Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  Sigrid let a tiny smile crease her lips. The hold was celebrating the beginning of spring, and most of the Sworn Men had little to do until the games started later in the day. That very indolence was what had led Äke to make his comment about the lang ax earlier, as well as her own challenge to settle the matter on the field.

  Some of the Sworn Men raised their voices in agreement with Äke, and the First of the Sworn Men banged his sword against the metal center of his shield to incite their enthusiasm to an even greater volume.

  Shaking her head, Sigrid slipped her helm under her arm and grabbed the lang ax. She didn’t follow the Sworn Men. It was barely midday; there would be more than enough time for drinking later.

  Sigrid gasped as she pulled her head out of the rain barrel. It might be the first day of spring, but the nighttime air was cold, and the days were still too short for the sun to warm up the water in the rain barrels. She shivered as she shook out her auburn hair to shed the excess water. She stripped off her linen sark, then dipped it in the barrel and used it to scrub her torso. She made no effort to hide herself; she had long given up feeling self-conscious about exposing herself so. As a Shield-Maiden, she was like the other warriors under the laws of the land, which meant she was a man in all the ways that mattered. She acted as they did; bathed the way they did; slept the way they did; ate, fought, and demanded respect like they did. To shirk any part would be to acknowledge that she felt she was different from them; any such acknowledgment would be a perpetual reminder that she was less than they.

  Still, she did not undo the cloth that bound her breasts under her armor-cote until she had shrugged into a clean sark.

  For even though she lived as a man in many ways, she did not enjoy all their freedoms. They were allowed to bed the thralls as they saw fit, and she did not participate in such rutting equally. There was a practical reason, after all: a pregnancy would take her from her duties for months at a time. Though, in truth, she didn’t fancy the men among the thralls. They were not in the same demand as the women, naturally, nor was she the type to take a woman to her bed.

  Conversely, she would not be bartered off to marriage like the other daughters of the Jarl. Rather, she could choose a husband of her liking, though in this too she did not enjoy perfect freedom. The other Sworn Men could marry as they would, and their Jarl would award them a place. But as a woman warrior, she was expected to establish her household and prove that her income could support a family. She would also have to provide her husband a hauswif to fulfill her duties in the household while she was occupied with her work.

  Fortunately, she had already made arrangements on that score. Now all she had to do was find a man worthy of her.

  She pulled on a clean pair of wool trews, and—tossing her balled-up, soiled sark to a thrall—she gathered her things and entered the hold’s longhouse. After she stored her weapons and armor-cote, she was helped into a tunic of russet linen by Cem, a pretty Celtic thrall who had tended for her since they were both children. Nodding her thanks, Sigrid belted on her pouch and saex knife.

  The saex had been a gift from her father when she swore her oath of service to him. As the thrall combed her unruly mop of hair, Sigrid examined the weapon with care, checking for signs of rust or dullness in the edge. She couldn’t help admiring the knife. The stout, single-edged blade was the length of her forearm, and the handle was of ivory from the tusk of a walrus, bound at the shoulder with silver wire to prevent the handle splitting. The ivory was incised with the figure of a dragon, its crest, limbs, and tail intertwined about it so fancifully that the nature of the beast was nearly obscured. While clearly decorative, the carving also served the purpose of improving the grip. The handle was surmounted by a riveted silver plate pierced by an iron staple for a lanyard to secure the blade to her hand when working. Satisfied with the blade’s condition, she slid it into the silver-mounted sheath suspended horizontally below her belt.

  The fact that her blade was of a higher quality and workmanship than the other blades given by the Jarl at the oath ceremonies was overlooked by the others. What man could fault a father for indulging his daughter?

  Even one as headstrong as she.

  As Cem worked out the knots in her hair, Sigrid sighed and closed her eyes, letting her mind summon up the last conversation she had had with her father, not three days past.

  “What you ask, daughter, is not something I can give you. It is simply not possible.” Pettir Olafsson paced back and forth across the private room that he shared with Sigrid’s mother. Age had stooped him slightly, and his beard and hair were more silver than white. His left leg pained him when it was cold, and his pacing back and forth was a means of keeping the stiffness at bay.

  Though it was, by no means, the sole cause of his consternation this evening.

  “Were it my expedition, I would certainly consider your request,” her father continued, “but for you to leave this hold and go out under another man’s command—a man whom you do not know and who does not know your skills—that is out of the question.”

  “Why?” Sigrid demanded. “Have I not taken the same oath as your Sworn Men?”

  “Yes,” Pettir sighed, “of course you have. But—”

  “But you do not go avikinga,” Sigrid said, finishing his statement by turning it into something else. “If I wait for you, I will never make my own way. Ulf and Skeggi have your leave to seek their fortune in other lands. They and I are of the same age, though they have no more experience than I.”

  “Ulf and Skeggi are not my daughters,” Pettir snapped, and seeing her expression, he threw up his arms. “Yes, there. I said it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  She took care to keep her temper in check. It would not do for her to fall into hysterics at a moment like this. “I don’t deny that I am your daughter,” she said carefully. “But when I braid my hair, it isn’t so that I look pretty for the young warriors who come to your hold, seeking to petition you. I braid it so that my spangenhelm fits firmly on my head. When I cut my nails, it is not so that I may sew better, but so that my grip on my sword is more firm. I may be your daughter, but I have also sworn a vow to fight for you, for your hold.”

  “Aye,” Pettir replied. “That you did.”

  He looked as if he were going to say something else, but Sigrid continued before he could speak. “You have the same obligation to me that you have to the rest of your Sworn Men. You owe me the opportunity to make my fortune.” She crossed the room and laid her hand gently on her father’s arm. “I know, in many ways, I will always be your little girl, but I am a woman grown, Father. I would marry at some time before age or injury renders me unfit, and I cannot do so without means of my own. How else am I to do so except by going avikinga?”

  Pettir shook his head. “Oh, to have such bad luck that we live in quiet times,” he said. “When you swore your oath, I had resigned myself that you would go to war with us when the levy was called. That you would fight among friends and kin. But”—he shrugged—“who could have known peace would break out?”

  “If I had known, perhaps I would have remained your little daughter and let you marry me off,” she said.

  He favored her with a knowing grin. “Would anyone have had you?” he said, putting his hand under her chin and raising her face. “You had a fierce reputation, daughter.”

  I learned it from you, she thought, staring intently at her father. He nodded, knowing full well what she was thinking.

  “skjölmdo do not, as a rule, go avikinga,” he sighed, a thoughtful expression creeping across his face. “Truth be told, I would not say the same to your aunt. This life is too quiet for her. She will mount an expedition of her own in the next year or so, I suspect, if she can finance a ship. I have little doubt she will find men willing enough to go with her.”

  Sigrid’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.

  Her father’s sister, Grimhildr Olafsdottir, was a Shield-Maiden. After her sons were grown and her husband taken
by winter fever, she had joined herself and her daughter, Malusha, to her brother’s household. It was at her hand that Sigrid had learned the arts of war.

  “Let us discuss this, though, if and when such an eventuality arises,” her father said, extricating his arm from her grip. “Though, if you must pray for war to break out,” he added, leaning in and lowering his voice, “do so quietly, please? I, for one, am enjoying spending my winters at home, in front of a roaring fire, my hand gripping a mug of mead rather than the hilt of a sword.”

  THREE

  As Cem was finishing with Sigrid’s hair, another thrall peeked in on them. “Visitors,” the thrall exclaimed, and then disappeared before either Sigrid or Cem could ask a question. Sigrid felt Cem pulling her hair harder than necessary as the thrall hurriedly tried to brush out the last recalcitrant snarl.

  “Cem,” Sigrid said, stopping the other woman with a touch. “Leave it.”

  Cem blushed, stepping back and dropping her gaze to the floor. “I am sorry,” she started.

  “It is fine,” Sigrid said as she rose from the stool. “Let us go see who has come to visit. It is undoubtedly more exciting than my hair.” She understood the allure of visitors: they would bring news of lands beyond her father’s land-hold, and maybe even new stories and sagas. The thirst among the hold’s folk for new stories was nigh unquenchable.

  Together, Cem and Sigrid hurried to the main hall of the longhouse, where her father, the Jarl of the hold, would receive the visitors. The room was already crowded when they arrived, and Sigrid, being taller than most men, had an unobstructed view. Cem, on the other hand, stood on her toes, craning to see.

  At the far end of the room, Sigrid’s father, her mother, several of the Sworn Men, and the hauscarl were greeting a dozen men. The spokesman for the visitors was a lean older man, well dressed and decked out in a richly embroidered dark blue linen tunic under a long coat of gray herringbone wool worn against the spring chill. He carried a hand ax in his belt and a narrow langsaex hung under his left arm. His younger companion was a veritable giant, and Sigrid estimated that he was wearing what must be three stone of iron scales for armor. An enormous sword hung on his belt, and a round shield was slung at his back. The rest of the men stood behind in two ranks of four each, all in maille and spangenhelms, armed with sword and shield and spear.

  “Shield-Brethren,” someone said at Sigrid’s side, and she turned her head to find Äke standing beside her. He was dressed in a sweat-stained sark—what he had been wearing under his armor-cote—and his legs were bare. He noted her gaze and shrugged as his eyes ran over her tunic and brushed hair. “I was having an earnest discussion with Ejulf and Solvi,” he said by way of explanation for his attire.

  “Debating the proper use of a lang ax, no doubt,” she replied.

  “Precisely,” Äke insisted. He noticed her looking at the fresh stain on the front of his sark. “I was parched,” he said. “Fighting is thirst-making work.”

  “So is talking about it,” she said dryly. She nodded toward the men at the other end of the room. “Why are they here?” she asked. The Shield-Brethren, members of an ancient martial order known as the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, had a citadel on an island off the southern tip of Göttland. Týrshammar was its name. The order had its origins far to the south, somewhere in Christian lands. The sagas spoke of an even older fortress, high in the mountains, called Petraathen. Named after a Greek goddess—She Who Fought First.

  Sigrid had always liked the idea of a warrior goddess who, like Freya, fought in the front ranks of her devotees. As it should be.

  “I heard something about a boat,” Äke said.

  Sigrid shushed him, straining to hear what her father was saying. He was inviting the Shield-Brethren to join them for the blöt: the celebration of the bountiful grace of Ostara that would provide for their lands over the coming six months. The leader of the Shield-Brethren accepted the Jarl’s hospitality gracefully, but Sigrid sensed from the tension in the leader’s shoulders that he was chafing at the delay such hospitality would exact upon him.

  It was then that she realized the tall one was staring at her. She stared back—not in a challenging way, but more to acknowledge his attention. His lips formed into a thin smile, and he inclined his head in her direction.

  “Your hospitality is well known,” the leader of the Shield-Brethren was saying, “and it would be our honor to accept.”

  “It is my honor to offer my house and hold to you,” her father said, bowing. The formalities finished, he grinned at the Shield-Brethren. “You’re just in time too,” he added. “The games are about to begin.”

  In the early spring, it was the hold’s custom to conduct a festival for Ostara, the goddess who broke the icy grip of winter and allowed the lands to be fertile once more. There was an invocation, complete with a sacrifice and a ritual plowing of the first field, and while the food for the feast was being prepared, the families of the hold participated in games of skill and stamina. This was the time of year when the boys, and occasionally girls, who had reached puberty competed to show they were worthy of training in the arts of war. There were footraces to show speed and endurance, contests of wit and agility, the throwing of axes and spears, and feats of lifting and carrying. Scores were tallied throughout the day, and by evening the winners were known. At the night’s feasting, the winners who chose the warrior’s path dined with the Jarl’s Sworn Men. It was their first taste of the life of professional warriors; for many, it was more intoxicating than any amount of mead.

  Halldor remembered winning in his own hold’s games. He knew the thrill these boys would be feeling; though the memory of that heady feeling in his heart and head was tempered by all that happened to him since. The training. The fighting. The blood—his and his enemies’. Would he make the same choice, knowing what he knew now?

  He imagined he would, and that realization made watching these games somewhat bittersweet. These boys wanted so desperately to become men, and they had no idea the price to be paid for that desire.

  Some of the hold gathered to watch their kin compete in the games; others gathered in the yard of the palisade or spilled out of its gates. Tales were told, songs sung, and the adults played their own games: throwing darts or quoits, or wrestling to the boisterous cheers and jeers of the onlookers. Tables of finger foods had been set out in the yard. Thralls handed out prunes, dried cherries, flatbreads of wheat and barley with honey or preserves, dry sausages, and fresh goat cheese under the watchful eye of a stern older woman in a stained apron.

  Halldor’s stomach grumbled noisily at the sight of all that food. He had been eating cold rations for a week—as had all the Shield-Brethren. Regardless of Kjallak’s consternation about their delay, Halldor knew the company’s leader was pleased about the Jarl’s hospitality.

  Horns of ale and mead were being readily passed among the crowds as well, though the Shield-Brethren would drink more sparingly than they would eat. The All-Father, the One-Eyed Traveler who watched over all wayfarers, cared little for drunkards, and none of the order wished to burden their journey further by inciting Odin’s displeasure.

  As he stood near a long table, idly accepting food from a thrall who was eager to stuff him as full as possible (a plan which he was heartily enjoying), he let his gaze roam across the yard. He didn’t realize he had been looking for the tall woman he had seen in the longhouse until he spotted her approaching. He was man enough to note the young woman’s natural grace, combined with an economy and precision of movement that bespoke a warrior’s training. He found the combination intriguing.

  “Are you enjoying our blöt?” she asked as she reached the table. Halldor noted she did not have to crane her neck to look up at his face as much as most did.

  “I am,” he replied. “It reminds me of my own boyhood.”

  “A time not too far removed,” she noted.

  He laughed. “Far enough,” he said. He set aside the plate he had been holding and bowed. “I
am Halldor Sigvatrsson. I am from”—he waved his hand toward the east—“from a hold you have, undoubtedly, never heard of.”

  She returned his bow. “I am Sigrid Pettirsdottir,” she said.

  “Ah, your father is the Jarl.” Halldor nodded. “Yes, I can see the resemblance, though you have your mother’s hair.”

  Sigrid raised a hand and touched her hair, and Halldor noticed the calluses on the side of her hand. They were similar to the ones he carried.

  “Your presence at our celebration is not merely to trip through the halls of memory or make merry of the season, is it?”

  “No,” Halldor said. “We had an unfortunate accident with our boat. Not far from a fishing village that resides in that narrow cove a few miles down the coast.”

  “I know the one.” She nodded. “And I know of the waters thereabout. Tricky, but not treacherous. Unless your captain is either blind in one eye or you were…” She trailed off, gauging him carefully.

  He laughed off her suspicion. “Avikinga? Us? The Shield-Brethren are not holdless marauders. Do the skald actually tell such fanciful stories of us?” He shook his head. “We ran afoul during the night,” he explained.

  She nodded thoughtfully, as if she might be inclined to believe his story but was withholding judgment for a moment. He caught an impish glee in her eye, though, as she turned her head and looked over at Kjallak, who was patiently listening to a Sworn Man with pale hair and a thick beard that had been groomed and braided. “Your master is anxious, though he hides it well,” she said. “And I suspect it is not entirely due to Äke’s lengthy story.”

  “Is that who he is speaking with?” Halldor asked. He examined the man talking to Kjallak. “I saw him with you in the great hall earlier, did I not?”

  She regarded him plainly. “I was standing with a number of folk from this hold,” she said. “Your wandering eye is keen to have noticed me among the others.”