager and as he rose to his feet, wincing with pain, he reminded himself that this was not why he was here. He looked at his young training partner. The lad was little more than a boy and he appeared to be very relieved that the woman had not chosen him for her games.

  “Who is she, Olaf?” He watched every man greet her with the utmost respect as she passed and felt a sense of loss when she disappeared into one of the tents.

  “She is our Commander, Erik. She is the famous Fljótdís, daughter of Gunnar Torson.”

  Erik gave the boy a look of genuine surprise. He knew Fljótdís’ reputation well. Out of reflex, he touched the scar on his cheek, a scar he valued more than any of his badges of battle. It was something he wore with great pride. Like a flash from Thor’s Hammer, he knew where he had met this formidable woman before.

  Chapter 13

  “Will that be all, my lady?”

  The shieldmaiden finished hel
ping Fljótdís untie the laces of her leather armour and glanced toward the door at the sounds of merriment outside. She was Helgi’s daughter, another redhead. And at seventeen summers, she showed signs of having every bit of her father’s courage and skills.

  Fljótdís gave her an indulgent smile. “That’s all, Ingrid. Go, celebrate.”

  Ingrid was already heading for the door. “You won’t join us?”

  “Perhaps later. I just want a few quiet moments right now.”

  Ingrid nodded respectfully and left the tent. Fljótdís was relieved to have a few moments alone. She sat down in her furs with a sigh and a stretch and took the silver hairpin out of her hair, letting the long, dark tresses fall over her shoulders. She listened to the noises outside. The men gathered around the campfires as always, drinking mead, celebrating, remembering old days and singing songs. She had to smile as one of the warriors started a saucy song about a girl on distant shores. These songs never grew old, even if the men who sang them did.

  Despite the joyfulness outside, she wasn’t in the mood for celebration. She was tired, but not physically. Her mind went back to the old days, to everyone she had lost and to all the battles she has won. She had her men around her. She was a successful leader and she had her fame. Everyone in this kingdom knew her name, knew her reputation. But still, it wasn’t enough. Much of the time, she was filled with a restless yearning and dissatisfaction. The victories were big enough. She had everything she had ever wanted from life. But she wanted more.

  She pulled the furs over herself. No matter how great her reputation was or how much she achieved, in the end, she was alone. Surrounded by hundreds who were absolutely loyal and dedicated to her, it still felt like there was no one in her life, no one she could seek out for gentleness, companionship, quiet moments of peace, no one she could show a softer side to, even for an instant. She was the Commander, the one in charge, and she could be nothing less in the eyes of those around her.

  If she had to give this feeling a name, it could only be called loneliness and it was becoming as dangerous an enemy to her as any she had ever faced. Yes, she was a warrior, but she was also a woman, a woman who had lost all those she had ever loved, Father, Ari, the only men she had ever truly trusted.

  Tears came and she swiped them away angrily. If anyone saw her in this state, she would be ruined and laughed out of the camp. She was too strong for this. She was a Commander. She had an army to lead. The men trusted her to always be in control. They relied on her battle skills. She had no choice but to be strong.

  There was no one on Earth with whom she could share these vulnerable feelings, no one. Her shieldmaidens were aides, but they were not friends. They had lives of their own, and for her to confide in them, even in the slightest ways, would be inappropriate and could put her in jeopardy of gossip and the decay of her leadership. There was no other choice but to remain alone and it hurt like the Flames of Muspelheim.

  With these thoughts, she finally drifted into sleep. But even that gave her no peace.

  She wandered through a dense forest. Only moonlight illuminated the trees. Her feet were bare on the forest floor and the wet moss beneath them felt cool and unnatural. Mists danced around the trees like silver ghosts, enticing her, calling to her to move deeper into the woods. It was so quiet, no night birds or forest animals, just the sound of far off breezes swirling in the treetops.

  She didn’t know why she was there, but she had to keep moving. Going forward was her only option, even though she couldn’t see clearly where she was going in the darkness. She was being led toward something, something she had to see. It was yet to be learned if that something was friend or foe.

  The forest opened up and she could just make out that there was a glade before her. It was as dark here as the blackness of Ginnungagap and everything around her began to change. The wind blew harsh and frigid and the branches of the trees swayed and cracked in chaos. There was a very real danger and a hard shiver of dread skidded down her back. She needed to get out here. She needed to run, to escape, to save herself, from what she didn’t know. But she knew her life depended upon getting away.

  She couldn’t move. It felt like she was frozen in place and it sent a shock of real terror through her. She didn’t want to know what was going to happen next, but there was no choice. The moon cleared the clouds and now she saw in the glen what she had been brought here to witness, a sight that would forever haunt her, even in her waking hours.

  The glade was covered with fallen warriors. Most were dead, the rest near death. The grass was soaked in lakes of their blood. Crushed bones and skulls, lost limbs, severed heads, this battle had been a theatre of horrors. She didn’t know these men, didn’t know their flag which now lay beneath a smear of gore next to one of the warriors. All she knew was that she must get away from here. Whatever Hel these men had suffered now awaited her.

  At the far side of the glade, she saw an illuminated silhouette. Here was the origin of all this death and the source of her fear. It was a woman. She held a sword in one hand and a spear in the other. It was the same woman who had haunted her dreams so many times, the one who made her wake up screaming, the woman who never revealed her face.

  The faceless woman crossed the battlefield, coming toward her slowly, relentlessly. And still, she remained frozen in place, unable to run as her every instinct demanded her to do. There was no escape from this fate. The woman was only a breath away, nearly upon her.

  She awoke trembling with cold and fear, feeling trapped and in a panic to escape from the dream. She slid into her boots quickly and grabbed her cape, desperate to get out of the tent and into the open night air.

  The camp was quiet. Only a few men sat at the fire and kept the watch. They noticed her and nodded in a warm greeting. She was grateful that the minds of men were not as sensitive to emotion as the minds of women. She felt vulnerable and shaken because of the dream, but she was well practised at masking any such feelings from her army. She gave them a small smile but didn’t approach them. It would be unwise to push her luck. The images from the dream were still too fresh in her mind’s eye and she wasn’t ready to answer any questions about her state of mind, no matter how benign the inquiry. Luckily, no one appeared to give her a second thought.

  Except for one man, his eyes blue and bright, with an intensity that matched the fire before him. Those eyes locked with hers for the span of a heartbeat before he nodded and returned his attention to the flames. But in that split second, he had come very close to touching the core of her, wordlessly asking what had awakened her at this hour of the night. It shook her nearly as much as the dream and she turned and walked away in the hope that distance would let her think clearly because right now she couldn’t put one thought in front of the other and that had to change.

  Erik drank deeply from his horn of mead. He had watched Fljótdís emerge from her tent, wrapped in furs, her dark hair dancing wild and free in the night breezes, looking every bit a goddess in the firelight. If someone had told him casually at that moment that she was, in fact, a true Valkyrie, he would have accepted the news with a nod of acknowledgement.

  Although he hadn’t seen her in battle yet, her fame had spread to the far reaches of the realm. For many, she was a Goddess of War, sent by Odin himself. He hadn’t been so sure about such big tales, but now that he had done battle with her himself, there was no doubt in his mind that she was extraordinary and an incredible power to be reckoned with. Memories of his combat with her, at times very close and physical, sent the blood pumping to his groin and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. Once again, he was making a fool of himself. He was new to her army, and the last thing he needed was to be seen as an idiot.

  But he had seen something in those incomparable eyes of hers a moment ago, sadness perhaps, isolation, and something else. His first thought had been that he had seen a touch of fear there. But he dismissed that as very unlikely. One such as Fljótdís knew nothing of fear, he was sure.

 
; Still, as he had watched her disappear into the forest, his first instinct had been to rise and follow her to see to her safety. She hardly needed him to protect her. And yet, as brave and strong as she was he still did not believe her to be immortal and it was always wise to have someone trustworthy guarding your back.

  “You like her, don’t you?” Helgi asked with a knowing smile.

  Hakon added a bit too quickly, “Who doesn’t like her? What man here wouldn’t throw himself at her feet for a chance at her?”

  Erik kept his tone neutral. “And does she like any man in return?”

  Helgi’s shrugged. “Her love is her sword and the battlefield.”

  Erik nodded. He wasn’t sure if he felt disappointment or relief at this information, but he didn’t want to hear any more. He needed to move and clear his head of all that she was doing to him without ever giving him a word of encouragement.

  This obsession with her was taking over his mind and heart. She had been different tonight, more than some warrior goddess or a weapon of war sent by Odin. She had been like a very human woman, and that had affected him in ways he had never experienced before, dangerous and unsettling ways.

  He tightened his cloak and left the camp as large snowflakes began to drift down. Soon snow covered the ground and its illumination made the trees look like they were of some ethereal spirit world. Everything had gone very silent. He told himself firmly that he wasn’t looking for her, that such an idea would be unwise and unwanted. But in fact, he was looking for her. And as much as that infuriated him about himself, he knew he had no choice but to find her.