The Last Viking Queen

by Taylor, Janelle

  Ulf and Rolf began their match with waving swords and insulting words. Knowing this competition was to the death, the men battled fiercely and brutally. Weapons slashed through the air. Bodies shoved against each other, or swerved to miss a charging blade. The wet earth made squishing sounds as the rivals stomped upon it.

  The weapons slammed together with deafening noise, echoing the men’s grunts of exertion. Attacks were parried and thrusts were made. Blows were given and received. Sweat beaded on their faces and bodies and blood from cuts trickled down their arms and chests.

  Ulf made a deep slash across Rolf’s cheek. The blond warrior howled in rage and viciously attacked his foe. His blade missed its mark, and Ulf’s greedy weapon chewed into Rolf’s arm above his elbow. Rolf’s sword went for Ulf’s middle, but the redhead avoided it. Ulf entangled Rolf’s feet and left arm and flipped Rolf to the ground. Ulf dropped his knee into Rolf’s back and twisted it back and forth, then his large hand shot to Rolf’s head and pressed his face into the soaked earth. Quickly tossing aside his sword, Ulf drew his long knife and jabbed it forcefully between Rolf’s shoulder blades into his heart. Rolf’s struggles halted.

  Ulf lifted his arms skyward and howled as if a malicious wolf dwelled within him. He kicked at Rolf’s body before walking to where Eirik was standing several men away from Alysa. He placed his bloody tip at Eirik’s heart and vowed, “You die next, so prepare yourself. I shall return shortly to finish this matter quickly. I do not want to use all my strength playing with you, as this is my wedding night.” Ulf had looked at Alysa during his last statement, and grinned lewdly.

  Eirik’s hand slapped the blade from his chest and scoffed, “You shall die by my hand before gloam arrives. Take as much time as you need for rest, as years of practice would not change the outcome of our match.” He wiped Rolf’s blood from his flesh and smeared it on Ulf’s already spotted tunic.

  Ulf laughed wildly. He parted the crowd with his husky frame and strong hands and returned to his longhouse. He wanted to rub on the special ointment which prevented soreness and muscle fatigue. He quaffed an ale and mentally readied himself.

  Alysa wished she could speak with her love, but she dared not draw attention to them. She ordered no one to touch the sacred objects, but told several men to carry Rolf’s body to where two funeral pyres had already been constructed. “He was a valiant warrior, and he has yielded to his destiny, for Odin has summoned him to Valhalla. Place his body there with his weapon. We will light the sacred flames tonight to call forth Odin’s Valkyries to guide them heavenward.”

  She and Trosdan returned to their dwelling for a short time. She smiled and embraced him. “Are you sure all will go well with Eirik’s match? Ulf is strong and violent.”

  Thinking of the post-trance command he had given Ulf, the wizard replied, “At this moment, Ulf is smearing the magical ointment on his flesh. His sweat and heat from his body will make it work. Gradually he will grow weary and Eirik will slay him.”

  As Alysa passed Eirik on her return to the ring, she pressed an amulet into his hand. With lowered head to prevent anyone from seeing her lips move, she whispered, “Wear it and Ulf will weaken as you battle him. I love you.”

  Alysa took her place at the edge of the circle. She waited while Trosdan consecrated the ring again. She watched Eirik step inside with his sword drawn and wearing the amulet about his neck. His tawny body was magnificent, sleek and hard and strong. His expression exposed confidence and serenity. His stance and movements evinced self-assurance and agility. How wonderful their reunion would be!

  A curious aura of suspense and anticipation hung heavy in the air. Every Norseman was silent and alert, eager to watch this final match for their king. The sky was clear, but an odd shade of blue. The sun was warm and bright and timeless. An eerie quiet surrounded them. No bird sang. No insect buzzed. No horse neighed. No animal spoke its tongue. All living things seemed frozen. No wind cooled flesh or tugged at garments. The potent aura felt strange, mystical, intimidating. Many destinies were at hand.

  In Hengist’s Great Hall, King Vortigern of Logris was ranting. “I pay you to guard me against invaders! My people are frightened and displeased with their raids. Go there and drive them from my land.”

  The sly Jute chieftain replied calmly, “They only rest before pushing into other kingdoms to raid. They take only supplies they need for survival. They have not terrorized or plundered your kingdom, and do not plan to do so. I have sent spies to observe them. They reported no danger to you and your subjects. They have vowed not to attack here. There is no need to challenge them and turn them against us.”

  Vortigern shrieked, “I do not want them here! Leave today and you can defeat them tomorrow. I demand it, Hengist. They are strong and many, and no doubt wait for others to join them. Attack now while you are stronger. Slay them or drive them out of Logris.”

  Hengist shrugged. “I will send them a warning to depart. If they do not do so within a week, I will attack them and you will owe—”

  “Nay!” Vortigern shouted anxiously. “Leave within the hour. By gloam tomorrow, the problem can be solved. Do so, and you shall be rewarded with the land between your territory and Horsa’s.”

  Eirik and Ulf faced each other, and the signal was given. The two men slowly and purposefully moved sideways in a circle as each assessed the other’s skills. Their eyes locked and spoke, mutely giving and receiving challenges. Their movements halted simultaneously. They stared at each other briefly, then attacked.

  Thrusting sword was met by parrying sword. Charging body was halted by a defensive one which was just as hard and strong. The blades clanked together, to their right, to their left, overhead, and before their legs. Ulf’s long red lock swayed wildly with his movements. Eirik’s dark-blond hair soon became mussed. Perspiration beaded on their faces and bodies and raced down their sleek flesh like falling rain.

  Loud exhalations of air were heard from both warriors. Squishy earth sucked at booted feet, and mud splattered legs and shoes. Ulf’s blade zinged off Eirik’s thick metal armband. Eirik balled his fist and slammed it into Ulf’s heart area. The man laughed wildly. Eirik flexed his fingers several times, as striking Ulf’s chest had been like hitting solid oak.

  Flickers of sunlight danced off their crossed steel. Sparks flashed each time the weapons touched forcefully. Ulf shoved Eirik backward, but the handsome warrior did not lose his balance. He quickly ducked his head and rammed it into Ulf’s unprotected belly. The man staggered, but did not fall. Again the redhead laughed tauntingly.

  As the two rivals grappled inside the ring, Eirik seized Ulf’s free wrist and tried to fling the man backward. Ulf’s hand twisted and banded Eirik’s as he tried the same ploy. Their blades seemed interlocked as they struggled fiercely. Boots dug into the slippery ground as each sought to control his stance and to shove against his foe.

  They grunted from expended energy, and gasped for more air to fill their greedy lungs. Eirik lifted his foot to stomp into the front of Ulf’ s leg. The redhead jerked it aside just as Eirik’s boot landed heavily in the spot he had vacated. Ulf chuckled mockingly.

  Eirik jerked to free his arm, as Ulf’s grip was slick with sweat and his armband prevented a good hold on him. But the pugnacious foe hung on like a starving dog to a hunk of meat. Eirik wriggled and writhed as he attempted to get his right leg behind Ulf’s to trip him. That ploy failed, too. Still each rival imprisoned the free wrist of the other and kept the other’s blade from moving forward and downward.

  Eirik noticed something in Ulf’s eyes, a curious panic. The warrior was sweating profusely and laboring to breathe. It was obvious that Ulf was weakening, and fear was replacing his confidence. Eirik knew he could win this match, but must remain alert and cautious.

  Sighting that advantage spurred the green-eyed warrior to boldness. Eirik called upon all his strength and energy to break Ulf’s hold on his arm and blade. Ulf yielded just enough for Eirik to free both. Instantly Eirik whirled
halfway around and sent his booted foot backward into Ulf’s sensitive groin.

  Ulf yelled in agony and doubled over, fighting his nausea and pain to defend himself. The ferocious Norseman growled at his opponent, and his dark eyes glared with hatred and coldness. He knew he was in trouble. He was tiring too quickly and easily, too strangely. His mouth had never been so dry; his throat ached and pleaded for water. His muscles raged against movement. His head throbbed and tormented him. What was ailing him? Even his wits were dulling. He felt as if he were fighting in a dream. Was this what it was like to die? To feel destiny calling?

  Eirik tossed aside his sword and raced behind Ulf. He locked his arms around Ulf’s shoulders and yanked upon them as his knee jabbed painfully into Ulf’s spine. He shook his foe, flinging him side to side as if he were a limp cloth doll. Ulf’s sword fell from his grasp. Eirik threw the man to the ground and withdrew his longest knife.

  Desperately, Ulf rolled aside and tried to draw his own dagger. He could not seem to rise or clear his wits. He felt a searing pain wrack his chest. He groaned and thrashed weakly against the soaked earth. The agony spread over his body and into his head. Blackness was engulfing him. At that moment, Ulf guessed the truth. With all the strength and volume he could muster, he shouted, “Trosdan!” and died, causing the crowd to wonder why his last word had not been “Odin.”

  Eirik gazed down at Ulf’s bloody form, his knife still buried deeply within his opponent’s chest. For a time, he was too exhausted to realize he had won this awesome battle; had won his love; had won the kingship of these people.

  A roar of cheers went up, startling Eirik from his dreamy daze. He looked around as comprehension set in. His gaze went to Alysa’s smiling face. Never had she looked more beautiful than she did this moment with her loving gaze locked on him. He left his weapons where they lay and approached her. Kneeling before his special prize, he said, “I am honored to accept my destiny with you and our people.”

  Alysa’s quivering fingers touched his bare shoulder. “Rise, Eirik, for a Viking king kneels to no mortal. Truly you are a worthy champion and you will be a matchless ruler. Soon, Odin will make you invincible. Go, rest, and await our marriage at dusk.”

  Eirik stood, smiled at Alysa, and departed. As he passed through the crowd, the Norsemen slapped him on the back and praised his prowess. He gathered fresh garments and headed for the river to bathe and change. Within hours, Alysa would be his forever.

  Alysa commanded, “Take Ulf’s body and weapons to his pyre. Trosdan will entreat Odin to open the gates of Valhalla for them.”

  The Last Viking Queen was obeyed. After Trosdan’s false prayers, the wooden beds were kindled with difficulty. The branches were damp from the recent storm, so they burned slowly at first. As the heat dried them, the flames increased and enwrapped Ulf’s and Rolf’s bodies.

  Alysa eyed the two burning forms and reflected briefly on how both had touched her life and aided her destiny. “May Odin’s will be done, my people,” she murmured, and took her leave of them to prepare for her second wedding to Gavin Crisdean.

  Alysa’s love washed the mud, sweat, and blood from his body. His heart was pounding in excitement and joy. He had come here, joined this band, and won more than he had ever dreamed possible. No longer would he be alone and miserable. No longer would he have to go from place to place seeking adventure or peace of mind. No longer would he have to obey the orders of others. He had won the enchantress who had stolen his heart and mind. He was the ruler of this fierce and greedy band. They would travel together making legendary conquests. They would share everything in their lives and hearts.

  Then, he asked himself, why was he not bursting with total joy? He knew why. He no longer wanted to roam, to raid, to reek havoc on helpless lands and victims. Killing, plundering, ravishing, and destroying no longer gave him pleasure. He no longer cared about seeking wealth and recognition. All he wanted was to settle down in a safe and tranquil place with his wife. He wanted children, a home, peace.

  As he pulled on a short tunic in dark green, and a loincloth, he wondered how he could convince his love to think as he did. How could he persuade her to let them give up their high ranks? If he succeeded, how could they escape her people? Where would they go?

  Alysa had completed her bath and donned a gown of bronze whose interwoven gold threads glittered in the light, as did the precious gems which decorated its neckline. She brushed her hair and placed her jewel-encrusted crown upon her head. She fastened a shiny golden medallion around her neck and a matching chain about her waist. Having cleaned the mud from her boots, she was compelled to wear them outside tonight to prevent ruining her matching slippers.

  She was more than pleased with how she looked. It was vital that these Vikings were not given a chance to forget who and what she was, and what her love had become. By tomorrow night, this ruse would be over, and victory would be theirs.

  Alysa poured a pouch of dried flower petals over the bedcovers. She rubbed their lingering scents into the material. Afterward she shook the covers to cast the petals to the floor around the bed where their heady fragrance would linger for hours. She placed candles on the floor, to be lit before they went to bed, to cast their seductive glow around them tonight. She laid out no sleeping kirtle, for she would have need of none tonight. How glorious to spend hours together without fear of a perilous discovery or an untimely interruption.

  Trosdan, who was to take over Aidan’s shieling in Eirik’s place, knocked on the door to summon her for the longawaited ceremony. “It is time,” he said with a broad smile and gentle gaze. “I will leave you alone tonight. I will return in the morning to make plans with you two. Tomorrow our destinies will be fulfilled, as the Runes predicted.”

  Alysa followed the Druid High Priest to the center of the settlement. Eirik was waiting for her with an appreciative gaze and smiling lips. She eyed the muscled arms and legs which were exposed by his chosen garment. Brown boots snugly traveled to his knees and his waist was belted with brown leather, but he wore no weapon. The amulet which she had given to him was around his neck. Her gaze roamed to his sleek and shiny dark-blond hair, and she was glad its sunny streaks would soon return. He was so splendid, and her heart beat rapidly in desire.

  Alysa and her love stood before Trosdan and followed his instructions to clasp the wrists of their right hands. The wizard removed the golden cord about his waist and wrapped it around their hands and wrists, the symbol which bound them together for all time, even beyond death. The wizard chanted the ancient wedding words which sealed their fates as one and blessed their union. From a slain lamb, he put a dot of sanctified blood upon their foreheads. Placing a small torch in the left hand of each, he told them to walk in a circle to the right.

  Trosdan’s mellow voice entreated Odin to bless this union of Sacred Champion with Viking Queen, to protect it and them from all harm, to light their paths to victory and to obedience of his will.

  Alysa’s sea-blue gaze never left Eirik’s grass-green one. Their grip on each other was gentle but firm. Their shoulders touched as they made the nine circles with the torches. Desire blazed between them more brightly and hotly than the flames they held.

  Trosdan unbound their wrists and took the torches from their hands. “Forever walk and rule as one, for it is Odin’s command. Go to your dwelling and seal your vows as you unite your bodies.”

  Alysa blushed, and wished those words had not been a part of the Viking ritual, for she could imagine the men’s reaction to them. But Trosdan was compelled to perform it according to Norse law and custom. Eirik grasped her hand and guided her through the parted crowd which was cheering them, and envying him.

  Inside his old dwelling, Eirik barred the door and turned to her. For a time, he was content simply to gaze at her, to engulf her presence and beauty, her close proximity, her entreating aura. Without touching her, he confessed, “My head is spinning as swiftly as my heart is beating. I cannot believe this is not a dream.”

>   Alysa felt her heart race with anticipation and joy. They had all night to love, to arouse their desires and to blissfully sate them. Eirik was hers; Gavin was hers; and soon victory would be theirs and they could return home together for all time. She remained where she was, a few feet away, and replied, “It is not a dream, m’lord. Command me and I will obey.”

  Surprise filled his eyes and he trembled with love and passion’s hunger. She appeared so willing, so eager, to have him. Her love and desire for him could not be hidden or denied, as her gaze revealed them. “Nay, it is not my place to order my queen about. It is your right and duty to command me and I will obey.”

  Alysa laughed softly and seductively. “That is no longer true, Eirik. You are my king, my husband; it is my place, my duty, my destiny, to let you lead and command. Speak, m’lord, my love; what is your heart’s desire and I will fulfill it?”

  He did not have to give her query any thought. “You are my heart’s desire, Alysa, only you,” he responded huskily. He closed the distance between them, halting before her. His hand lifted, but then slowly lowered. He looked hesitant, unsure of himself.

  As she caressed his cheek, she inquired playfully, “Why do you fear to take what is yours by right and conquest? I am not a dream, my love. I will not vanish or disobey. And this is not our first union.”