Feisty Heroines Romance Collection of Shorts

by D. F. Jones

  A whimper startled Brunhild. A man lay close by, his blond hair streaked with blood. Blue eyes stared at her as his hand reached out.

  “You are a Valkyrie?” he asked before coughing.

  Brunhild nodded and knelt before him. Her coat whipped around her, slapping at her shoulders, an unfamiliar sensation after her swan-feathered one was stolen. She was captivated by the man’s gaze, by the color of his eyes.

  The man’s fingers grazed across her arm. His touch jolted to her core and she gasped.

  She could smell the blood coating him but, underneath, she could sense the courage in this man. He was raw with it, and she had never witnessed such internal strength. He was perfect for their army.

  Yet, she hesitated.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he whispered. “I will be glad to accompany you back to Valhalla.”

  The man would be a mighty warrior for their cause, of this she had no doubt. Yet, his touch burned into her arm, and she trembled at the thought of snuffing the life from him. He was too magnificent, too powerful to be done with this world already.

  Never before had she hesitated. On the battleground, Brunhild claimed them all.

  However, this man was different. Her stomach clenched at the thought of his death, and she frowned at the strange sensation. He was perfect. Yet, she wanted him to live.

  “What do I do?” she whispered, and the man’s grip tightened on her arm. Hot tears formed and she swallowed hard against the knot of emotion.

  Brunhild would be punished, she had no doubt of that. The All-Father would be livid. Hjalmgunnar was a pawn in the mighty god’s plan, and he would not allow changes to occur.

  Still, if she were presented with the conflict again, she would slay the man without question, as Brunhild had no choice in the matter.

  Agnarr had stolen her magical swan-feather coat. His possession of it came with her ownership. She was his against her will.

  The only chance she had of escape was to do as he wished and kill Hjalmgunnar. By doing so, Odin would be so enraged he would punish her, and this would override any control Agnarr had, even with her robe still in his possession.

  Still, to be free of Agnarr meant confronting Odin’s wrath.

  Looking back down at the man, she smiled at him, a small quirk of her lips, an involuntary action. “What is your name?”

  “Sigurd.”

  If Odin were to be punishing her, she may as well take the full brunt. She had no idea why she felt compelled to let this man live, only that the fates were forcing her hand.

  “You will not be dying today, Sigurd.”

  Chapter 2

  Sigurd

  “Gram will serve you well,” Regin said as Sigurd hefted the weight of the mighty sword. It was heavy in the pommel, sinking into his grasp as though it were made for him. Swinging the weapon, the thin blade sliced through the air as though as light as a feather.

  “It is a fine sword,” Sigurd replied. He looked to the smith and waited for the man to speak further. After all, no gift came freely, especially from someone as revered as Regin.

  “You can have it to use as your own so long as you tend to the trouble this village has been having.”

  Ah, there was the catch.

  “Trouble?”

  “I suppose you have heard of the dragon, Fafnir? It has been terrorizing our village for many moons now.”

  Sigurd nodded, although he had not yet heard of the beast. He had been too busy recovering from his injuries sustained at the battle between Agnarr and Hjalmgunnar.

  Gudrun had tended him well, seeing to his wounds and making sure that his every need was met. He knew already that she expected more.

  She was a fine woman, well-respected within the community. Still, his heart did not sing for hers. Instead, he found that Gudrun was too attentive, too determined to anticipate what he needed. He wanted a woman who could love him for his own merits, who stood alongside and challenged him. Not someone who bowed down in front of him.

  Even with Gudrun’s attentive behavior, he was not sure how he had survived his ordeal. Remembering back, he wondered if he had imagined the impossible beauty of the Valkyrie that refused to take him to Valhalla. If she was real, then Sigurd felt shame at the memory. He was not worthy enough for Odin’s army, and that wounded him. Still, her beauty captivated and confused him, making him want to win her over somehow.

  “We need someone to fight the beast,” Regin continued, and Sigurd tried to focus on the man’s words rather than his personal woes. “It needs to be eradicated before it takes more lives.”

  “I will do it,” Sigurd replied without a second thought to the matter. Let that Valkyrie question his dedication and determination now.

  The man seemed surprised at the quick response. Outside of Regin, Sigurd had no ties here, no reason to protect them.

  His mind darted to an image of Gudrun and then quickly away. No, there were no ties here for him.

  The forest was dark as he entered, and the minty scent of birch greeted him. It invigorated him as he continued, the light bleaching out as he penetrated further.

  As he moved, the animals around him stilled, unsettling him. Always, ahead of him was the noise of the woods, the welcome ones that were familiar to him. However, surrounding him directly was silence. Even his footfalls were without sound as the thick detritus of the forest floor softened his steps and swallowed up everything.

  “Stay safe,” Gudrun had insisted as she leaned into him on his final night in the town.

  Sigurd had smiled at the woman, mead warming his belly and his heart.

  “I have no fear,” he had uttered at the time.

  As he moved through the shadows, he looked out for signs that Fafnir was near. The scat of the beast presented itself, and Sigurd closed his eyes, allowing his hearing to take over.

  Even the distant sounds of animals were gone now, and Sigurd suspected that Fafnir was nearby. No animal would risk the dragon’s wrath in close proximity.

  A gentle swish off to one side made Sigurd turn his head. Then, the crunch of a branch. Something big was close by, and Sigurd opened his eyes, the forest now brighter as his eyes adjusted from the black under his eyelids. He took a moment to scan the area, to find a hiding place, somewhere he could wait and watch. Sigurd needed to know how big the beast was—in reality—not just from exaggerated stories.

  To one side, he could see the woods thinning, opening out to a clearing. It would take him further away from the beast, but it might offer a better fighting area because of it.

  Breaking through the trees, the clearing was small but it was much better in regards to swinging a sword than where he had been previously. The ground sloped downwards to a ditch. Settling into the hollow, Sigurd leaned his back into the earth and scooped up dead leaves to cloak him. The dragon would know he was there just from the human scent of him. However, it would give a moment’s hesitation before he was located. And that would be precious time in which he could plan his attack.

  Closing his eyes once more, Sigurd tried to locate Fafnir and was surprised to hear the dragon moving around him, not towards his location. Perhaps he had been too preemptive. Maybe the dragon did not sense him and was intent on other endeavors.

  But then the beast moved closer once more, and Sigurd unsheathed his sword. Gram caught the light, and he smiled at the fierce beauty of it. He hoped that slaying a dragon would bring both of them much fame.

  The rumble of the beast started low, feeling like a tremble in the ground before one of Iceland’s volcanoes sprang to life. It reverberated through him, and Sigurd held on tightly to his sword as the sensation intensified.

  A roar erupted, and the sound hissed through the air as the fetid stench of the dragon’s breath washed over him. There was a flash of bright light before the forest darkened once more.

  Sigurd fought to hold his breath. Any noise now would help the dragon identify where he was—if the beast hadn’t worked that out a
lready.

  Centering in on the approaching crunch of dragon feet and the crash of branches, Sigurd readied himself. Clutching tight to his weapon, he counted the moments as the sounds intensified.

  A dark shadow encroached, blocking out what little light was available this deep into the forest. Sigurd braced himself, his jaw clenched so tightly that it felt as though his teeth would splinter.

  Then a glimpse of scales, glinting in the murk. Sigurd pulled back his sword as the magnificent beast readied to stretch its wings. It stood on muscular legs, long claws digging deep into the loam below. Its rounded belly loomed overhead, and Sigurd had to look high up before the broad leather of wings could be seen, stretched out between the surrounding trees.

  The beast gathered once more, leaning down, drawing in its wings as though ready for flight, and Sigurd knew he only had a moment of action before it would be over and he would have to track the beast once more.

  Even as a trickle of fear ran cold through his veins, Sigurd lunged with his sword, feeling the instant resistance of the scaly dragon. He leaned into the action, pushing off from the earth behind and drawing up to a kneeling position.

  He had penetrated the beast, but Gram did not slide as easily through the tough skin as it would through a human. The beast roared and batted its wings at him, trying to take flight, pulling itself away from the weapon.

  Sigurd staggered to his feet, all the time pressing upwards with his weapon. Slowly, he was making headway, Gram sliding deeper into Fafnir’s flesh. As he did so, the hiss of the dragon’s pain filled the air around him. Then the welcome relief as the sword finally slid through the tough scales. Grunting, he forced Gram in further and felt the heat of blood as it splattered against him.

  The dragon writhed in pain, its whining hiss now screeching across the clearing and hurting his ears. Finally, it faltered as it grasped onto tree trunks with the claws at the tip of each wing.

  Fafnir’s mighty form crashed into a tree. A crack sounded as the birch was broken in two, its trunk splintering as it did so. The dragon crashed into the mess of the tree and squealed once more as pointy shards of wood dug in.

  Sigurd twisted Gram further, and the beast shuddered before lurching. Crashing towards him, its reptilian eyes were now wide with fear as its mouth gaped open. A multitude of wickedly sharp teeth came straight at him, but it was the fear of fire that finally saw Sigurd pull back. Still clutching his sword, he jumped free of the ditch and watched as the mighty dragon fell, its eyes glazing over as its lifeless form hit the ground.

  Chapter 3

  Brunhild

  “What were you thinking?”

  Brunhild stood tall, not showing her emotions even though her insides trembled in fear. Odin sounded like thunder as he paced the great hall.

  He stopped, turned, and glared at her. She was scared but pulled herself taller. Squaring her shoulders, she leaned into Odin’s words, wore them like the cape that had been taken from her.

  “I had no choice,” she finally replied. “If you ever paid any attention to us, you would have noticed that my cape was gone, that I might have been under the control of someone else.”

  Her trembling had intensified, but it was in anger now. She stepped forward, put her hands on her hips and glared down the room at the god.

  Odin’s one eye glittered as he sized her up. Brunhild let him look her over, his gaze trying to intimidate her, but she was not going to back down.

  “You should have come to me,” he said. His voice was rough, still raw with anger but he spoke softer now.

  Brunhild let her breath hiss out between her lips. “Agnarr would not allow it. I really had no choice. Although to be fair in the matter, Hjalmgunnar did not deserve to win anyway, and you know it.”

  Brunhild watched Odin carefully. He was hiding his true emotions also, she realized as he clenched his jaw.

  “A promise in front of the gods is a promise, nonetheless.”

  “Well, I had a promise to Agnarr that couldn’t be broken either. So, here we are.”

  “Yes, indeed.” The words were quiet, and Brunhild had to lean towards the god to hear them. “I cannot have you defy me in such a manner, regardless of the situation. You are a Valkyrie, bound to my instruction, and this cannot go unpunished.”

  Her fists balled up, and her nails dug painfully into her palms. “That’s just not fair!”

  “I don’t care if it is or not, I cannot have you in open defiance of me. You will be married, your life under my service is now over.”

  If a breeze had chosen now to drift through the great hall of Valhalla, it would have knocked her over, so shocked was she that it had come to this. Brunhild did not want her days within the ranks of the Valkyries to be finished. She had never even considered her life outside of this path. And to be forced into marriage was not an option.

  Gathering herself, swallowing back the dread now rising, she stepped forward, staggering as she did so but regaining her posture quickly.

  “I will not be married!”

  The roar of her words filled the mighty hall. It gave her the strength to fight on, to further contradict what Odin said. If she were to be retired from service, she was not going without a fight.

  “Perhaps you have overreacted, Odin,” Freya said, laying a hand on the god’s arm. The gentle action had no effect on him.

  “There is no exception, Freya,” he replied, not even turning to the goddess. Instead, he stormed towards Brunhild. She clenched her jaw and waited for the onslaught. “You will be married, and there is nothing further to say about the matter.”

  Odin stopped close enough to Brunhild that she could have reached out and slapped the god. She was brave, but not that brave.

  “I would rather die than be married off. Anyway, who would you choose? Someone old and past it, just like Hjalmgunnar?” Brunhild spat the words out, but Odin gave no indication that they affected him.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then kill me now.”

  Brunhild turned, ready to flee from Valhalla and never set eyes on the gods again. She was sick of their pettiness and their strict adherence to rules. Well, for humans, at least. The gods played the game otherwise, twisting it all to their own advantage so often that she wondered if they even knew what the rules were anymore.

  Strong fingers wrapped around her arm, pulling her backward. Brunhild struggled even though she could never win in hand-to-hand combat with Odin.

  “There is no exception to my order!”

  Brunhild spun around, and she could see the white surrounding Odin’s one remaining pupil. His other eye was a mess of scarring, a black hole in the center, and she looked at that place now. It was as if she were gazing into the abyss, and it was all that she could do not to fall in and be consumed by the god’s words.

  She refused to submit to him as the memory of the man on the battlefield flitted across her mind.

  “Unless the man you have chosen for me shows absolutely no fear, inside or out, I will not agree to it. And so I call to the Nords to make this true.”

  Yanking free from Odin’s clutches, Brunhild straightened impossibly tall. The wind had arrived with her call to the Nords, and her blonde hair whipped around her face. She could feel the tremor of knowing a prophecy was about to be made, and that Sigurd was somehow a part of her destiny.

  “You know how fickle humans are. So you also know that there is not a human in all of Midgard that falls under that rule.”

  Looking at Odin, she could see that he knew it too. He opened his mouth, ready to roar out a response. It was too late, though. The Nords did not show themselves but there was no need. As the red leaves of Valhalla’s sacred grove shook to the ground, everyone present knew that what Brunhild had just uttered was now sacred and could not be undone.

  Yet, Odin was not finished. Reaching into his cloak, the god searched briefly before pulling something free. In his hand was a single thorn. It was red and much larger than that of bramble or rose.

&n
bsp; Brunhild wanted to turn and run; however, confusion made her hesitate.

  Odin threw the thorn at her, and she hissed with the pain as it lodged in her hand, risen to protect her face.

  “What was that?” she asked, pulling the thorn free and sucking at the trickling blood.

  Odin smiled at her, but there was no compassion as his malice shone through.

  “You may have managed to trick me, but I will have the last say in the matter. May you sleep eternally, always dreaming of your fate yet never being able to do anything about it unless your fearless hero turns up.”

  Brunhild’s eyes drooped as soon as the words were spoken, and she gasped briefly before falling to the ground.

  The last memory she had was of Sigurd. Silently, she sent out a plea to the Nords that they would find him and send him to her.

  Chapter 4

  Sigurd

  “It was a fierce battle,” Sigurd told the crowd.

  It was not the truth, but there was no one else to say otherwise. There was no need to mention the cache of golden rings that he had found either. Even without the infamy of killing Fafnir, he would now be rich beyond compare.

  “I am so glad that the beast has been disposed of,” Regin said as he looked across at the massive head of the dragon.

  Sigurd had brought it with him as proof of his victory. It now hung over the doorway to the great hall. Blood dripped down onto those who passed through and was already considered lucky to those marred by it.