Viking academy, p.1
Viking Academy, page 1
VIKING ACADEMY
VIKING ACADEMY: BOOK ONE
S.T. BENDE
Contents
Back Cover Copy
Also By S.T. Bende
Map of Valkyris
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Viking Academy’s Lefse Recipe
Viking Academy: Book Two
Meet The Norse Crews
Acknowledgments
Perfekt Order
About the Author
Viking Academy
Viking Academy: Book One
Copyright © 2019, S.T. Bende
Edited by: CREATING ink
Cover Art by: Alerim
Map by: BZN Studio Designs
* * *
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
* * *
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage system without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
First publication: 2019, S.T. Bende
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Back Cover Copy
Erik held me until my shoulders stopped shaking—whether it was a minute or an hour, I couldn’t tell. The only things I knew for sure were:
I was trapped a thousand years in the past, with little hope of ever going home. And,
I was wrapped in the arms of the most absurdly gorgeous Viking to have ever walked the face of the Earth.
Maybe my old life was overrated.
* * *
When seventeen-year-old Saga Skånstad discovers an antique dagger, she’s instantly sucked into a world where Vikings rule the seas and dragons roam the skies, and the only thing more dangerous than the chief who takes her captive is the rival who steals her away. The heir of Norway’s most feared tribe is fierce, cold, and absolutely unyielding. With intruders encroaching upon his borders, Erik Halvarsson has little patience for the girl whose ignorance threatens his very existence. He enlists Saga in the magical Valkyris Academy, where she learns the skills she’ll need to protect herself from foreign raiders and domestic terrors. But nothing can protect her from falling for the one guy in all the world she’s absolutely forbidden to choose . . . or from risking everything to unlock the secrets that haunt him.
* * *
When darkness threatens Saga’s new home, she must decide whether to return to the life she’s always known, or fight for a love she never could have imagined. Her decision will determine a legacy—not only for Saga, but for the world she never knew she was fated to lead.
Also By S.T. Bende
Meet the Vikings in VIKING ACADEMY:
VIKING ACADEMY
VIKING CONSPIRACY
VIKING VOW
* * *
Meet the Norse God of War in THE ÆRE SAGA:
PERFEKT ORDER
PERFEKT CONTROL
PERFEKT BALANCE
PERFEKT MATCH
* * *
Meet the Norse God of Winter in THE ELSKER SAGA:
ELSKER
ENDRE
TRO
TUR (a novella)
* * *
See the crews together in the crossover novella…
SUPERNATURAL CHRONICLES: THE ASGARDIANS
* * *
Meet the demigods in NIGHT WAR SAGA:
PROTECTOR
DEFENDER
REDEEMER
* * *
Complete list of S.T.’s STAR WARS titles at
www.stbende.com/star-wars
* * *
Stay in touch with S.T. at www.stbende.com.
* * *
Find pronunciations, translations, and info on all things Asgardian on S.T.’s website at WELCOME TO ASGARD.
* * *
And sign up for S.T.’s NEWSLETTER at
http://smarturl.it/BendeNewsletter
Dedication
To Olaug—thank you for showing me those rocks in Norway . . . and for sharing a friendship that’s timeless.
Chapter 1
GET OVER IT, SAGA. Cold water never hurt anybody.
Maybe not. But as I stood at the edge of Norway’s North Sea, dead tired and shivering in the early morning breeze, I wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed and sleep off my late night. As we always did on the last evening of summer, my cousins and I had hung out by the campfire until well past midnight. And, in typical Skånstad family fashion, I was the only one of us who’d dragged her butt out of bed for a morning swim.
Routines died hard with me.
Just get it over with already. You’re making it worse by putting it off.
Icy water lapped my goose-pimpled legs as I held my breath and waded into the frosty cove. With a nod at Steinar, the only other nutjob crazy enough to swim at six a.m. on a perfectly good Friday, I pulled my goggles over my eyes and dove in.
I was immediately filled with regret.
It took a solid fifty strokes before my skin acclimated to the cold, and another fifty before I could breathe without wincing. But eventually I fell into a rhythm, making my way toward the little island just offshore, one stroke at a time. By the time I reached my marker and doubled back, my breathing was steady, my body temperature was several degrees above miserable, and my thoughts had shifted from good God, it’s freaking cold! to I wish it wasn’t my last day here.
I cherished my summers at the cabin—the early morning swims, the afternoon lefse baking with my grandmother/guardian, Mormor, and the late-night deck-side Monopoly matches with my cousins. Our trips had been a family tradition long before my parents died, but this one was special—it was my last before starting college. My flight home departed in twenty-six hours, and by next week, I’d be rooming with my cousin Olivia, studying international relations and earning out my archery scholarship at Northern Minnesota University. For a school that was just a few hours’ drive from our hometown, it felt like it was worlds away. Everything about my life was about to change.
As a girl who appreciated predictability, I had mixed feelings about this.
I turned my head to the side, drawing a breath as I neared the shore. Mormor always made a huge breakfast on the last day of our trips—Norsk waffles, bacon, fruit, eggs. And coffee.
God willing, she’d made all the coffee.
With a final stroke, I lifted my head and lowered my feet. My toes dug into coarse sand as I waded to shore. When the sand gave way to rocks, I stepped more cautiously . . . and yelped when I jammed my toe into an unexpected protrusion.
“Skit,” I swore, reaching down to rub my foot. My fingers brushed against a smooth, sharp surface, and I stilled.
That was no rock.
Wrenching my goggles off my head, I bent down to study the crystal-clear water. Air whistled through my teeth as I sucked in a breath.
Holy. Freaking. Mother.
I bent lower and placed my hand around the thick, leather hilt of what appeared to be a dagger—a dirty, age-worn dagger, that was wedged firmly between two surprisingly immobile rocks. When my tugging proved futile, I wrapped my goggles around my wrist and used both hands to pry the blade free. It took a solid minute, during which my body temperature dropped back down to miserable, but with one fierce yank, I landed on my butt in the ocean, stubborn dagger firmly in hand.
All the coffee, Mormor. Please.
I scanned the area for additional weapons because apparently, ocean weapons were a thing now. Finding none, I made my way to the shore, rested the dagger across my palms, and took in every detail. It looked really old—the handle was well worn, and though the blade was badly tarnished, it bore a few dirty gems, and what looked like runic etchings. Runic etchings? How old was this thing? And moreover, who threw a dagger into the ocean? Kids swam here. I swam here! Sure, beach people were all kinds of laid-back, but seriously. Who threw a dagger in the ocean?
I glanced up toward my grandmother’s cabin. The light was on in the little kitchen, which meant Mormor was likely puttering around, manifesting my coffee dreams into reality. She lived for history—she’d worked our family tree all the way back to one thousand A.D., and she had a basement filled with family heirlooms that went as far back as the 1800s. She would be all over this dagger . . . after she and my eco-warrior cousin ripped into the perp who’d littered in their precious ocean. Olivia and I were born three days
I transferred the dagger to one hand and held it overhead, hoping to catch Mormor’s attention. Or Olivia’s, if she’d dragged her butt out of bed yet. But the moment I raised the blade, my knuckles tightened around the hilt and my elbow locked at my ear. The cabin wavered in and out of focus as the beach spun in a dizzying circle that left my stomach churning.
What the hell was happening? And, more importantly, how did I make it stop?
My knees buckled and I took a step back. As the beach spun faster, I stepped again. And again. I was calf-deep in the sea when dizziness finally won. My knees hit the water, then crashed hard on the rocks in a moment of bone-searing agony. I started to double over, whether to throw up or pass out I hadn’t determined, but my arm may as well have been soldered to my ear. Now the dagger was vibrating, its intense pulses making my arms shake to the point of exhaustion.
The dagger had to go.
I flexed my hand, willing my fingers to release the wretched relic, but its will was stronger than mine. Switching tactics, I used my free hand to pry my fingers from the hilt, and begged. Please, please let me go.
My request was denied.
I wrapped my hand around my wrist in a pointless effort to push the dagger back into the ocean. But its vibrations increased until my entire body trembled. The world gave one final, violent wrench before it shattered. The shoreline literally peeled away, pieces floating upward until I was left in a pure, white void.
Panic seized my throat, making breathing impossible. My lips parted and my chest heaved as I tried to forcibly inhale, but the air simply would not flow. I tried again, and again, but either I’d lost the ability to breathe, or there was no air in this void.
Was this how I was going to die?
Suddenly, the void was replaced by a familiar, non-spinning shore. The ocean stretched behind me, the rocky shoreline ahead, and the thick, deciduous forest that had stood behind my grandmother’s cabin for at least a thousand years was exactly where it had always been.
But the trees looked different. Shorter.
Shorter? That was impossible. Trees didn’t shrink. And daggers didn’t have wills of their own. Clearly, I’d over-exerted myself swimming, and was now suffering from hallucinations.
Clearly.
But it wasn’t just the trees that were different. The cabin was . . . well, it wasn’t. My grandmother’s redwood-decked beach house had been replaced with a cluster of huts built from thick logs and covered in grass roofs. The ornately carved front door of one opened to reveal a long-haired man wearing muddy, leather pants. He held his free hand to his eyes as he studied the ocean. The thick muscles of his chest tensed as he let out a fierce cry that sent chills racing up my spine.
“Inntrengere!”
I didn’t know that word, but it didn’t sound good.
“Inntrengere,” he shouted again, louder this time.
“Um, hei! It’s just me! Saga Skånstad, Bertha’s granddaughter!” I held my hands in front of my face, but with the dagger still in hand, I failed to neutralize the threat. “I live, uh, right there. Where you are, actually. Only not. So that makes us, kind of neighbors in a—”
“Inntrengere!” Leather Pants bellowed again. A dozen new leather-clad longhairs emerged from their huts, each more muscular than the last.
Why aren’t they understanding me?
The second I thought it, a ripple passed from the dagger up my arm, rocking my body with a series of jolts. The mumbles of the leather-pantsers were suddenly intelligible; it was as if an invisible translator had slipped into my brain. I hoped it worked on both ends, and they’d be able to understand me, too. I needed them to stop staring at me like they wanted my blood, already.
“Intruders!” the men bellowed, a chorus of doomsayers banging on their chests and reaching for their swords. These guys kept swords hanging by their front doors?
“I’m not an intruder!” I raised my hands again, then quickly lowered them. Stupid dagger. “I’m Saga, and I’m hallucinating, so if you could kindly—”
“Defend the shoreline against the boats!” The first leather-pants shouted.
Boats?
Maybe Steinar’s grandsons were out in their kayak, or a fellow early riser was heading out to fish? I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see one of our neighbors. My heart clenched at the sight of three Viking warships, red and white sails raised, streaming straight for the shore.
Oh. My. God.
“Defend!” The leather-clad chorus chimed. They raced from their huts, swords in hand as they made their way to a building at the edge of the settlement. They emerged bearing even more weapons—bows and arrows and shields and axes.
And they charged straight for me.
My options were slim. I could swim for the little island offshore—and risk being scooped up by what I seriously doubted were friendly Viking fisher-folk. Or I could run for the forest—and risk being axed by one of the leather-pantsers.
I opted for the latter.
But when I lifted my foot, my legs got tangled in something thick and heavy. I face-planted on the beach with a pain-wracked, “Oomph!” Spitting rocky sand from my mouth, I pushed myself up and tried to run again. This time, I discovered my movement was hindered by a dense, damp fabric.
What the hell am I wearing?
I didn’t stop to freak out about whatever quick change had occurred while I’d been sizing up the leather-pantsers. I just hiked up the ridiculously dense skirts of whatever absurd dress I was stuck in, tucked the dagger into the fortuitously placed loop at my belt, and ran like my life depended on it.
In all likelihood, it probably did.
The leather-pantsers charged the shore, hitting the beach as I neared the northern edge of their village. When I reached the tree line, I hid myself behind a trunk and chanced a look back. My breaths came in shallow gasps as the Viking ships struck the ocean floor. Their riders leapt into the shallows, swords drawn, and shields raised. They ran for the beach, water flying as they neared their foes. Swords clashed, arrows flew, and the water ran thick with red. The two clans furiously massacred one another while I stood helpless, clinging to a birch tree.
I’d just escaped my first Viking raid.
And I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
Chapter 2
RUN, SAGA. JUST RUN.
The words echoed somewhere deep inside my head—probably the part charged with ensuring I didn’t succumb to death by Viking slaughter. Since the murdering was still going strong on the beach, I released my grip on the tree and retreated into the forest.
“Ouch!”
I winced as I leaned against a nearby birch to extract whatever sharp object had pricked my foot—because the universe had gifted me the world’s bulkiest dress, but no shoes. Bending over, I carefully removed a rock from my heel, and wiped the blood against the coarse fabric of my gown. A quick scan of the forest revealed a tapestry of fallen branches and an infinite number of angular rocks—a veritable landmine for naked feet. Droplets danced on the leaves, meaning it had recently rained in whatever timeline I’d hallucinated myself into. I could count on a thick layer of mud beneath the razor-rocks, which would make running in this too-long dress doubly difficult.
