Fljótdís- Daughter of the North

by Sanita Trumpika

  She swore. This was beneath her pride. What if someone saw this? She wasn’t some princess in distress to be carried around. She was a warrior. Moreover, she was the Commander of the King’s men.

  “Put me down, Erik, or I won’t marry you.”

  “Keep silent, woman,” he replied calmly, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

  She was ready to threaten him again, but the sound of approaching hoofbeats made Erik stop. He helped her to stand on her own and withdrew his axe in her defence.

  A familiar voiced called out and they both breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It’s me, no need for axes!”

  “Helgi!” Fljótdís was so glad to see him.

  Helgi emerged from the cover of the trees and into the moonlight. He had another horse with him.

  Erik watched with concern as Fljótdís climbed into the saddle. “How did you find us?”

  Helgi watched Fljótdís closely, too. “I saw you both coming out of the river from a distance, so I ran after the horses and came back to look for you. How are you Fljótdís?”

  “I’m well enough.” She gave her old friend a smile that convinced none of them.

  Erik swung into the saddle behind Fljótdís. “Her leg is seriously burned. She needs a Healer.”

  He didn’t mention the fact that for a moment Fljótdís’ heart had stopped beating. When he had pulled her off the boat, out of the flames, she had gone down like a stone, so quickly it was if the river’s vatnavættir wanted to steal her from him. And when he had gotten her on the shore, she wasn’t breathing. He had prayed to all the gods, begging for them to take away his life to save hers.

  Fljótdís felt Erik’s arms tighten around her waist, pulling her closer. “Do you fear that I’ll sprout wings and fly away, Erik?”

  His smile was hard-won. “And prove the Valkyrie rumours true?” He held up her arm, revealing the winged tattoo. “No, my love. I’m just glad we all are alive.”

  She felt better in his warm embrace. But as good as she felt, the pain returned and she winced. She met Helgi’s eyes in the pale moonlight as he rode beside them. Something was wrong. Something had happened. There was no sign of Helgi’s usual high spirits and after a battle he was always in a good mood. Instead of it, there was sadness in his eyes.

  A wave of worry rose in her heart. “What happened, Helgi? What are you not telling me?”

  Helgi kept his gaze focused on the road ahead. He saw the first shapes of the town already, the first fires of the place where he was born. “Ulrik.”

  She felt the familiar ache of loss in her heart.

  “Is he dead?” Erik asked.

  Helgi nodded. “He was surrounded by six men. He took them out one by one until one of them put an axe straight into his chest. I was near. I saw it. I should have protected him.”

  Fljótdís refused to give in to the tears that rose in her eyes. Ulrik. The old wolf, her most trusted warrior and her right hand, a man she could always trust, a man who never denied to give her his advice. And now he was gone, like her father and Ari. How many more would be lost to her?

  Erik knew what this loss meant to her. “It was his time and it was a noble death.”

  “I’m fine.”

  They rode the rest of the way to town in silence.

  When they finally arrived at the Great Hall, Fljótdís almost lost her balance and fell as she dismounted, but at the last moment, she found support from the saddle. Her leg was making her crazy. Men greeted her with shouts of joy and victory, loud music already filled every corner of the town, but right now she couldn’t feel joyous.

  “Fljótdís,” Erik said softly, but she didn’t answer. She walked into the Great Hall and nodded at the King.

  And there he was, lying on one of the Great Hall’s tables, her longtime brother-in-arms. She took his hand. Ulrik’s face seemed so peaceful, so free of care. There was no sign of that serious expression he always wore. He appeared to be almost happy and much younger.

  “You are now sharing mead with my father and Ari in Valhalla, my friend.” She smiled, fighting with tears. “And one day, if the gods will it, I’ll join you.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “It was an honour to live and fight with you, Ulrik, son of Balder.”

  She stepped back and met Harald’s eyes. “He must have a proper warrior’s funeral, my lord.”

  King Harald nodded. “I will take care of it. I’ll find a worthy archer.”

  She cast one last look at Ulrik’s face. “I’ll fire the arrow. I sent him into death, I must send his body down into the river as well. It is my duty.”

  She walked out of the Great Hall through one of the side doors, suddenly feeling the weight of the whole world on her shoulders. The last bit of warmth left her body, except the burning pain in the leg. It was time for a Healer.

  Chapter 21

  Fljótdís stood at the Hall’s door, watching as the thirteen men, including Erik and Helgi, prepared to leave. King Harald was sending them to Torvaldson’s former lands to see if Gauthild’s death had awakened any rebels. Although Torvaldson’s daughter was dead now, some might still seek revenge.

  Maybe Torvaldson’s lands were cursed. So many of her friends had died because of that man. Even after he was dead, Torvaldson was like an evil spirit that kept plaguing them. And his daughter’s ghost haunted her.

  The last few days she had been thinking of little else but Gauthild’s words. She had been tortured by dark dreams each night. Since the battle, she felt such heaviness, like there was a stone in place of her heart. And that weight was pushing her down so strongly that she sometimes found herself longing just to lie down on the ground and sleep.

  “All is well, my love?” Erik asked, looking deeply into her eyes. “You look pale.”

  She forced a smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. “I am well enough. Just return as quickly as you can, alright?”

  He placed a gentle kiss on her lips. “As you command.”

  She answered his kiss and smiled. “Go now and may the gods protect you. I’ll sacrifice to Odin for your safe return.”

  He nodded and mounted his horse. Giving her one last smile, he rode out of the town together with the other men.

  A wave of loneliness washed over her. She hugged herself in hopes of finding warmth, but no matter how hard she tried to defeat it, all she felt was cold. The coldness had been with her since the fire battle, since Gauthild’s last words. “The murderer of your father...my uncle saw it with his own eyes.”

  These words rang in her head and she looked up at the sky, asking for mercy, asking the gods for an end to this ugly voice that gave her no rest. Doubt was a terrible burden. It gnawed at the heart and took away all peace and happiness. The only cure was to know the truth.

  She turned her attention to the King, who was talking to one of his men. Could he have truly committed this travesty? And if yes, then why? What could her father have done to deserve such a death? No, it was impossible. Father would have given his life to protect Harald. And that’s what he had done, he had fallen in the protection of his King and land, an honourable death.

  He had been the most loyal and respected warrior, not only Harald’s guardian but his friend as well. It was absurd. Gauthild had just wanted to sow the seed of doubt in her heart, to rob her of her confidence and her mission. She had wanted only to destroy her out of her vile bitterness.

  It wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let anyone destroy her. It was time to get herself together. She withdrew the knife from her boot and whirled it in her hand. The cold steel gave her comfort and strength. Again she felt the blood rush in her veins and it gave her new life. It was what she was born to do, to fight and to win. She was strong and she would not allow any foolish doubts to destroy everything she had achieved.

  “All is well?” Harald’s voice dragged her out of her thoughts.

  She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Yes, all is well, my lord.”

  He nodded and went insi
de, but a gentle hand touched her shoulder. She turned to find Queen Astrid standing in front of her. In the pale daylight, she looked like some mysterious wraith all dressed in white. Her smile was genuine and Fljótdís felt warmth slowly flow into her heart.

  “My Queen.” She bowed her head slightly.

  “Fljótdís, you have brought us another victory.”

  Fljótdís smiled sadly. “Victory comes at a heavy price, my lady.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Fljótdís. He was a great warrior.”

  Fljótdís looked toward the grey clouds overhead. “Yes, he was, my lady, and a great man. He is now in Valhalla drinking and feasting.”

  The Queen squeezed her hand. “And one day you will join them when the time comes.”

  Fljótdís gave her a grateful smile. “Indeed I will. Now, speaking of feasts, shall we share some mead together tonight, my Queen?”

  Astrid’s laughter was of the lily-of-valley and the morning dew. Fljótdís felt a close kinship to this woman. In some ways, Astrid was a warrior as well. She wore these years with Harald as a crown, although it was a heavy burden. She never saw Astrid broken and desperate. She was always calm and serene.

  “I shall gladly share a drink with you, Fljótdís.” But the Queen’s words darkened. “Your stepmother returned today.”

  Fljótdís’ brightened mood was gone. “Yes, I saw her, my lady. Only the gods know what that woman has on her mind this time.”

  “She spoke with Harald almost all day.”

  “I don’t imagine anything good can come of that.”

  The Queen gave a small shudder. “That woman never brings anything but news as dark as the wings of a crow.” She shrugged. “Never mind. Let’s go inside. I must see if everything is managed for the feast.”

  Fljótdís gave her a wry smile and followed her inside the Hall. “You never miss a chance to command the slaves, my Queen.”

  Astrid shrugged. “It’s my only pleasure here, my friend.”

  Monstrous thunder roared and bolts of lightning seared the ground. Rain bombarded the roof with such power that it sounded as if thousands of stones were being thrown from the sky. The gods were angry tonight and this storm truly made people terrified.

  Fljótdís sat on her bed, wrapped in her furs. Her body was soaked in sweat and she shivered to her bones. Shreds from her dream still swirled in her mind. It had been a dream of dark shadows and merciless storms, a dream of her father covered in blood. King Harald had stood over her father’s body with an axe in his hand. She had felt so helpless and weak in this dream, but there had been nothing she could do but watch.

  She wrapped the furs tighter around herself and opened the door, hoping to sort her dream from the crashing weather outside. The storm broke in, sending pouring rain and mad wind into the room and everything that wasn’t tied down went flying in disarray.

  A flash of lightning blinded her, but she didn’t even flinch. Somehow the thunder and lightning always comforted to her. It had been near in her first raid, near when she made the most important of her choices, near when she was in battle, near every time she was in danger. And it always gave her the answers she so needed.

  She stepped out into the rain and closed her eyes, letting the downpour wash away the cold sweat from her face. When she opened her eyes again, there was nothing but darkness, a darkness that spoke of cold steel and anger.

  “Was it him?” she shouted into the storm. “Was it Harald?”

  It felt like the only way to find out the truth. She hoped with all her heart that the gods might give her the answer. And who else could do it better than Thor himself?

  She received her answer in a deafening crack of thunder. A single bolt of flashing light touched the surface of the river and in that light, she saw the shape of a woman. The woman held her spear high, aiming toward the town. Then, in the next flash, she was gone.

  Fljótdís felt the heat overtake her body. Everything slipped away, cold, fears, doubts. Instead, she felt the bitter poison of anger overtake her. The world turned upside down. Her whole life was a lie.

  “You serve the Hounds of Hel.” That crazy woman’s words from long ago were true. She indeed served the Hounds of Hel. Or in this case, she served a certain hound.

  With the next crack of thunder, she let out a shout full of anger and pain, a shout that would be heard for miles if not for this monstrous storm, a shout that could come only from the deepest and darkest depths of the heart.

  She went back inside, slamming the door with such force that the little house trembled to its foundation. She threw the fur on the bed and took her chainmail out of the chest. Soon, she was fully dressed and fully armed. Her wet hair fell over her shoulders in wild tangles and her heart blazed with vengeance.

  With a final glance at the storm-tossed room, she hurried through the door and slammed it again. The rain receded and the thunder stepped back slowly. The pale light of day dawned behind the forests.

  She marched across the field, her steps deliberate and full of strength. She had only one thought in her mind, kill Harald, take his head and watch his blood flow in rivers through the longhouse. She wanted nothing more than to watch his pitiful life end and to send him to Hel.

  When she reached the Great Hall, dawn had broken upon the village. People slowly woke up from their sleep and prepared to go about their daily chores. Many had questioning expressions at the sight of her walking through the village with her sword drawn. But everyone knew she was the King’s Commander and they decided she was doing his bidding.

  She kicked open the door to the Great Hall and stood on the threshold. The King was there along with Hakon and five other men. They raised their heads from their raiding plans.

  Harald smiled. “Fljótdís. We were waiting for you. We have plans to discuss.”

  She said nothing but gave him a deadly look that would have made the bravest man take stock of his own mortality.

  Hakon knew at once that something was wrong. “Fljótdís?”

  “Is it true?” she demanded. She stormed across the Hall, never taking her eyes off the King. “I said, is it true?”

  Everyone came into readiness. Hakon rose to his feet.

  Harald emptied his horn calmly and looked at her without emotion. “Is what true?”

  She moved so quickly, no one had time to think of stopping her as she pressed the tip of her sword to the King’s throat. “Did you kill my father? He didn’t die from a Curonian hand, did he? He died by your hand. Am I right?”

  Harald looked at her, saying nothing.

  “Answer me!”

  Ignoring the very real threat of her blade, the King stood up and turned his back to her. He walked up to his chair and sat down. There was ice in his eyes as he gave her answer.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  Fljótdís felt the ground become unsteady under her feet.

  “I killed him. I killed that bastard like the dog he truly was.”

  “Why?”

  At last, the King found some emotion. “Why? Because he was set on stealing my crown! Because he gathered traitors behind my back to destroy me, to rob me of my throne! That’s why!”

  Hakon stepped in, fully understanding the danger of this situation. “He never did that, my lord. Gunnar was loyal to you.”

  Harald smiled at Hakon. “And you are one of those who sought to betray me, traitor. You think I didn’t see how the whole town admired Gunnar, how everyone ate from his hand? Gunnar, the great warrior, the great leader. I am the great one! I am the one who deserved their admiration and their loyalty!”

  Astrid wandered into the Hall, yawning. She froze when she saw Fljótdís.

  “What is happening here?”

  Fljótdís tightened the grip on her sword and took a step forward. At that moment, the doors of the Great Hall opened and a dozen warriors marched into the room.

  Harald stood up. “Did you think I wouldn’t know you would come seeking revenge?”

  The King wave
d his hand and a tall woman came out of the shadows.

  “Irena,” Fljótdís said as if she were in the middle of a nightmare.

  Irena smiled sweetly. “Hello, dear step-daughter.”

  The King sat down. “She saw your coming, Fljodis. You see what kind of strength and advantages I have at my disposal? And what do you have? A bunch of worthless vermin who lick your boots mindlessly?”

  Fljótdís’ cold determination never wavered. “You think a dozen men will stop me from killing you?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose not. I have more in case you prevail.”

  She leapt on the attack. The King jumped up and grabbed his axe at the last moment to block the blow of her sword. He pushed her back and she fell off the dais. Luckily, she didn’t lose her sword from the fall. She sprang to her feet, ready for another attack.

  “Kill her!” The King ordered as he sat back in his chair.

  Fljótdís turned and looked at the men. They hesitated. She saw doubt in their eyes, respect and confusion. She had taught many of them to fight. Many had fought with her side by side. But they were warriors and their loyalty was sworn to King Harald.

  “I said kill her, you worthless bastards!” Harald sounded close to madness.

  “No!” Astrid shouted as she ran to protect Fljótdís. “Don’t be a fool. You cannot kill her.” Harald’s smile made her shiver.

  “You think not, woman? Then watch this!”

  He dragged Astrid up to his chair and held her with brutal force. “Now bear witness as your dear friend bleeds her life away, wife.”

  Hakon lunged in front of Fljótdís when the warriors closed in on them. He and Fljótdís blocked the first attack, blow after blow. The sound of metal crashing against metal filled the Great Hall. Bodies fell. Soon half of the guards lay dead.

  The King stood with Astrid in his cruel grip. He watched this mad dance between Fljótdís and his warriors as if it were some kind of a tournament staged for his benefit. He truly found it very entertaining. It was a good day for killing and a good day to destroy the seed of Gunnar, the traitor, this little viper he had raised in his own bosom. The only thing he regretted was that he couldn’t have her one last time, to thrust himself so deep inside her that she screamed in pain. That would have been a great pleasure.