The thralls sword a nove.., p.2
The Thrall's Sword: A Novel, page 2
Tyra pressed her lips together. Her wavy, black hair cascaded down either side of her pale face. My friend was the most beautiful girl I had ever met, and today, her beauty might cost her life.
How could she willingly put her life at stake for me? What had I done to earn such selfless devotion?
I strained again against Niels’s grasp. “Oh, sir, please, you needn’t consider her. I’ll go, sir.”
Tyra’s lips parted, but Ragnar shoved her back onto her stool. She started to fall backward off the stool, but he knelt beside her and put his arm around her. “See, your little friend is perfectly happy to serve my father,” he lulled loudly in her ear, twisting my stomach in a tight knot. “I think I want to keep you.”
“But, sir, Sigrid is my dearest friend, ye couldn’t—”
Jarl Ragnar secured his hand across her mouth, muffling her pleas. Before I could think to do anything, he shot a quick glance at Niels. “After she’s finished with that tunic, take the white-haired rat to the stable!” Niels loosened his grip on my arms and nodded toward the funeral garb.
I moved back near the fire, lowered myself to the crude thrall’s stool, and lifted the funeral garb to my lap. I glanced over at Mum. She stared at me from across the longhouse with a long, vacant expression.
“Mum, don’t worry. I will serve him faithfully,” I whispered, wanting her to believe that everything was all right, wanting her to not be afraid.
Bringing a shaky hand to her face, Mum let out a soft whimper and hastened out of the room.
TWO
I BLINKED OPEN MY EYES, gazing dreamily at the light that poured into the room. The sharp odor of death filled my nostrils and brought back the horrific memories of the previous day. I pinched my nose and held my breath for a full minute.
I let my breath out, panting and gasping, the putrid smell hitting me again.
Wiping my bleary eyes, I sat upright in the pile of hay. Where was that smell coming from? I looked around at the small hut Niels had locked me in last night. It was filled with hay and manure, and beside me were a few pigs nestled together, fast asleep. A few feet away from me, lay the open coffin of my former master. He wore the regal purple tunic I had finished last night and was adorned in fine jewelry. His skin was white and rotting and his eyes were hollow, staring into nothingness. My head pounded. I wanted to vomit.
The door flew open, and two young women were flung into the room. The door slammed shut behind them.
I quickly recognized Tyra’s black hair and the skinny form of Kail. After a minute of stunned silence, the two girls sat up, their hair disheveled from their being thrown about.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“We’re supposed to help you sew the Jarl Valdemar’s new clothes for the afterlife.” Kail’s voice trembled.
I met Tyra’s eyes. The memory of her self-sacrifice the night before sent a stab of grief through me. “Tyra . . . ”
She came and wrapped her arms around me.
I squeezed her back. “You would have died in place of me?”
“Only because Iosa did it for me, dear friend.” Her voice hitched with tears, and she released me. “He did it for you, too.”
I smiled, but I didn’t believe her. How could a good man’s death have anything to do with me? “Thank you for what you did last night. And for everything.” A sob caught in my throat. My dear friend had loved me and cared for me through the harshest points in my life, and “thank you” was all I could say?
Tyra held my hands in hers. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, Sigrid, I love you. I’m going to miss you so, so much.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said softly. It hurt too much to fully process that I would never see my dear friend again.
The piles of fabric behind Tyra begged for my attention. “Well, we better get to work.”
The two girls agreed, so we set our hands to the task.
Niels swung open the door, carrying two large jugs of ale and barking, “Drink and be merry, thrall, as tradition demands.” He eyed the women with me and snorted out a laugh. “And don’t you let your friends have any!”
He set the jugs down, stalked back out, and slammed the door shut. But I could sense his presence still standing right outside the hut, guarding us.
Tyra stared at me. “You don’t need to drink, Sigrid.”
“No, I must,” I said. “Tradition says.”
“You could empty the jugs and—”
“Tyra—”
“Kail and I could help and—”
“Tyra, I have to obey tradition.” My firm voice silenced her. I was going to die anyway. Submitting myself to the Norse rituals was the least I could do. The liquor would ease the last wretched moments of my life.
I found myself a comfortable spot in the corner away from the two girls and drank heavily. I let the liquor quench my thirst and seep into my body, fogging up my mind and filling my senses with strange delight. Tyra urged me continually to stop drinking or to take a break, but I refused.
When I finished the two jugs of ale, I raised my voice to sing a merry song for the Jarl Valdemar, attempting to bring life into this fetid room of death. Could a dead person still hear? I continued, long and loud, for the rest of the day as Tyra and Kail made clothes for our dead master.
Nine days passed in a blur. I drank a lot, forgetting everything and laughing at nothing. My mind fogged, disillusioned and helpless to the effects of the ale. By the tenth morning, Jarl Valdemar’s skin had turned black from frostbite. I myself was a shivering, dying piece of flesh, never warm enough at night in this hut where we had no place to create a fire.
Niels swung open the door before I could start my day of drinking and singing, and I knew. I knew it was time.
Today would be the worst day of all.
Niels grabbed my wrist and grinned. “Remember the next ritual, thrall?”
I stiffened as he looked into my eyes, his own fiery with desire.
“Me first.”
ooo
That day left me nauseous, broken, and traumatized. Every man in the village had a chance with me as Norse tradition insisted. The ale made it easier for them to entice me and harder for me to resist them.
I cried out to every Norse god I could think of, but none of them answered.
The men of the village whispered words of passion and lust to me. “We are doing this to show our love for Jarl Valdemar,” they said. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if such traditions arose not from the god’s ordinance but from man’s twisted desires.
Later that day, the Norsemen brought me to an empty door frame constructed in the middle of the village for the next ritual. Crowds surrounded us, watching the scene.
My legs were weak, and I almost toppled over. Two men grabbed a hold of my arms to keep me from falling. Another man forced me to chug a half gallon of ale. My stomach sloshed, and I vomited, the taste stinging the back of my throat.
I swayed on my feet, the world tipping side to side.
Two men bent down on their knees and held out their hands. “Come on,” one murmured. “Step on our hands, girl!”
Two others grabbed my arms and hoisted me up. My body trembled from the liquors. The two men raised me above the doorframe, while the other men supported me at the waist so I wouldn’t fall over.
“What do you see?” Ragnar bellowed.
I squinted at the familiar view that was now a blur of blue, green, and brown. My head throbbed. What was I supposed to see?
I was tempted to tell them exactly what I saw, but I knew what they wanted me to say. Defying tradition would only bring trouble to the whole Norse village. “Behold, I see my father. His hand is reaching out to me as he stands within Valhalla’s gates.”
Oh, if I could only see his smiling face. Pa had taught me to swim in the ocean, he had always kissed my cheek goodnight, he had treated me respectfully and kindly like no other man. He had loved me, and I would forever love him.
The men took me down for a few seconds then lifted me up again.
“What do you see?” Ragnar yelled again.
“Behold, I see my dead kindred, seated. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who died before I was born. I see my siblings who died as infants, their perfect faces laughing in the sunlight.” My imagination would have to do to satisfy the rituals, though the words came out in a strain against my will.
The men lowered me down again then raised me back up. My whole body shook. I didn’t want to do this, but the stares of the men below bid me to raise my voice again. “Behold, the afterlife is beautiful. I see Jarl Valdemar seated in Valhalla. He is drinking and feasting merrily. The jarl summons me.” Swallowing, I resolved not to burst into sobs. “Bring me to him.”
They lowered me down, and I collapsed into the arms of one of the men. I wanted to fight. Wanted to force them to leave me alone. But I allowed them to carry me to the wharf.
The longship waited for me, the body of my dead master inside. My bones cried out at the thought of the fire and the arrows. The pain. And the fact that I, too, would soon be limp and black and cold like my dead jarl.
I removed my bracelets and handed them to the Angel of Death. The middle-aged woman wore a plain thrall tunic, but I did not recognize her. She scowled at me, forcefully narrowing her brows. I removed my two anklets and handed them each to Tyra and to Kail who stood nearby.
I tried not to make eye contact with them, or it would hurt. I tried not to think about what lay ahead, or it would weigh me down. I tried to shut everything out but the dreamy, light feeling of the ale. Nevertheless, everything inside me was an untamed ball of fire.
Niels and another man lifted my quivering body onto the longship, where a large tent was set, holding the body and possessions of Jarl Valdemar. The Norsemen marched onto the ship banging sticks against their shields. Niels grinned and handed me another mug of ale.
I surveyed the weeping crowds. Their loud wails clenched a knot deep inside me. They cried for the great jarl, but not for me.
It didn’t matter what happened to me.
Lifting my chin proudly as Mum would want, I drank the mead in a long, desperate gulp, then chanted a high, wailing funeral song. The chant filled the air, dreary and somber. The people murmured along with me.
Someone cried out to me, interrupting my song. I found Tyra in the crowd, but I couldn’t make out her words.
I searched for Mum in the crowd. I couldn’t find her, and a sick feeling gnawed at my stomach. What if watching her daughter sail off to Valhalla was too unbearable for her? For all I knew, she might be plunging a knife into her chest this very moment.
I swung my leg over the side of the ship. I had to save her. The Angel of Death grasped my arms and pulled me back onto the deck. Her nails bit hard into my arms, and I gasped at her powerful hold on me.
“I have to save her,” I whimpered, my words slurred.
But the Angel of Death dragged me into the tent. Bags of riches, weapons, and food filled the stern. A cow sat in the stern, mooing impatiently in his tight space. Outside, Norsemen beat sticks rhythmically against shields.
What would happen next? No one knew what took place inside the tent while the Norse battered on their shields outside.
And I wouldn’t live to tell the others.
Goosebumps ran up my arms as six tall sturdy men entered the tent, Ragnar, Ragnar’s brother Joar, and Niels among them. Each one gawked at me like I was some wild animal they were ready to kill and eat. My throat thickened with dread. Hadn’t they used me enough for one day?
One by one, they satisfied their desires. I screamed and wept, but no one cared. The men outside only beat their shields louder, overpowering the sound of my desperate voice.
At last, the men laid me roughly down beside the dead Jarl Valdemar. The Angel of Death bound a rope tightly around my neck, then handed the two ends to a couple men, who began pulling on it.
Panicking, I thrashed out, trying to get free, but the rope only closed tightly around my throat. Fire burned in my lungs. Oh, help me! I cried out in my mind. But I didn’t know who I was calling out to; none of the gods would help me, for they ordained these rituals.
The Angel of Death brought out a broad-bladed sword and stared at me, her fiery eyes scorching my already-broken spirit. She raised her sword.
I almost pleaded to Iosa to set me free.
A woman burst into the tent and cried out, “Stop, in the name of mercy!”
The Angel of Death paused her sword.
Mum? The ropes loosened for a moment then grew tighter again. Tears ran down my cheeks. Somehow, I was hearing my mother’s pleading voice.
“Spare my daughter, please!”
Ragnar seized the sword from the Angel of Death. “And defy tradition? This is for Jarl Valdemar’s honor.”
Ragnar gripped my mother’s wrists and pinned her to the floor. No. He raised the sword above her. No, Mum!
I squeaked out, “M—m!”
Ragnar stabbed my mother’s chest. A guttural scream burst from me. I clawed at the rope around my neck, but it only grew tighter by the second. Strength slipped from my fingers. My body felt weak and limp, ready for death.
THREE
MY VISION DARKENED AND VOICES buzzed in my ear.
Footsteps pounded around me, and the ropes dropped from around my neck. I gasped in breath after breath.
As air filled my lungs and oxygen returned to my body, the blur of voices focused into words.
“Fight the fire, fools!” Ragnar bellowed from outside.
I gasped and panted for a long while. Somehow, I was still alive.
At last, I turned my aching body over slowly toward my mother who lay near me. She stared at me, unresponsive. The gleaming hilt of the sword rose triumphantly out of her chest, the jewels flashing in the dim light.
I clung to her hand and looked into her wide, empty eyes. A sob caught in my throat. The horrors of today spilled over inside me. I screamed aloud, tortured by the real-life nightmares and the ever-increasing shame I felt for what I did not do. I would never forget.
The longship jolted and moved into the sea. I sat up and looked toward the door. Would they shoot the flaming arrows or fight the fire first?
The fire. A strange sense of understanding came over me. I hadn’t seen Mum during my long chant. Had she started the fire to distract Ragnar and the men? And then, when they hadn’t noticed the fire, offered her own life in my place?
I clutched my mother’s clammy hand and wept. She hadn’t needed to. I didn’t deserve it. I was a worthless, hopeless, defiled thrall.
“Mum, if I can take revenge on him, I will do it,” I choked. “I swear it.”
Shaking violently, I drew the sword out of my mother’s chest and wiped the blood off on a blanket. I touched the sharp blade. This beautiful sword had killed Lovina of Kaupang, the mother who’d birthed me, who had labored as thrall of Jarl Valdemar for thirty-four summers without complaining once.
Setting the sword down, I stared at it. Its blade was long and golden, and its hilt was covered in red and yellow jewels. Full, heavy tears rolled down my cheeks, and coldness spread through my body.
Something bulged from under my mother’s cloak. I lifted her cloak to find my small satchel. I peeked into the satchel, and, sure enough, there was the straw doll.
Mum had brought the doll to me, even as she risked her life to save me from this horrid fate. This doll was a testimony of her faithful devotion toward me.
I set the doll before me and examined its tall posture. Proud. I had to be proud for her. I couldn’t let the gods define who I was as a pitiful, worthless slave.
Swallowing tears, I grasped the sword and lifted it into the air. Nearby, the sword’s scabbard rested inside a small, open rectangular box. Ragnar must have intended this weapon to sail off to Valhalla with his father. Everyone knew how Ragnar had slain the Pict man who had killed his father and taken the Pict’s sword home as a symbol of his bravery. And now he desired his father to have the precious blade to battle valiant warriors in the afterlife.
No matter. I fastened the sword’s scabbard tightly around my waist with the ropes, then I sheathed the beautiful weapon. The ropes hurt my waist, but they would have to do. After all Ragnar had done, he didn’t deserve to give his father anything to bring honor to himself in the afterlife.
If I escaped, I would slay Ragnar with his own sword—for Mum’s sake. I would repay that beast for all he had done to hurt me. And then I would kill myself, so I could see Mum again.
I stepped out of the tent and gazed back at the foggy wharf. A fiery arrow sped toward me. Terror shot through me.
The arrow landed a few yards away and ignited a portion of the longship into flames.
I squinted over the thrashing waves toward the shore beyond. The sword would weigh me down, but because of Pa’s nightly swimming lessons, I could try to stay afloat for a few minutes—I could even try to reach land if I moved quickly.
As I tucked the doll back in my satchel, another fiery arrow soared through the air and landed close to me, setting a squealing chicken on fire. Soon the bed, the restless livestock, the gold—everything started burning and drowning all at once. I stumbled toward the side of the ship.
The ship turned over. I screamed, the dark mass smothering me and driving me down into the depths of the sea. The sea washed over me, muting my cries.
My instincts took over. I swam away from the ship, pushing against the sword’s weight and the ship’s malicious urge to drown me. The current whipped me about like I was a mere strand of seaweed. I kicked my feet and paddled my hands as my father had taught me.
A wave roared above me, so I swam to the only safe place, deep under the water, holding my breath and sinking down into the cold silence of the sea. I squinted my eyes open. For a moment I forgot I needed to breathe, and I stared at the murky ocean, the undulating greens and browns of the water. Then I saw the ship sinking slowly, and bright gold coins twinkling down into the water, journeying to the afterlife. And I saw Mum falling, her brown hair wild about her—her beautiful soul, no more.
