We Roam The Seas

by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  Asgar and his brothers have already arranged their father’s body inside the boat, laying his shield and sword over his chest and placing silver and gold trinkets alongside. As Leena reaches the shore, Freya knows it is her turn to show her respects, being the next Lady of the village.

  She smiles sweetly, with tears lining her lashes, as she grasps Leena’s hand, taking a small cup of poison from the healer as they head for the water. She squeezes her sweet mother-in-law’s hand, tucking it into her elbow as their feet and dresses meet the water.

  “No tears, my daughter,” Leena whispers as they reach the edge of the boat and she cups Freya’s cheek. She is beautiful, her hair pinned up with flowers and her dress a bright blue with yellow sleeves. Freya sees that her smile is genuine, knowing the woman’s heart is ready to join her husband.

  “You will be a wonderful Lady to these people. Follow your heart. It will always give you the right answer.” Leena leans in and kisses Freya on the cheek, hugging her tight.

  “Thank you for being so welcoming.” Freya smiles through the tears edging her lashes, handing Leena the cup. “May the Gods welcome you to Halvard’s side for eternity. May you watch over your grandchildren and their children after them.” The ceremonial words seem stiff as she says them, but Freya leans in and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek to add her own touch as Leena drinks the vial concoction, tossing the cup away with a slight frown.

  “And may the Gods bless you with many sons, as they did me.” She reaches her hand out for the fishermen to help her into the boat and Freya stays to watch her settle next to Halvard, closing her eyes and clasping her hand with his before she turns back for the shore as the men push the boat out into the water.

  Asgar tries to give her a smile as she rejoins his side, turning to watch the boat as it slowly makes its way out into the bay. When he feels it is far enough away, with a heavy heart Asgar takes the offered bow and arrow, joining the archers to fire the flaming arrows onto the boat. Taking a deep breath he lights his arrow, eyeing the boat carrying his parents.

  “Ready!” He tells the archers and they raise their bows, aiming into the air to get the right arch. Eyeing the boat he wishes there could be a different way. He wishes this didn’t have to be his job, wishes that those weren’t his parents, but taking a deep breath in he knows he can’t change anything. “Release!”

  The thrum of the arrows being released into the air seems to vibrate over her skin as Freya watches the glowing red, orange and yellow fire balls arching in the darkened sky, looking as if they hover for a second deciding where to go before they hit their target. The boat erupts into flames, the kindling and oil the men had strategically placed doing its job and it takes her breath away. The bright orange glow makes her squint against the scene and for a minute she thinks she is dreaming. She doesn’t feel as if this is real. Those aren’t her husband’s parents out there, but then reality sinks in when his hand weaves into hers and she tries to give him a consoling smile as she looks up into his strained face.

  His father’s Mjölnir pendant is burning a hole into his chest and Asgar moves his hand up to cover it beneath his tunic. His brothers’ gave him the necklace, saying the symbol of Thor will help him through his role as jarl as their father had said it helped him. He smiles, thinking of the way his father used to roll the hammer shaped silver between his fingers when he was contemplating something, but the load crack of the burning timbers bring him back to reality.

  The boat keeps slowly moving away from the shore with the current, falling apart piece by piece giving way to the heat and flames, sending his parents’ spirits to Valhalla. He knows he shouldn’t let the future problems his people may encounter enter his mind, but he can’t help but feeling as if the world is weighing on his shoulders.

  Freya hears his frustrated sigh and she slides her fingers through his, leaning into him trying to let him know she is here for him. She can feel the tension rolling through his limbs as his fingers squeeze hers and she keeps the need to embrace him, the need to hold him and show him that it will be okay as long as they are together, all hidden away. She knows the dramatic show of emotion will make him look weak in the villagers’ eyes.

  His people are so different from hers. They hide their true emotions till they are behind closed doors, especially the men. Strength is important, loyalty is important and emotion can get in the way of those. She squints out at the furious flames, knowing she will have to become accustom to it since now they are her people as well.

  The crowd has been silent, respectfully remembering the two people who had fearlessly and selflessly led their people through over thirty good years. When the boat is nothing but a glowing dot in the distance, Asgar turns to his people pulling a torch from the ground beside him.

  “I will not say that I will be as good as my father,” he shouts, his deep, strong voice echoing off of the hills in the distance and commanding everyone’s attention. “I will however promise to bring anyone who harms us, or ones we care about, to justice. I will stop at nothing to protect those that are loyal to me. I only ask one thing from you.”

  Casting his eyes over the crowd and swinging them down on his wife, he pulls Freya into his side. “I only ask that you pledge the same. Protect and honor those around you. If you have a dispute, no matter how small, bring them to me, or those I appoint should I be absent and we will do our best to settle it so that everyone is happy. All I want is for everyone to be happy, healthy and ready for anything. Is that too much to ask?”

  An earth shattering, ear ringing, breath taking, “No, Jarl Asgar!”, comes as a reply and Freya sees the slight smile play across his lips, his arm around her waist squeezing her a little tighter. The people are pledging their lives and their help to her husband, and in turn her, and she smiles right along with him.

  “What about the traitors? What about Bracka?” Comes from the crowd, a few of the men Freya’s age stepping forward, their shields strapped to their backs and their swords on their hips. They are ready for a fight, to enact justice for their slain kin, and Freya can’t blame them.

  “His time has come,” Asgar answers, pulling Freya along with him as the crowd parts. “We will show Bracka what happens to those who betray us.”

  The hair on Freya’s arms stands on end as they approach the center of the village, the entire crowd following them. She hasn’t seen the man who was one of her captors since the cave, but she has heard his yelling and screaming echoing through the night air. The harsh sound of the native Viking language spills from his mouth as they approach, his hands bound behind him and wrapped around a wooden pole. His brown hair is mated with dirt and sweat, sticking to the sides of his face as blood trickles from his nose and corner of his mouth.

  The sight of him makes a rush of fear roll over her and her legs freeze, her hand tugging on the still advancing Asgar. His strong, anger filled blue eyes meet hers as he lifts her chin, a confident smirk pulling up the one side of his mouth.

  “No need to fear, my wife.” He smiles, running the back of his fingers along her cheek. “Shortly, he will no longer be a threat.”

  “I hold no fear of you, Asgar the Almighty.” Bracka spits on the ground before him, angry shouts and curses filling the crowd, demanding his death. He throws his head back, the laugh breaking from him causing Freya to shiver inwardly.

  “You should fear me, Bracka.” Asgar smiles, his brothers helping him shed of his tunic.

  His defined chest and stomach is seemingly glowing to Freya, the lines and muscles bouncing the fire light off of them. The silver and gold band molded around his upper arm only accentuates his strength and as he lifts his father’s hammer from the ground, the flexing muscles makes a spark ignite within her. He swings the massive hammer in a circle, the leather bound handle slapping into his palm, sending a wave of power over the crowd and a silence fills the air.

  “I demand an opponent of my choosing,” Bracka shouts, tugging at the restraints tying him to the pole and the crowd lau
ghs. An evil smirk lifts the one side of his mouth and he says, “I will not be denied by such an honorable warrior, will I?”

  Asgar grinds his teeth at the man’s words, his hand squeezing the handle of his father’s hammer to try and give him strength. Bracka is not stupid, calling on an old tradition of letting your captive choose his demise. Asgar’s tribe has been quite civilized, never bringing the fight home, whereas Bracka’s tribe is wild and bloodthirsty, fighting amongst themselves so it surprises Asgar not that he knows of this option.

  The crowd roars in anticipation as the warriors step forward, drawing their swords to show their willingness. The blacksmith pulls a hammer from his apron, a farmer takes a pitchfork from a stack of hay; the support of his people making a grin come to Asgar’s lips as he looks to the traitor. The direction of Bracka’s gaze makes his stomach turn as he follows it, landing on his sweet Freya.

  “I choose her.” He hisses, nodding toward his wife and Asgar roars in disapproval, taking a step toward the man tied defenselessly to a pole with the hammer raised above his head as his brothers’ try to restrain him, pulling his arm down as he yells and curses, the crowd joining in as Bracka laughs. “She can fight, can she not? And she is not with child, so she is available for selection.”

  Freya looks to Asgar in disbelief. Is this really happening? she thinks to herself as another of Asgar’s pained yells fills the air, his wild, anger filled eyes meeting hers and pinning her to her spot in fear. Asa comes to her side, shielding her from Bracka’s evil grin as she tenderly brushes the hair behind her ears, forcing her to lock eyes.

  “How long has it been since you bled?” Freya can see the concern in her eyes as arguments break out around her. The people want Bracka’s death, shouting for justice and their demands are making Freya nervous; fearful even. Asa lightly slaps her hands into her cheeks, snapping her attention back and Freya stumbles over her words trying to think.

  “Maybe….one….right after we wed. Yes, one moon, a little less.” The sad look that moves over her sister-in-law’s face causes Freya’s stomach to drop to her knees as the woman grips her shoulders, looking over her shoulder and sharing a look with her brother-in-law Asgar. Shaking her head, Asa looks back to her, fear and anger written all over her expression.

  “Fight him as you did us. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t take anything lightly. Show him that no one mistreats our women. Make him beg for mercy from the Gods and show him none.” The bite of her words sink in and Freya’s heart races, knowing that this really has to happen.

  She looks Bracka in the eyes, seeing the evil glint hidden there and it sparks her fury. He plotted against her new family. He planned to rape her along with his brother and Eska. He would have held her mouth shut as his brother raped her to keep her screams in. Asgar comes to stand before her as some of the warriors cut Bracka from the pole, kicking him to the ground and spitting at him as they back away.

  Her husband’s infuriated look burns through her and she can feel the tension as he cups her cheek. “You don’t have to,” he says, brushing her hair over her shoulder as the crowd’s cheers and shouts grow louder.

  “Yes I do.” She tries to give him a smile as his hand settles on her shoulder, his fingers massaging into her neck lightly. “Otherwise your people will look down upon us.”

  She sees that she speaks the truth as a wave of frustration flows over her husband, his eyes shutting for a second as he sighs heavily. Getting up on her tip toes, she grasps his face, not caring if the show of affection bothers those in the blood thirsty crowd. Looking her husband in the eyes as his hands rest on her waist, gripping them possessively, she kisses him deeply, releasing him only when his arms wrap around her and pull her flush to his front.

  “I will not dishonor our home. I will kill Bracka and cut out his tongue.” Asgar gives her a satisfied growl, the smile on his lips as deadly as his sword as she releases him. “Now help me get out of this gown. I have no chance fighting in this.”

  Her husband doesn’t believe her at first, but as Freya tugs at the laces tying her in the ornate funeral garb, he quickly complies. Letting his village see his wife’s underclothes isn’t high on his list, but as he helps her slip from the heavy material he knows she couldn’t have fared well in it. As her feet slip out, he tosses the garment over to Katla and pulls his sword from its sheath, holding it out to her.

  “I want the axe,” Freya says confidently, nodding to the small weapon at his brother, Keir’s side. It is smaller than the battle axe she had used when sparring with the others, but it will do just fine. Looking for a secondary she sees her favorite, a bow and quiver of arrows, slung over the shoulder of a warrior standing nearby. Not saying a word, just walking up to the man and pulling them from his grasp as he gives her a slack jaw look, Freya returns to her husband, seeing that Bracka has been given a sword.

  Asgar looks from the small axe to the bow and quiver as she slips it over her head, adjusting the strap running across her chest. His wife is head strong and cocky and it worries him. Bracka is a good warrior, a brutal killer, and he has the ability to sense your weaknesses and act on them quickly.

  “Keep your guard up.” He tries to coach her as the cheers and shouts of his people raise to a deafening pitch. He knows she is trying to focus, the number one lesson every person learns when they fight, but he wants to be heard so he tilts her face up to his, running his thumb over her bottom lip. “I will step in if I see you struggling. I don’t care what they will think.”

  “I will not need you,” she smiles, kissing the inside of his palm, “but I love your support.” She smiles up at him, the confidence and anxiety flowing freely through her. She pats his hand and slips out from under his touch, twirling the axe in her hand as she approaches the center of the space everyone is gathered around.

  For a second she feels as if she has stepped into a pit with a lion, the wide, rotten tooth bearing smile on Bracka’s lips making a slight fear fill her. As the fire roars behind the line of the crowd, casting an eerie light on her opponent, Freya tries to focus in on his movements. The way his hand flexes around the grip of the sword, the way his feet cross over one another as he moves in step with her.

  The warriors in the crowd start to pound their weapons on their shields or nearby carts as Freya and Bracka circle closer in together. A wide grin seems to be plastered to his face as he looks her over, her slim figure not hiding much in her shift and his eyes upon her make her shiver.

  “My brother will be back for you.” The tone of his voice sends her a warning and visions of Callen’s face flash in her mind, throwing her off her guard and causing her to stagger. Bracka embraces the moment of weakness and lunges, bringing his blade high before swinging it down toward her left shoulder causing her to throw her axe up, duck and roll to avoid the blow.

  She can still feel the vibration through the axe handle as she rolls to her knees, jumping to her feet and turning just as he advances again, slashing wildly. She blocks his crisscross blows with swipes of her axe as she backs up blindly; tripping once her back hits a cart. Bracka throws out a triumphant yell, bringing the blade down as she’s pinned up against the cart but she rolls just enough so the blade digs into the wood to the left of her cheek.

  Jutting her axe out, Freya lands a blow to the bridge of Bracka’s nose with the top of the blade, the resounding crack filling the space between them as blood spurts out. The loud gurgling yell that comes from her opponent gives her a rush of adrenaline and Freya jumps to her feet, kicking at Bracka and swinging her axe hard and fast as he clumsily blocks them with one hand covering his face.

  “You dirty wench.” He curses her, spitting at her and the blood lands on her shift’s skirt as they square off, her chest heaving as hard as his as they try and catch their breath. “I should have gone along with my brother when he said to take you back to our village before messing with you, but no. I had to let that little wimp Eska talk me out of it. He whined and whined, saying that you were his and that
we were to only have you once, and now look. My brother is in hiding and Eska is dead.”

  Freya laughs at his ramblings, swinging her axe at his head causing him to duck and stumble to regain his footing. “Your brother left you to die. If he was honorable, he would come back and fight.”

  “Oh he will come back, there’s no doubt in that.” Bracka gives her a wide smile, winking at her before lunging and thrusting his sword toward her stomach. Freya knocks his sword down with swinging her axe using all her strength and she almost laughs in surprise when the sword slips from his hand, landing in the dirt near her feet. It seems to be in slow motion as their eyes meet, the astonishment in Bracka’s eyes burning a hole through her and she captures the moment, jutting her axe out and hitting him square in the chest knocking the air from his lungs.

  The villagers roar in approval around her, the men yelling for her to chop off his head as the women shout for him to be castrated before death. When her opponent grasps the tops of his knees, trying to catch his breath as he backs away, Freya drops her axe. Bracka’s eyes go wide and he tries to laugh, the sound coming out as a cough as he frantically looks for a weapon to finish her off.

  Gripping an old cart handle, Bracka rips it free, turning to face Freya once more, but she just smiles at him and he stands there confused as she slowly pulls up the skirt of her shift. “What is this? Giving me a present before I kill you?”

  Freya laughs lightly as her fingers trail slowly up her leg, purposely giving him a show and getting his guard to drop. He’s relaxed, she can see it in his stance and the way he’s looking at her as she slowly bends a little more and pulls the skirt above her knee, her fingertips brushing the leather of the straps Asgar had quickly tied around her thigh as he helped her from her dress, securing a small knife to her skin. She slides the short, roughly sharpened blade from her skin as Bracka laughs.