She’d heard all her life of brave Viking heroes who’d had holes shot through them with arrows and yet they’d go merrily along. “Oh, it’s just a little wound,” they’d say, then they’d drink a bowl of soup, and the soup would come out of them like they were a sieve, and they’d say, “Oh, I guess that wound wasn’t so little after all,” and then they’d die.
Gefjun said, barely heard through the fog that filled her ears, “Sit down right now or I am going to punch you, hard.”
Dyrfinna knew from experience Gefjun wasn’t joking. Almost out of reflex, Dyrfinna collapsed to a sitting position on the soil.
Gefjun usually went around with her hair tied up in a loose bun and just wearing whatever she had handy, because she spent a lot of time gathering herbs with her mother, caring for the garden, or practicing swords. She was a beautiful young woman, but careless of her beauty. Many red tendrils had escaped her loose bun. Gefjun checked over the wound with her face right up to it, because her eyesight was not keen. But she knew her herbs, and she was very good with them, and with healing.
“Fresh meat,” she said. “This wound should be easy to work with if we get you back to the village pretty quick.”
Gefjun tore a long strip off her sleeve, then another, and she bound the wound with them, pulling each strip tight. Dyrfinna bit her lip so she wouldn’t do something stupid like cry out. Skeggi stood in the crowd, and Dyrfinna refused to crack in front of him.
Her gaze landed on her sister. Aesa’s wide, tear-filled eyes remained fixed on Dyrfinna’s arm.
“It’ll be fine,” Dyrfinna said, though it hurt like crazy and she was worried about infection. She put her other arm around her sister. “I’ve still got one good arm to hold you with.”
“Did you really take out that wolf by yourself?” Ostryg asked.
“No, Aesa did,” Dyrfinna grumped. “She cut it down valiantly while I rolled on the ground in terror.”
Aesa tried to smile at her sister’s joke, but the smile slipped off her little face, and her chin wobbled.
“Look, we need to take Aesa home to Mama.” Dyrfinna got to her knees to pick her up. Earlier, she had swooped Aesa up into her arms with ease. Now Dyrfinna struggled to get her off the ground. How did I do this and still manage to fight off a wolf with one arm?
This was the first time she’d fought a battle that had ended in a kill. She’d been told that the first battle leaves the Viking shaken in a way that can’t be described. She had to agree.
Gefjun set a hand on Dyrfinna’s shoulder and smiled at the little sister. “Aesa, let me pick you up. I think your sister’s just about had it.”
Aesa shook her head hard. “Only Sissy.”
Gefjun got down on her level. “You both did us proud. Your sister was very brave, and she earned great honor for you and your family. And you earned great honor, too, because you did everything she said. You were very brave.”
“But I was scared,” little Aesa said, tears welling in her eyes.
“You can be brave at the same time you’re scared.” Gefjun tapped a finger against her temple. “If you can keep your head when you’re scared, that is a thing of great honor. Now come on. We have to get back home and fix your sissy up before blackflies start laying eggs on her wound. Okay?”
“Dyrfinna!” Mama came running into the field, her long raven hair flying behind her. She caught up Aesa, who clung to her, now crying in earnest. Mama’s eyes were wild and fixed on Dyrfinna’s. “What happened?”
“I killed a wolf, mama. I killed it and kept Aesa safe.”
Mama took in the sight of the dead wolf, drank in Dyrfinna’s face, then clutched her in a great hug with her other arm. “My good girl. My good girl.”
Ostryg picked up the sword and handed it to Dyrfinna. “Your sword, madame,” he said sarcastically.
Dyrfinna pointedly took a large corner of her dress and cleaned the blood and hair off her sword as best she could. Never hand somebody a gob-bespattered sword, Dyrfinna thought, glaring at the blade and thinking of all the things she wished to say out loud. You always clean it off first. And don’t ever call me madame. He knew she hated being called that.
They all continued to the village. More and more people ran up to hear the story of how Dyrfinna slew a wolf with one hand while holding her little sister against her side. She could hardly hear what they were saying, because her ears rang. Her arm throbbed against its bindings, and already felt hot. Her head swam. She concentrated on each step.
They came down the hill through the other crop allotments of the neighboring fields. The soil in Skala was a light sandy color, not like the rich, dark soil Dyrfinna’s mother talked about back in her home in Vinland.
The light soil wasn’t very fertile, so they had to work hard to make it rich enough to grow their crops. Due to the scarcity of good land, the Vikings in Skala were running out of places to plant crops. The poorest people among them were forced to work the stoniest allotments.
This was why their people had been sailing out into the world to settle new lands—or extort money from kings in exchange for peace. King Aethelred the Unready, the English king, was an especial pushover, filling their coffers with gold and silver. He kept paying the Vikings to go away—so they continued to return. The Queen was among those who he paid handsomely.
Dyrfinna’s mother, a Skraeling, had come home with her father of her own accord after Leif Ericsson had tried to settle Vinland. “I wanted to explore the world,” she’d explained when Dyrfinna was little. “And I wanted to see your dragons.”
As a group, they approached the outskirts of town, where the fields turned into tidy groups of thatched houses. Chickens skittered out of the way, and the spicy scent of wood smoke hung low over the town. The air was filled with the friendly murmur of many voices, the peal of laughter, or a song sung badly as somebody sawed, and the hum of a spinning wheel from a nearby home. Dyrfinna smiled. Though she, too, wanted to explore the world the way her papa had, she also loved her town and her people.
“Stop at my house first,” Gefjun said. “We need to get you fixed up right away.”
They turned in at Gefjun’s parents’ house, a large, lovely home with a thatched roof piled high, several outbuildings connected to the main structure by covered walkways, and a thickly-mulched garden tucked in close to the house. Herbs and roses filled the garden, smelling sweet, and her nanny goat, Heidrun, stood in her usual spot—the roof.
Gefjun threw open the door wide. “Mama! Dyrfinna got wrecked by a wolf! But she wrecked the Hel out of him in return! Maaaama!”
“She did what? Bring her in here,” her mother called from around the corner.
Dyrfinna had been here a million times since she was a little girl. At first, she and Gefjun annoyed each other, but later became the best of friends. Dyrfinna followed Gefjun around the corner where herbs hung in the wide, airy space. Rough little glass bottles, all neatly stoppered, ran along one wall. She loved breathing the wild, wry scents of the herbs that filled the air.
“Dyrfinna! What happened to you?” Gefjun’s mother accosted her, forcing her to sit, and untied the bandage. “We need water.”
Gefjun had already poured water into a basin in the corner, and carried it over.
“Clean her up,” her mama said, already running to the needles and threads. “Did you say it was a wolf?”
“In our field,” Aesa chimed in, clinging close to her mother.
“Little one, why don’t you run home and wait there until I get done?” Dyrfinna asked, already gasping in pain from the cold water that Gefjun was daubing on her open wound.
Gefjun’s mother picked up not just one needle, but she brought over a whole pincushion, and two different thicknesses of thread. Dyrfinna thought of her swordmaster saying, “You must take every opportunity you can find to practice your stoicism, and perfect your mastery over pain.”
This was going to be one of those times.
But it would be much easier to do if Aesa wasn�
��t in the room, watching her and crumpling into tears.
“No!” she cried. “I don’t want to leave Sissy!”
Gefjun was pressing a cloth hard into Dyrfinna’s arm to soak up the blood, while her mother lay out her needles and thread, partially unspooled, with a small pair of scissors to snip the thread.
Dyrfinna shot her mama a pleading look. Mama smiled at her with love. “Aesa, little bird, let me take you home so I can change your clothes. You have the blood of that mean wolf on them. By the time you come back, Sissy will be done. I promise.”
“No! I want to wear that wolf’s blood! He’s bad and he hurt my sissy.”
Dyrfinna raised her eyebrows. Her sister had spoken like a true warrior. All the same, she had to go. “Now, Aesa ….”
Just then, a thrilling call came from outside, sending shivers up her spine. Gefjun rushed to the side door and looked out. From the water’s edge people shouted.
Gefjun turned back with an excited squeal. “A dragon! The Queen’s dragon! Spouting flame for us to see from the horizon’s edge! She’s come back! The warriors are coming back!”
“And Rjupa is coming back!” Dyrfinna shouted. Gefjun ran to her and they grabbed hands and screamed with joy. They'd soon see one of their closest sword-friends.
“Papa’s coming home! Papa’s coming home!” Aesa said, everything else forgotten. She jumped up and ran to the door. “Can I go see? Please?”
Mama put her hand on her chest. She’d always hated seeing Papa go to war, and could never be quite at peace until he was off the ship and in her arms. “He’s still a long ways off. If the dragon’s signaling just now, the longboats won’t pull onto the shore until this afternoon.”
Dyrfinna nearly scowled at the mention of her Papa, but she hid it.
Mama squeezed Dyrfinna’s uninjured arm, looking into her face with her dark eyes. “Do everything Heiðr tells you, okay? You’ll be fine. Join us on the sand when you’re sewn up.”
The two women shared a respectful nod, and then Mama followed Aesa to the door. Aesa skittered out like an excited hare.
Dyrfinna let out a breath. Glad for Aesa to be leaving, but also thrilled to know that Rjupa was nearly home. She’d missed her friend. The Queen had been gone on her mission of revenge for a long time, and there had been no news for a solid month from any part of the expedition. They should have had at least a small dragon-scout sending messages, but … nothing. So fear had gnawed at her insides, whispering the possibility that something had gone wrong.
The itch to go down to the shore and wait overwhelmed her, even if the ships wouldn’t be there for a long time. Instead, she chewed her lip and fidgeted on the stool. She had an arm that needed fixing.
“Okay, do your worst,” Dyrfinna told Gefjun’s mom.
“First, a little help.” Gefjun stepped forward and handed Dyrfinna a cup of wine—the strong stuff, from the smell. “Take a pull of this and then hold it in your mouth for a long moment. It works faster when you do.”
Dyrfinna held each mouthful of wine for a little while. She didn’t know if her mouth was somehow absorbing the wine, but before she’d drunk the whole cup, she began to feel whirly and quite loose and relaxed. She smiled through it. “This wine is the most lovely wine I’ve ever drunk.”
“No more talk, Dyrfinna,” Gefjun’s mama said, and did the first stitch.
Oh! That hurt!
She frowned at Dyrfinna’s flinch and nodded to Gefjun to offer another drink of wine. “Be strong,” she said. “Relax.”
Dyrfinna did her best stoic impression and let the healer work.
Besides, if Rjupa was on that ship—and she prayed she was—she wanted her to see her stitches.
But then she remembered the wolf lying in her field.
“Gefjun? Could you ask somebody to get me the wolf’s skin and its teeth?” Dyrfinna asked. “It shouldn’t be too late for the pelt if they move quickly.”
“We’ll get that for you,” she said, and leaned out the door to send a message with somebody she knew who happened to be passing by.
The end … of the first chapter of The Flame of Battle.
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Read More from Melinda R. Cordell
I have an MFA in writing from Hamline University and enjoy writing fun stories about life, love, and the pursuit of nerdiness with the help of my high school daughter. I’ve sold fantasy novels and my gardening books worldwide and I enjoy connecting with my readers. Drop me a line! I’ll say hello!
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Read More from Pauline Creeden
Pauline Creeden is USA Today Bestselling and award-winning author of inventive and inspirational stories, entwining real-world problems with fantasy characters. She spends most of her day caring for the many animals around the horse farm and mentoring kids in horsemanship. Still, she finds time to play Pokemon and binge on Kdramas.
http://paulinecreeden.com
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