Chapter 5
Chained. A slave. Yanked after a horse. The shackle around my neck gnaws on my skin like a dog on its bone. Horse dung and dust coat my throat with every breath. My body might fall apart, shatter. It’s been a long march.
The early hours, a new dawn, a time I love—it feels like a funeral procession. Birds waking, trees stretching their lazy branches, sunlight banishing the doubts of night. I notice none of it now. The fresh morning air feels stale in my lungs.
Defiant, I hold my head high, ignoring the men’s comments and jokes.
“Let me have her, Asbjorn,” says one on foot.
“You already have problems keeping your wife,” laughs another.
They took me. My folk stood silent, shocked by my theft.
My darkest nightmare had come true. I am exiled.
Unable to return. Hated. Even worse, I am property.
I own nothing. I have no one. I can be bartered and traded like the loot I have stolen.
Tears well up in my eyes, but I don’t wipe them.
I let them fall in silence. They will not see me as weak.
“She has not only stolen from Asbjorn,” says a horse rider dramatically. “She has also stolen my heart.”
They burst out laughing. Every single one of them.
None of them feel pity. No one wishes me well.
I have never felt so alone. My body is not my own anymore.
Whoever Asbjorn sells me to, or gifts me to, will own me like they do a horse.
My father, Narve, Groa—I will never see them again.
No more being tired of my father’s bullshit.
No more riding Narve in the woods. Groa’s wisdom, lost to me.
My dreams of being an enchantress have evaporated.
I will never own a house. Never lock my door with an iron padlock.
The man behind me shoves me forward, almost making me stumble.
“Move,” he growls.
How can this fool expect a weighed-down woman to keep up? I don’t turn to him. Chin raised, eyes ahead.
“Silence, lads,” says Asbjorn. “She stole from the wrong man. She is stupid.”
“I hear that,” says one, but Asbjorn continues.
“But… she also stole from the wrong man. She is brave. She has bigger balls than any of you.”
All the men laugh at his joke. Asbjorn laughs with them. That is what I am now—a living joke. Entertainment for these simple beasts. I keep my back straight, walking behind Asbjorn’s horse and keeping the pace.
“Balls? Are you sure?” exclaims a man in the back. “Best we take a look!”
Resounding laughter. Freya watch over me. I am a piece of meat to them. Another tear runs down my cheek. What is ahead? Who will I be given to? I doubt Asbjorn’s wife will let him keep me. Who needs another woman to steal your man’s attention? Especially when trying to conceive.
Maybe he will keep me. Would it be so bad?
His wife is well treated. Maybe I will be too.
A girl for household tasks, a body for him to please himself with when his wife isn’t in the mood.
Fury boils in my chest. I would stick him if he tried, with his own dagger.
His own seax stuck in his belly. Let him try.
“Someone ahead!” shouts the vanguard.
Men react quickly, making my heart jump.
I fall on my rump. Bows come out, arrows strung.
Shields come off backs, swords clatter. It’s so fast and effective I forget my current state, impressed by their readiness.
My people would still be scratching their heads.
These men are warriors. A pack of wolves.
Asbjorn turns to me, his expression calm but serious.
“Keep your head down, girl. Run for the woods if arrows start flying.”
He tosses the chain at my feet. It yanks at my neck as it lands. A spark in my gut. I could run for it. Head for the woods. Why did he release me? Maybe he admires the thief who dared his house.
I realize that I am weighed down. Silly girl.
I couldn’t run a hundred feet with all this iron.
But I can hide from the battle. Asbjorn doesn’t want me to die.
Strangely, I feel grateful. He likes me enough to keep me alive.
He enslaved me, but at least this group of men will protect me from the next group of men.
“Happy Blessings,” someone shouts from afar, the traditional salute of an ally.
“Blessings,” shouts Asbjorn back.
Men’s shoulders relax. The groups must have met before. Some raise eyebrows at each other, laughing nervously. Even hardened warriors seem to prefer peace when it is offered. My own muscles uncoil—I hadn’t realized how tense my body was.
Boisterous laughter. Asbjorn dismounts, approaching his acquaintance.
“Odin’s ass, Asbjorn,” I hear someone say. “And here I thought you were just a band of dirty bandits.”
“Looking at my bunch, I’m sure that would be a compliment,” Asbjorn replies, laughing.
“What brought you so far up the mountain? I thought you had opened trade southward.”
We had been caught as we trailed inland after traveling north along the coast. Our plan was to trade along the mountain valleys until we reached Lade.
Had I known Asbjorn was this famous, I would never have robbed his house.
The man he is talking to must be from the area.
His dialect is different from Asbjorn’s, and even more different from mine.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” says Asbjorn. “You have to see with your own eyes.”
I hear footsteps approaching before the two appear in front of me, inspecting me in a way men might a faulty carriage wheel.
Asbjorn’s friend is as immense as he is, with blonde hair tied back in a single braid. I can tell he’s of noble stock—dyed fabrics, fine leather, rings—but even more by how he carries himself. He nods quickly at the warriors around him, back straight and head high. The soldiers bow their heads.
Look at me, a helpless woman in a sea of dangerous men. The blonde giant gives Asbjorn a light slap on the shoulder.
“Don’t tell me you traveled a whole day for this little thing…”
“I’m married, you know,” says Asbjorn with a sly smile.
“And happily, I hear. I hope to hear of a newborn.”
“I’m sure you will. No, this girl wasn’t the reason for our journey, but she was the cause.”
He pulls up the seax, the root of my problems. Or maybe the root is my thievery, not what I stole.
“Beautiful,” says the man, his gaze returning to me, “like the girl.” He smiles. His comment should offend me, but he carries a friendly expression, like he pities my situation. None of the men in Asbjorn’s crew had shown any regret for putting me in chains.
“Some men ride horses, others ride goats,” says Asbjorn. His crew bursts out laughing. So rude, but I don’t take it personally. I’m comfortable in my skin. Men have called me a beauty when flirting. Now, one called me a goat.
Besides, a Volva need not worry what some horny bastards think of her looks.
“So what did she do?” asks the newcomer.
Asbjorn holds up the knife. Standing next to each other, their broad shoulders are as if chiseled out of stone.
Their mothers must have fed them well—milk and mead and meat.
With their full beards and giant frames, my beardless Narve is a boy by comparison.
Asbjorn is older than me, but his friend must be closer to my age, barely twenty-something summers.
“She stole this,” says Asbjorn.
The younger man’s eyes widen. “No way!”
“I swear it. She snuck into my house and took it out of my battle chest,” Asbjorn insists. “While I was in the house, even! Sleeping like a babe!”
They both howl in laughter like it’s the craziest story they have ever heard.
The blonde noble leans on Asbjorn’s shoulder, wiping his eyes, gasping.
He blows out a long stream of air, controlling his giggles.
Despite myself, I am forced to crack a smile.
What a ridiculous scene. Better if I seem strong than fearful.
“And she smiles,” says the noble, pointing right at my face. “Chained up for theft, and she still smiles.”
“You should have seen her when we threatened to kill her folk. How she stepped forward, chest puffed out like Thor. ‘I stole your seax’ she said.”
Asbjorn mocks me—standing proud, fists clenched, comedically defiant. All the men around me laugh. The blonde noble wipes his eyes again, struggling to stay on his legs.
“Stop it, Asbjorn. I will die from this, by Odin.”
The laughter dies out slowly. I can’t remove my own smile, even in this dire position.
A shackle around my neck, on my ass, and I smile like a fool—just like the noble said.
But I can’t help it. They really are quite funny.
The situation is ludicrous. Asbjorn’s noble friend makes me feel safer, strangely enough.
The noble points at me again, his voice cracking as he speaks.
“Little girl, where did you get balls like a bull?”
I raise myself to face him. It takes all my might to lift the chain. It scrapes along the ground.
“My name is Kilda.”
The laughter dies into silence. No one had expected me to speak. He steps forward as soldiers huddle closer, eager to hear the exchange.
“I didn’t hear you. Speak again,” he says, voice still unsteady.
“I said, my name is Kilda.”
“Kilda, I like that,” he says. “I will call you Kilda the Bull.”
Roaring laughter from the men. Kilda the Bull.
Because of my balls. To be honest, I kind of like it.
Even if I have dishonored Asbjorn, these men think highly of me.
They harbor some strange respect for a woman with the gall to break into a warrior’s house and steal his seax. The audacity. The balls.
“What’s yours?” I ask, feeling my balls grow as I test the man’s boundaries. What slave asks questions of a free man? One of the men releases a low whistle, surprised at my insolent behavior. But the noble only laughs.
“My name is Vidar,” he says.
“Very fitting.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Surely you speak of my shoulders, fair lady,” he says with a wink. Vidar means wide warrior. He’s right. That’s what I meant—but it could also be said about his jaw, his hands, his forearms. Every part of this man is wide. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help myself.
“Your shoulders cannot compete with the breadth of your confidence.”
Vidar stifles a laugh as fully grown men giggle around me.
I hadn’t known soldiers behaved like young maidens, snickering at every opportunity.
My comment is friendly banter, but clearly unacceptable from a woman in chains.
Sure, I implied he is overly confident, but that’s practically a compliment among men.
Warriors need the confidence to believe they’ll win, that they’ll bathe in the blood of their enemies.
The blonde noble turns to Asbjorn.
“Please, my friend, my ally, honor me.”
“Name your wish, Vidar,” says Asbjorn. “I can guess what it is.”
“Let me take her off your hands,” says Vidar, gesturing toward me.
My mind races as I notice I’m being traded. Swapped. Bartered. Like a horse, a pig, a cow. I am owned. Barely human.
“Are you sure?” says Asbjorn. “She’s a feisty one.”
“Name your price.”