The Viking Maiden Box Set

by Kelly N. Jane

  “I won’t give up on my dreams.” She said it out loud, as much for herself as for Hagen. She lurched forward from a shove on the back of her shoulder. “Hey, what’s that for? You’re trying real hard to stop being a jerk, I see.”

  Hagen laughed. “You need to see the real talents that you have. You care for others, and try so hard at things. I would have given up a long time ago, if I had kept getting bruised and battered by my friend during ‘practice’,” he chuckled.

  “I never thought you could sound so grown up. It’s weird.” She smiled.

  “Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll toss you into the river with the snake!” he teased. After a moment, he asked, “What was all that about on the docks yesterday, by the way?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about that.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  ‘Real talents’? Was that how I helped that boy? Her head ached, and she wondered again if staying home would have been better.

  After dinner, everyone went straight to bed except Ingrid.

  Ducking behind some bushes with a bucket of water, she took a quick bath, and scrubbed her clothes after the men went to sleep. They would be leaving at first light, and a good night’s sleep was important, but so was getting rid of the fish smell and caked-on mud.

  She eventually went to bed, but between worry of another snake, and mulling over what Hagen had said, Ingrid barely slept at all. Grumpy and tired, she roused the next morning to help with breakfast and get the ships reloaded.

  “You need to fix your braids,” Selby said without preamble as she settled next to her in their spot at the bow.

  “What do you care?”

  “Sor-ry.” She looked past Ingrid with her lips tight together.

  “I didn’t mean that, sorry, I didn’t sleep well. How are you so rested?”

  “I don’t know. I like being out here, I guess. And I didn’t have a snake try to bite me, so I’m sure that helped,” Selby said, and Ingrid shuddered again at the memory she’d shared over dinner. “Do you want me to help you with your braids?” she offered.

  “I really don’t care, but sure, if you think I need help.”

  “Well, you might be too grumpy to notice, but you have an admirer. I’ll help you, and you can thank me later.”

  “What? No one admires me.” Ingrid didn’t have the patience to talk about boys right then.

  “Mm-hmm. Then why does Jorg keep looking over at you and smiling?”

  “Because he’s a jerk and probably making fun of me. Why do you keep thinking it’s something more?”

  “You need to open your eyes. There.” Selby finished tying the ends of the two plaits together. “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks.” Ingrid stole a glance in Jorg’s direction and straightened her clothes. Selby smiled. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ingrid turned her attention to the horizon, and ignored the others. The crisp morning air brought hints of chamomile and sweet balm.

  The rest of the journey down river was much the same as the first couple of days had been, with Ingrid fighting her nausea by day and camping by night. Finally, Jorvik came into sight, and the crew prepared to land.

  Everyone jumped ashore and tied the boats along the wooden docks, leaving a few men with each to guard their property. People and boats lined the walkways, making it difficult for Ingrid to see the city.

  “I know you are excited, but this is a dangerous place,” Klaus warned her. “You have to watch your surroundings and stay close to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  They made their way to the main street and headed toward a small hill that rose above the ramshackle rows of huts about a quarter mile away. As a group, they made a formidable impression through the narrow streets. Ingrid watched as Hagen followed their father, and was amused by how hard he tried to mimic his movements. She heard Selby sigh, and followed her gaze for the source. Her friend’s eyes were fixed on Hagen as well, but apparently for a different reason.

  “You need to look around. Find another target for your affections,” Ingrid told her, smiling.

  “Why? Look at him. He’s as tall as your father now, and so commanding. I’d follow him anywhere.”

  “Ew. You’re pathetic. Get a hold of yourself, or I’ll make you walk between the Stinks.”

  Selby snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

  “This isn’t what I thought the capitol would look like,” Ingrid said, changing the subject and drawing Selby’s eyes away from her brother.

  “I know. I thought it would be nicer than our village, not the other way around.”

  There were a lot more houses than in their village, but they were not as well constructed or cared for. They were made the same, with stone or plank walls and thatched roofs, but there were gaps that hadn’t been repaired. The grasses of the thatch were rotted in places, and many sagged dreadfully. More than one they passed had caught fire at some point, and the entire structure looked tired and weak. Yet families still inhabited the rickety hovels.

  The view in front of them did not match the images Ingrid had formed in her mind before they arrived. Gray skies and drizzling rain made the streets a muddy mess. Streams of water flowed in deep ruts made by carts and wagons that lumbered along what passed for roads.

  She’d expected something much more grand.

  The smell of rotten midden heaps pushed in from every side, and there wasn’t a market, but peasants either set up tables outside the door of their own ramshackle homes, or parked a wagon somewhere and sold wares from it.

  Even so, the harbor was full of ships from faraway lands, and what was for sale was brilliant: glass from Italia, spices from the Indies, and embroidered silk from Frankia.

  “Hagen thought I would think of this as a shopping trip; I told him I didn’t, but I might have lied. I want to look around at all this stuff,” she whispered to Selby, nodding toward a cart boasting fabric in the deepest shade of red she’d ever seen.

  “I know. I was thinking the same thing.”

  Even though they didn’t have to go far, getting anywhere in a hurry was difficult. Thick mud coated them in splatters to their knees, and Ingrid looked at herself in disgust.

  In the middle of grumbling about the need for clean, dry clothes, a sound grabbed her attention, and she stopped walking.

  “Where is that music coming from?” she asked.

  “I think just ahead. I’ve never heard anything like it,” Selby answered. Ingrid nodded in agreement while she started to walk again, intrigued.

  Warm, fresh, bread smells wafted out of one door they passed, and Ingrid’s stomach rumbled. A slab of bread and a warm mug of spiced cider would be delicious right now. Thoughts of warm food and dry clothes kept her occupied until they finally reached a stand at the end of the street, where dead geese hung from their feet.

  Around the corner was a man dressed in a pair of stained and patched breeches, with an equally patched, loose shirt hanging over a protruding belly. A large, floppy hat kept the rain away from his face, and he played a bone flute made from the leg of a swan. A jolly little tune fluttered through the air. Under his feet lay a mat of woven reeds, and he tapped his toes to the beat.

  Ingrid danced a little in time with his tune, and Selby clapped wildly with her when he finished. The crowd persisted, calling for another tune, and much to Ingrid’s delight, her party stayed to listen. This song was different, however. It was beautiful and slow, melancholy.

  Mesmerized, Ingrid closed her eyes and swayed her body to the music, picturing grasses on the moor back home rippling in the breeze, the purple heather flooding the hills with their earthy, floral smells, and the sad call of a heron looking for its mate.

  Voices shouted in the back of Ingrid’s awareness, interrupting the beautiful scenery. Suddenly, she realized the music had stopped. Opening her eyes in time to dodge a large body hurtling past her, she stood frozen like a deer in
a meadow. Selby’s hand grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip, and yanked her to a run.

  Shouts and the hissing of swords being pulled from their scabbards sounded all around them. The coppery smell of blood filled the air as men clashed, driving their weapons into each other. The girls dove under a nearby wagon, as the clamor of metal meeting metal and shrieking battle cries rang out.

  Shivering in the mud, they huddled together, struggling to distinguish one person from the next. Selby screamed and covered her face with her hands, as Ingrid lay silent, rooted to the ground while her entire body trembled.

  Within a few harried moments that felt like hours, the fighting was over. The raiders had flashed upon Klaus’s men and jumped away just as quickly.

  Stunned, Ingrid and Selby emerged from hiding, and several injured men near them moaned. Without thinking, Ingrid ran to their side.

  The first warrior she reached was bleeding so profusely that his shirt was soaked through. Ripping the sopping material away from the wound, she held her breath to keep from retching. He was splayed open from collarbone to navel. Touching the man’s forehead, she said a quick prayer, then moved to the next man.

  “Ingrid!” Selby ran after her. Not all of the men were convinced the fight was over, and weapons still clanged in her ears. “This isn’t safe. You need to come with me.”

  “No.”

  The man in front of her also had a gash across his chest, but it was not as deep as the previous man’s had been. Closing her eyes, she laid both hands on the sliced flesh. Warmth embraced her as she concentrated. In only a few seconds, she felt the cool air around her again and, without checking her impact, scrambled to the nearest body, continuing to move from one to the next.

  There were no sounds in her ears except the thrum of her own heartbeat. Time didn’t exist. Nothing mattered to her at that moment except the next injury. She didn’t notice the person, only blood, broken bones, and ripped flesh until she pulled her hands from the last man she could help.

  Then, cold air blasted around her as if her warm blanket had been snatched away, and everything went dark.

  6

  Ingrid blinked her eyes, and her vision adjusted to the darkened room in which she stood. The only sliver of light filtered in from between the curtain and the frame of the room's single window.

  As a stranger in the corner, she viewed the scene: a family huddling together over a woman holding a small child on her lap. Soiled towels lay on the ground. The woman was crying, but Ingrid could not hear any sound as she watched. Silence encased her like a tomb.

  Recognition squeezed her heart and burned through her chest; this was her home and her family.

  Her mother held the child, her disheveled hair pulled loose and falling over her shoulders. Her father sat back on his knees, his head bowed, but tilted enough that Ingrid could see tears streaming down his face. Hagen was there too, only much younger. He screamed at her. Not the her standing there in silence, not the stranger who was witnessing their pain, but the small her, the her that squatted near the ground, several feet away from the others, her arms around her legs as she rocked back and forth. There was blood on her hands and arms.

  Ingrid struggled to stay upright, and swirls floated through her vision. Unbalanced, she bumped into the wall behind her, feeling sweat break out at her temples.

  Is this real? Is this one of my lost memories?

  Walking toward her mother, she stepped past her younger self. No one else saw her; they had no idea she was there. The child, no more than two, was soaked in blood that flowed from its middle, thick crimson smears on its skin from obvious attempts at helping the poor thing. It was dead.

  Ingrid let her tears fall down her cheeks without care. The sting in her eyes told her that she was connected to this scene, yet also separate. Darkness tried to swallow her into the pain, and she turned to find a way out of the room, stiffening when her own young face stared at her.

  Young Ingrid bore glowing, turquoise eyes into the true Ingrid, acknowledging her presence among them. “I tried to save her, but I don’t know how to use it.”

  Her younger self’s voice was small, but it vibrated against the inside of Ingrid’s head as if she’d shouted—an intensity that made Ingrid swallow the dry lump in her throat, and want to run.

  Her younger self stood calm, eerie, detached, and said, “Learn.”

  The room spun, and blackness swallowed her again. It sucked all the air from her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing.

  Then sounds began to prick at Ingrid’s mind. Voices. She heard them in the distance, as if she was trapped in a dark pit, and they were far above. Her surroundings felt cold and damp, and she wanted to climb up to the people. They called her name.

  I need to be with them.

  Struggling, a blast of bright light blinded her, and sounds pounded into her skull. She tried to cover her ears against the clamor, but her arms were trapped by her sides. Crying out, she pulled her hands free and lifted them to her head. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes and saw her father staring down at her. His forehead furrowed in lines, he was saying her name over and over.

  “Please. Don’t. Shout,” Ingrid whispered.

  Squeezed close to her father’s chest, he rocked her back and forth. She turned her head to the side so she could breathe, and the overwhelming racket and bright light dimmed. Pulling back, she blinked until her eyes focused; her heart stuttered as she saw the faces that surrounded her in all directions. She was laying on her father’s lap in the mud, and everyone was staring. Selby, Hagen, and Jorg were closest, sitting on their knees next to her.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “You need to tell us, baby girl,” Klaus said as he brushed strands of hair away from her face. “But not now. Let’s get you inside so you can get dry and warm.”

  Standing up with her still in his arms, he walked toward a large, open gate. The others followed close, creating a protective circle around the pair. Beyond the gate was a longhouse, and they walked directly through the door without stopping. A woman ran up and ushered them to follow her to a back room.

  The room was large, and sconces holding lit candles flickered light against the shadowed walls. Several woven rugs in yellow, indigo, and red overlapped and covered the floor. A bowl filled with white and purple crocus petals sat on a small table, adding a sweet scent to the air.

  “Can you stand up, Meyla?” Klaus asked. Ingrid nodded, and he lowered her from his arms until she was standing, but he didn’t let go.

  Swaying, she held onto his arms until she was sure she felt her legs under her. “I’m okay, Papa. I can stand by myself now.”

  “Go out, and I’ll help get her clean and warm,” the woman told Klaus, and pushed Hagen and Jorg out the door with him.

  Selby brushed against Ingrid’s side and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. Sagging into her friend, Ingrid gave her a slow smile, grateful not to be left alone.

  “I’m Greta. My husband is the king. Well, one of them. You are safe here with us.”

  Behind them, someone knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, several people hurried in with a tub and buckets of steaming water. They filled the tub and then left a couple buckets to use to warm it up, if necessary; then they left.

  “Now, let’s get you out of these filthy clothes so you can warm yourself.”

  Selby and Greta helped Ingrid bathe and dress in some borrowed clothes, before tucking her into a bed filled with warm furs. The scent of heather wafted up from the bed. Ingrid’s teeth chattered despite all of the coverings.

  “You will warm up soon. Try to rest, and I will be back to look in on you,” Greta said, then she turned to Selby. “You should wash and change, too. There are more clothes in that trunk.” Smiling at both girls, she hurried out.

  “She is really nice,” Selby said.

  “Y-yes. Sh-sh-she is.”

  “Don’t talk, just work on getting warm.” Reaching into the trunk Greta had indic
ated, Selby chose some clean clothes and started her own bath.

  “Wh-what happened?”

  “Which part? Before or after you fell into the mud, and we all thought you died?”

  Ingrid stared at the ceiling trying to remember. Did I die? No, I couldn’t have. Could I? Finally, she said, “I remember the fight was over, and there were bodies on the ground. Something inside me pulled me toward the injured men. It’s hard to explain—like needing to breathe, only I needed to touch.” She stopped to take a couple deep breaths, as her stomach started to churn with the memories. “I don’t know why I did it. There was blackness, and then I was in the middle of a room and saw . . . something. It’s fuzzy.” Shaking her head, she tried to bring it all back into focus.

  The furs poked between her fingers as she clutched the blankets. She looked over at Selby, who had stopped washing and was silently staring at her from the tub.

  “We tried to grab you. To pull you away from the mess, but it was like you were stuck to those men, covered in their blood and crawling through the filth. You were possessed or something.” Selby resumed scrubbing away her own gore as she recalled the scene. “Your father, Hagen, me, even Jorg—we all tried to pull you away, but none of us could. And you didn’t go to the men who were dying or already dead. It was like you knew exactly who to help. To heal.” She looked directly at Ingrid for the first time.

  “Did I? Heal them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “When you fell at the end, your hands were hot. Just for a minute, but Hagen said they’d felt that way on the docks, too. When you healed that boy.”

  Ingrid rubbed one hand over the other. It was a weird sensation, to feel her hands without her gauntlets, as she rarely took them off, but they were cold. Not just on the inside, but cold to the touch, as if they’d been stuck inside a snowdrift.

  Selby got dressed and sat on the edge of the bed. She took one of Ingrid’s hands into her own.

  “They are so cold. Do they hurt?”