The Last Viking Queen

by Taylor, Janelle

  In Rolf’s dwelling, Einar, the Viking attiba, handed him a small mandrake root and instructed, “Wear it tomorrow and on the quest, but keep it hidden at all times. It has the power of invincibility, and the power to find treasure. It will assure your victories.”

  The handsome blond warrior gazed at the plant root which was in the shape of a human form. All believed that the mandrake possessed great power and magic, but few knew how to use it and most feared to even touch it. If not gathered correctly, it could strike a man dead. If used recklessly, it could destroy its owner. Rolf trusted his friend and adviser, and had faith in the man’s alleged skills. He grinned.

  It was near midnight when Ulf met secretly with his friends Thorkel and Horik. “Tomorrow we must slay Rolf, Eirik, and Olaf. We must become the leaders in this quest. We cannot let them live to give us trouble along the way. Eirik and Rolf both desire our queen. They will do anything to possess her, even challenge the champions or the quest. They must die tomorrow. Fight any way you must to win.”

  “With them dead, one of us will become High King and lay claim to the queen. She is a prize to die for.”

  “Yea, Horik, one of us will be king,” Ulf vowed, knowing he would do anything—anything—to win this challenge.

  Twelve

  The next morning, lots were drawn by the six remaining warriors to determine their opponents and match numbers. One large ring was marked on the ground and the area was consecrated by Trosdan. The Vikings gathered and formed a human fence around the large circle where six fates would soon be decided. Queen Alysa was standing in the front of the crowd with Trosdan at her side. Einar, clad in his attiba garb, was nearby, as were the six rivals for her and the kingship.

  Alysa was attired in a tunica of bold blue and yellow, her waist encircled by a jeweled belt with blue and red and green gems. The gownlike garment was sleeveless, revealing her supple arms. About her shoulders was a thin sagum, a cloak which was fastened by a decorative jeweled fibula at her right shoulder. All her garb was soft and flowing, giving the impression of grace and serenity. She was wearing leather sandals which overlapped her ankles and calves. Her hair- was braided with tiny golden chains, the heavy plait left unsecured to hang down her back. Naturally her Viking crown from Trosdan was in place. She was glad the clever wizard had made suggestions for her wardrobe and had supplied many of the special items which created the desirable impressions on their foes.

  Rolf looked handsome in his snug, earthy garments. His muscled body was clad in a short brown tunic with sand-colored borders at the hem and neckline and his tight brown pants were tucked into thin leather boots which climbed to his knees. There was a wide belt around his waist which displayed a large bronze buckle embossed with the image of Odin. It was easy to see that his body was hard and well toned. His arms and shoulders, exposed by the sleeveless tunic, seemed to shine as if greased lightly with a delicate oil. His white-blond hair was cut shaggy on the top and sides, as if to prevent it from falling into his eyes and blinding him at an untimely moment.

  Alysa’s gaze drifted to Eirik as the men readied themselves for competition. Eirik was wearing knee boots and a brown leather warrior’s apron with side slits for easy movement. As with Rolf, his narrow waist was spanned by a wide leather belt with a carved buckle which depicted the god Thor in battle. It was his upper garment which seized most of her attention, as it was just the kind of accessory her husband would select. Very large bronze shields were strapped over the tops of his shoulders to protect them from sword blades. Its leather straps, which were buckled at his lower back, crossed in the form of an X over his chest, where another but smaller bronze shield guarded his heart, a place where no blue royal tattoo could be found. All three shields were skillfully decorated with symbols of the Viking deities. Her body trembled with raging desire for him.

  As with Rolf, Eirik’s hair had been cut this morning to keep it out of his face. His darker locks fell smoothly over his forehead and to his nape. It looked soft and shiny. She wanted to stroke its waves, to bury her fingers in its thickness.

  It was clear Eirik’s body had been honed for years with hours of daily attention. Hard and nimble muscles could be found beneath that sleek, tanned frame. His well-defined features gave him a breathstealing visage. His mustache was gone, but his short beard was not, making him look only as if he had not shaved in a long time, and causing him to appear more like Prince Gavin. His face and body were a golden brown, and she yearned to let her fingers travel both, slowly, sensuously. Alysa’s gaze roamed down his arms to where his wrists were covered by leather armlets. She eyed his hands and envisioned them caressing—

  Her gaze defensively shifted to Ulf, who was dressed in a short dark tunic with a white border at the hem. A fur mantle was thrown about his robust shoulders and held in place with a bronze brooch. A leather belt with large bronze buckle was secured about his thick waist. His feet were encased in heavy leather boots and his wrists in bronze armbands. Today, his red hair was knotted and twisted atop his head to make it stand erect to give him the illusion of more height. His facial hair had been removed except for two long sections of mustache which fell around his mouth and halted at his chest. He looked ominous, and struck fear in her thudding heart.

  The signal was given for the first match: Rolf and Thorkel. The two men circled each other and crossed swords tentatively. Then the conflict began, fiercely, coldly, confidently on each’s part. The heavyset warrior fought the blond one in a manner which indicated a life-and-death struggle, not unexpected considering the prizes which awaited the winner of the final battle. The conflict raged for over an hour with the loud, often ear-splitting, clanging of weapons filling the manmade arena. The combatants were evenly matched in skills and strength. It was obvious that the victor would be the warrior who made no mistakes in judgment and movement.

  Anxiety chewed at Alysa, as she did not want Rolf slain, or her vision doubted. Thorkel fought as if he had forgotten the volva’s words which had included Rolf amongst the three champions, along with Eirik and Ulf. Clearly he did not intend to lose this match, or to yield. The end came quickly when Rolf tripped his rival and sent his blade home ward to Thorkel’s heart. Rolf glanced at Alysa and smiled broadly. After nodding in respect, he left the ring.

  Time came for the second match. Ulf unfastened his brooch and removed his furry mantle. He chuckled as he tossed it to a friend to hold for him. With a cocky walk and smug grin, he stepped into the ring. He and his friend Horik had been paired, and his friend Thorkel was dead. Yet nothing, Ulf decided, would prevent him from becoming a victor in his match! The flaming-haired Viking grinned satanically. He did not care if Horik yielded and he hoped the man would not, as he must slay his carelessly acquired confidant to prevent future trouble with a disgruntled loser.

  The battle got under way. For a time the friends fought casually, as if this were merely casual exercise. Horik seemed playful and at ease, and failed to use his superb skills and wits. Not once did he imagine the dark, evil thoughts which were consuming his companion and close friend of so many years.

  Noting this careless and gullible flaw, Ulf pressed his advantage, as he knew Horik would not expect to be severely wounded, much less slain by him. In a tight clinche, Ulf whispered, “Fight, Horik. Make it look as if we care nothing except for victory or we look the fools.”

  The unsuspecting friend complied. The two men warred violently, and Horik was wounded in his sword arm. Still, the man continued with vigor and ignorance. When the moment presented itself, Ulf drove his sword through Horik’s body with enmorous force. He cruelly twisted it as if trying to open up the man’s belly and spill his innards to the blood-spattered earth. The wounded man gaped at the lethal wound, then at his grinning “friend.” There was no time to speak a warning to others about Ulf’s dark guile before Horik fell dead in the circle.

  As he had done after each victorious match, Ulf lifted his sword heavenward and sent forth eerie wolf howls. He wiped the traitorous bla
de on his dead friend’s tunic and walked to the man holding his mantle. Even though the day was warm, he tossed it around his shoulders and fastened it. With a triumphant grin, he swaggered to Alysa and said, “Soon, my queen, you will be mine.”

  In a calm voice, Alysa replied, “If it is the will of Odin, Ulf, so be it. You have shown yourself to be a superior champion, but I am distressed over your lack of mercy to your friend. He was wounded beyond more fighting. Why did you not let him live to heal, to ride with us another day?”

  Ulf was enraged and embarrassed by her scolding before the others, but he masked his feelings. He lied easily. “When we battled closely, Horik said he wished to die or win. Since he could not win, his fate was sealed by his own words.”

  Alysa sensed the darkness and danger in Ulf and knew he was lying. Yet she said in a deceptively gentle tone, “I accept your words, Ulf, but his death still saddens my heart. For a warrior to reach this point in the contest proves he is a man of expert skills, skills we have need of in our imminent conflict for this land.”

  Ulf shrugged, as if throwing off any blame or guilt. “He died with a sword in his hand, my queen. He has joined Odin in Valhalla. What more can a slain man desire?”

  “Nothing,” Alysa responded, and smiled falsely at the cruel man.

  It was after midday. The crowd dispersed to eat before the final match between Eirik and Olaf. After witnessing the bloody and fatal battles this morning, Alysa was frightened for the image of her lost love. She asked Trosdan, “Is there nothing we can give Eirik or do for him which will ensure his victory?”

  “He will win,” the old man replied confidently before leaving to make certain Olaf was not strong enough to defeat Eirik.

  Eirik and Olaf stepped into the human enclosure which had formed again to observe this final battle for a third champion. This match would test their prowess, in body and mind, and would determine their fates.

  Alysa glanced at each man and gave the signal to begin. She was tense, unnerved by the thought of her love’s image losing his life. She tried to conceal any telltale reactions to Eirik and his peril.

  Olaf’s gaze was mocking, defiant. He eyed his rival who was standing with shoulders squared proudly and with boots firmly planted apart and watching him with that same intense and probing gaze. He studied Eirik’s movements in an attempt to outguess his opponent, to catch him unawares for just an instant.

  Eirik was doing the same. He knew what was at stake in this battle, and it was much more than his human existence. He noted how Olaf held his sword, the sun glistening off the sharp blade. He observed the man’s movements and tactics; and he always watched Olaf’s eyes, for it was there where attacks and errors could be first sighted.

  Sword was assaulted by sword, slashing, charging, parrying. Each evaded the other’s sharp blade with deft handiwork and nimble feet. Rapid and masterful blows were deflected to their rights and lefts, before their faces and legs. Each knew that a simple split-second delay in retaliation or defense could cost him his life, or severe injury. Each knew this probably would be a life-and-death struggle, as had been the two previous contests. Each hungered to win, but each was prepared to die while seeking victory.

  Remaining on full alert, the two warriors circled each other while battling fiercely and confidently. The sun glistened off their sweaty bodies. Damp hair clung to determined faces, strong necks, and powerful shoulders. The men fought with enthusiasm, dedication, and greed. Olaf slashed at Eirik, who averted the charge by quickly stepping aside. Eirik’s avid blade followed his movement and sliced across. Olaf’s right forearm.

  Olaf briefly glanced at the minor injury, and chuckled. His mind and body felt light, invincible … He pretended to begin an upward swing with his weapon, only to halt it and jab at Eirik’s stomach. Eirik was swift and alert to the cunning tactic; he defeated the movement with a skilled parry.

  Eirik knew that a wounded man was dangerous and desperate, so he paid close attention to his temporary foe. The keenly alert Eirik noticed the glint in Olaf’s eyes, a strange gleam which implied his foe was possessed by some unknown spirit or force, or perhaps the evil god Loki. The men used most of the large circle as they fought to and fro. Each time they came near the human fence, the observers were careful to avoid injury.

  Suddenly, Olaf’s sword was knocked from his wet grasp. As he leaped to the ground to recover it, he entangled Eirik’s legs and sent his rival sprawling and his sword flying away. The two men fought upon the ground, thrashing wildly and urgently for the upper hand. Although both men possessed great stamina and brute strength, fatigue and the strain of a crucial battle were exposed in their taut faces and bodies. Their labored breathing and grunts of exertion could be heard in the stillness which surrounded them.

  As the men came to their feet, Eirik threw his shoulder into Olaf’s unprotected gut, causing a rush of air to leave the man’s lungs and knocking him back to the ground. Eirik jumped on him Cand the two rolled again upon the ground in a desperate scuffle. Eirik flung Olaf aside and scrambled for his sword. With waning energy, the handsome warrior knew he should end this conflict as soon as possible. When a man became fatigued, he made mistakes, costly mistakes.

  Olaf lunged for Eirik’s legs and, grabbing one ankle, tripped him before he reached his shiny weapon. With hard kicks from agile feet and staggering blows from powerful shoulders and hands, the fight continued. Both men seized knives from their sheaths. Olaf slashed upward in an at tempt to carve open Eirik’s chest and abdomen, but Eirik diverted the blow with his leather armlet, resulting in a minor cut. While doing so, Eirik nicked Olaf’s sword arm, a deep cut which sent blood flowing down the man’s arm. Rapidly, Eirik slammed his back into Olaf’s and knocked the man off balance. With speed and skill, Eirik slashed Olaf’s calf muscle.

  Eirik surprised everyone when he backed away to allow Olaf time to consider surrender. The rival cut a strip from his tunic and bound his wound. Struggling to his feet, Olaf playfully motioned Eirik forward to resume the fight. Eirik wondered why no one else seemed to notice Olaf’s curious behavior and expression; to him, the man looked as if he were drunk, though not on spirits.

  It was clear to everyone that Eirik had the advantage, but was being patient and cautious with the injured man. Olaf recovered his sword and charged Eirik, shouting loudly and stumbling awkwardly as he did so. He slashed wildly and frantically, but Eirik avoided the blows. Soon it was apparent that Olaf would not yield, and it was foolish to continue a battle where reckless errors could be made by underestimating a wounded opponent. Either Eirik could slay Olaf, or cruelly play with the man until he was exhausted.

  Eirik called out, “Yield, Olaf. Do not force me to slay you. Live to battle another day,” he urged.

  Olaf sneered at his rival. “Nay! It is to the death of one of us. I have tasted victory and cannot live with defeat. Fight or die!”

  “So be it,” Eirik replied reluctantly. Eirik whirled with lightning speed and sliced his sword across Olaf’s throat, ending the man’s misery..

  Olaf collapsed to the ground, dead. A roar of cheers went up for Eirik, for showing mercy and for winning his match.

  Unaware she had been holding her breath in the last few minutes, Alysa exhaled with relief. Eirik did not look her way, and she wondered why, as Rolf and Ulf had acknowledged her after their victories. Perhaps Eirik was angry because he had been forced to slay a friend.

  Einar walked into the ring. As he turned, he shouted, “It is true; our queen is a volva. From over seven hundred warriors whom she had never seen battle before, she revealed the three champions. Truly Odin speaks to her and through her. Long live Queen Alysa!”

  The crowd immediately picked up the words and chanted them over and over. Alysa smiled and nodded to every man whose eye she captured. In spite of her faith in Trosdan, she was amazed by the accuracy of his predictions, and relieved to have her status as a Seer proven. Finally the chanting ceased, but the people were still stimulated.

 
Einar asked, “Is there more you see in our future, my queen?” He hoped that his deceptive status would not be exposed. Whatever it took, he must not make enemies of Alysa and Trosdan. He was amazed by their powers and insights, and he believed in them, envied them.

  Prepared for this moment, Alysa commanded, “We must rest for two days, tend our wounded, and get ready for our journey. All who can must ride with us on this great quest. We shall divide into three groups, with a champion to lead each one. Friends may go with their chosen leader; others will draw lots for their band number. On the third morning from this joyous day, we will gather here for Trosdan to give us the clues from Odin for our first quest. Each band will seek the hidden treasure, then return to camp for the next quest. Do not forget,” she cautioned the three victors who had been gently shoved into the ring, “you are responsible for safeguarding each treasure you find. You may use any means, save death, to steal it from another.”

  With greedy eagerness shining in his eyes, Ulf asked, “Why can we not leave tomorrow for the first quest? We are warriors and have no need for rest. The wounded can join us on later journeys.”

  Alysa noticed that Ulf and Rolf’s gaze was focused on her face, but Eirik was eyeing the ground as if paying little or no attention to her and her words. She explained cleverly and convincingly, “Trosdan, who is a wise and skilled wizard, says the stars and planets will be in fated alignment Friday; we need that good omen when beginning our glorious task. We must wait for Odin’s signal. Do you not agree, my people?”

  Firm believers in the power of astrology, the crowd concurred with her. Einar shouted, “We must heed their words, for Odin sent them here to lead us. Do as our queen and attiba say and a glorious victory awaits us.”