Berserker-born (Valkyries' Chosen #1)

1. ONE

ONE

HERVOR

The thralls have already sheared half the sheep in my grandfather’s flock, and I’m supposed to be spinning the wool into yarn for my mother.

I should be proud to come from such a wealthy family with so much wool to spin.

It’s noble work, my mother says, the honour of women everywhere.

Even the goddess Frigg spins yarn in Asgard.

I hate spinning yarn.

I can deal with a fleece or two, but my father said that last night the thralls dropped off two whole sacks. Two whole sacks! I’ll be spinning yarn for days. Loki! One hour of rolling wool onto a spindle and I’m ready to throw myself into the fjord.

Of course, my parents would just send my spinning tools along with me in the funeral boat so I could keep spinning in Valhalla …

Gods!

I don’t see why the thralls can’t do it. They’re used to endless, mind-numbing work. I’d rather pick rocks out of a field. I’d rather muck out the latrine. I’d rather slip head-first into the latrine than spin yarn.

My mother comes in from outside. Her eyes harden into points of steel when she sees I’m still sitting on my fur-covered bunk across from the smoking fire pit.

“Hervor, what are you doing in here? I thought you started spinning over an hour ago.”

“I’m still eating breakfast.”

She glares down into my half-eaten bowl of porridge. “It looks to me like you’re finished.”

“It got cold.”

“Well you shouldn’t have taken so long to eat it. Now go get your spinning tools and get started on the wool. There’s really a lot to do today.”

“I can’t find my spinning tools.”

“Loki, Hervor!”

She stoops down at my feet and sweeps her hand under the narrow space beneath my bunk and pats the furs where I’m sitting.

Then she searches the bunks where my brothers sleep.

I can’t resist a smirk as she whips back the furs on Young Frodmar’s bed and hisses an oath as she snatches up my spinning tools.

“Looks like Young Frodmar would rather be spinning wool than framing the new barn with father,” I say.

She thrusts the spindle and distaff into my lap. “Frigg and Freya, Hervor! You’re the oldest child! Why must you always act like you’re the youngest? That’s enough fooling around for one day. Go down to the stream and get started on the wool.”

“The stream? You mean the wool hasn’t even been washed yet? Or combed?”

“Of course it hasn’t.”

“Hel and Loki.”

“Hervor Frodmarsdottir! Get going!”

“Fine! Gods!”

When I arrive at the stream, my nine-year-old brother Heidrik is filling up two wooden buckets to water our horses.

There’s still patches of snow along the bank where it’s shaded by the trees and as Heidrik stumbles up from the water I can hear the ice sloshing against the sides of the buckets.

The last thing I want to do is get down on my knees on that muddy bank and dip my hands into that freezing stream.

I don’t see why those thralls couldn’t have washed the wool.

Lazy ingrates. Ugh. I’d rather die than spin this wool into yarn.

I stretch my back and groan miserably as I watch my brother.

“Are you going up to the stable Heidrik?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’ll come with you.”

“Can you carry a bucket?”

“No.”

“Please, Hervor? They’re heavy!”

“No. It’s your job to water the horses. And how will you become a man if you can’t even carry two buckets of water by yourself?”

“Fine,” he says. Then he looks back over his shoulder. “But what about the wool? Don’t you have to start spinning it into yarn?”

I glance at the two bulging sacks on the muddy bank and make up my mind.

“Hel can spin this wool it into yarn.”

Heidrik gasps as I fling my spindle and distaff into the stream. “Hervor! Father is going to beat you!”

“It’s worth it not doing my chores.”

He shakes his head. He’s worried. He’s still afraid of Father, and I know he hates when Mother makes him stand outside with Rugga and Young Frodmar to watch while Father beats me.

I try to show my brothers how to be strong by keeping a straight face and never crying out when Father hits me, but sometimes if he beats me bloody I can hear Heidrik sobbing.

That always feels worse than any beating Father can dish out.

I guess I can carry one of his buckets for him.

I follow Heidrik up to the stable, and while he’s feeding and watering all the other horses, I go into Trumdi’s stall and start brushing down his glossy coat.

Trumdi was a Yule gift from my grandfather for turning sixteen years old.

Everyone knows the best horses come from Borg, and my grandfather says that as the Princess of Lofoten it would be beneath me to ride a lesser breed.

Of course, I’ve hardly ridden him at all yet since it’s only just begun to get light during the day again.

It’s not good for such a fine horse to stay penned up inside a stall.

“What are you doing?” Heidrik asks as I throw the wool blanket over Trumdi’s back and start fitting him with the bridle.

“Taking Trumdi out for a ride. Tell Mother you haven’t seen me.”

“What? I’m not going to lie to Mother!”

“You’d better.” I lead Trumdi from the stall and climb up on his back.

“Hervor—”

But before he can argue, I crack the reins; Trumdi rears up with a wild whinny and we thunder off from the stable.

Spring has turned everything yellow and brown. The fields are soggy and full of mud, and the leaves haven’t come out yet on the trees. The air is heavy and damp from the melting snow, and my lungs are burning as we gallop through the woods up to my grandfather’s sheep pasture.

The split rail fence that goes around my grandfather’s sheep pasture is the best place in Ofotfjord for jumping. I’m not allowed to jump that fence. My father worries I’ll knock down the rails and let the sheep out, and he says he doesn’t want me causing trouble for the thralls.

But I’m already in for a beating, so I might as well jump it.

Some thralls are at work in the sheep pasture sheering the other half of the flock while others gather the wool and stuff it into huge brown sacks.

It annoys me to see them doing this because I know that tomorrow I’m going to find two of those sacks down by the stream with the others, waiting to be washed and combed and spun into yarn.

I’m starting to dread going home to my father.

He’ll be pretty mad when he hears I threw my spinning tools in the stream.

I can already see his face turning red, his beard bristling.

That was a stupid thing to do. I’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure.

That’s what I get for showing off in front of Heidrik.

The water will be freezing, but maybe I can go back and find my spindle.

Then I could say I did some spinning, even if I don’t get through very much.

There, I’ll jump the fence a couple times and go back and try to fish my spinning tools out of the stream.

I could always say I dropped them in the water while I was washing the wool.

I wish those thralls weren’t there to watch me though. I haven’t done any jumping yet with Trumdi. They’ll be laughing if I mess it up. Filthy, ungrateful shepherds—my grandfather treats them far better they deserve. I’ll show them. I’ll show them how to jump this fence.

I crack the reins and Trumdi lurches into motion.

We’re galloping hard toward the fence, churning up clods of mud as we thunder across the wet field.

I lean in low to prepare for the jump as he speeds up for the approach.

I breathe out as we vault the fence. My heart stops.

We’re airborne for a single exhilarating count—then we land again in hammering cadence, easing off into a mild canter.

“There’s a good boy,” I say, stroking his mane. But as we circle around for the second jump I get a warning bark from the shepherd dog. Some of the sheep on the other side of the pasture are distressed by our commotion and have scattered from the rest of the flock. The thralls are staring at me.

Impudent shepherds. If they were my thralls I’d scoop their eyes out for looking at me like that. As if I’m going to stop jumping the fence and go away on their account. Dirty ingrates. My grandfather shouldn’t be soft on them.

The pasture slopes gently down towards the woods where it’s fenced off again at the treeline.

It’s not very steep, but as I set Trumdi into a gallop, I forget to take into account that from this side I’ll be jumping the fence uphill.

We fly toward the fence, but this time as we make the jump I feel something jerk beneath me.

I look back and see I’ve knocked the two top rails off the fence. One of the thralls is coming down, a wiry man with short-cropped hair and an iron collar around his neck.

“Ho there, Hervor!” he calls, and waves me over.

Here we go.

I ride up to him, and Trumdi stamps and snorts as we circle around him like some captured runaway.

“What do you want, thrall?”

This thrall isn’t afraid of Trumdi like most thralls are, and he even has the nerve to take hold of the bridle to steady him. And then, as if that isn’t brazen enough, he looks me right in the eye and points to the two rails lying in the muddy grass. These thralls I tell you …

“Hasn’t your father told you not to jump the jarl’s fence?” he says.

“It’s none of your business what my father says to me. And if you like having two hands you better let go of my horse.”

“Pretty sure that’s what he said,” he says, without unhanding Trumdi’s bridle, “But I tell you what, Hervor, if you put those rails back up on the fence and go away, I won’t say a word about it.

And if your father comes looking and asks if we’ve seen you, I’ll even tell him you came by and helped us with the sheep for a bit until you got bored and went elsewhere. How does that sound to you?”

Unbelievable. The balls on this shepherd! I jump down off Trumdi’s back, about ready to cave his head in for his insolence.