Chapter 6
The hall swallows me whole. Rafters vanish into shadow. Even Vidar looks small beneath them. My neck aches from staring upward. I’m stepping into the Midgard Wyrm, trapped in its murky depths.
The air is thick with wood smoke and the smell of drying meat. Legs of lamb hang from the rafters. My stomach rumbles.
“Follow me,” says Vidar. His voice is serious. The lightness from before is gone. My chain rattles through the hushed hall as I hurry to catch up.
Vidar had told me about life in the mountain valleys. Everyone has heard of it—the notoriously lush Opdal. Deer and elk, blueberries, cloudberries, apples and cherries. Nuts, milk and honey. My mouth is still wet from his descriptions. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.
By now I would have eaten a simple meal with my father, some bread, some leftovers. Even with our problems, we had our routine. Now it’s all over. I have to focus. I have to survive. No time to bathe in memories.
How many carriages would it take to fill the room? This hall is mighty, but I prefer the wide valley outside these walls. Wide like Vidar, with soft, sloping mountains on each side inviting the eye skywards. The harsh, jagged peaks of the west are intimidating in comparison.
“Keep up,” hisses Vidar, pulling me from my daydream. I hurry after him as my shackle chafes at raw skin.
The longhouse is dead silent. Just an older woman tending the fire and reviving last night’s stew. Scouse is the best, especially when it’s a couple days old. Unknown spices tickle my nose. They must trade far and wide.
The rotund woman looks up at me, no smile. Trying to make an ally, I smile at her and nod. No reaction. I forget the chain at my throat. Why would she want to be friends with a slave?
Vidar turns to me as we stop in front of a massive door.
“No jokes in here, understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, feeling the weight of my new status.
My chatter with Vidar has been pleasant. He is friendly, but the coming meeting is formal and important to him. I will be dishonoring him if I speak out of line.
Movement catches my attention. Two little girls in sleeping attire peek out from behind a door.
They stare at me wide-eyed. I smile and give a little wave.
A young woman with a sour expression pulls them back into the dormitory.
Her shining blonde hair pours past her chest—the stark opposite of my dark, utilitarian cut barely passing my shoulders.
She gives me a pointed look up and down—eyes dull, not proud—before her gaze flickers to Vidar. Then she’s gone, closing the door softly behind her.
Vidar snaps his fingers in front of my face. A little too close for my taste.
“Focus,” he says. “This moment will decide your fate.”
Focus indeed. I’m practically sleeping where I stand. Irritation tightens my gut, but I bite my tongue. This isn’t the moment. Vidar pushes open the doors to reveal the plushest room I have ever seen.
The walls are painted dark red. Beams of white run along the ceiling and walls. A beautiful contrast. Furs adorn every surface—the floor, the walls, the tables. My eyes widen. It’s so much to take in.
On one side of the room, a dozen colorful shields hang, framing a massive ornamental hammer covered in runes. Runes like the ones on Groa’s staff.
On the other wall, a tapestry blazes with bright blues, reds, and greens, woven together to form an image I recognize.
“Yggdrasil,” I whisper.
The warmth of the room dries my tongue as I gape.
Swords, axes, and bows hang symmetrically behind a wooden throne carved with dragons. An older man sits there, beard and hair still showing a hint of blonde through the gray.
“Hail and joy, my jarl,” says Vidar, bowing deeply. Glancing at Vidar, I bow in silence. I was so struck by the glittering hall that I hadn’t noticed the people in the room.
“Well met, honorable Vidar,” says the jarl. “All is safe?”
A powerfully built woman stands next to his throne, arms crossed, amused smile on her face as her eyes bore into me. Her layered dress, brightly colored, could buy a farm. The silver brooches alone could feed my people for weeks. She must be close to the chieftain. Daughter or wife, all depending.
My feet scrape the floor as I lower my gaze from hers.
“Yes, the next patrol has already been sent out.”
“Very good,” says the jarl.
“I bring you a gift, my jarl,” says Vidar as he tugs on my chain to make me step forward.
My pride tells me to yank it back, but my survival instinct says otherwise. Vidar hadn’t warned me that I would be given away. A slab of meat.
The woman’s eyebrows lift as a smile climbs to the cliffs of her cheekbones. Her large stature and firm facial features exude strength, echoing Vidar.
As strange as it feels, at the lowest point in my life, passed from man to man, I only care what this woman thinks of me. She is a shining Aesir. A Valkyrie among humans.
“A gift?” says the jarl. I catch myself staring at the woman. “Of flesh and blood and bone?”
“A fine addition to your house, Father.”
I glance sideways at Vidar. Father? I’d known Vidar was of noble stock—his mannerisms, proud stance, the respect other men showed him. It’s obvious.
Only the rich can feed children enough to grow so large. But a jarl’s son? I had not expected that.
“Where did you find her?” asks the jarl.
“Bought from Asbjorn of Tingvoll.”
“Asbjorn? How does he fare?” The jarl’s face lights up. He clearly knows Asbjorn. Perhaps they had won battles together, or traded wares.
“He is very busy, my lord,” says Vidar with a smirk. “Busy laying seed in his wife’s soil.”
No lie there. I have seen it myself. How could I forget? Asbjorn is indeed a very busy man. Even after everything, I hope she gets her wish.
The jarl laughs and the woman next to him rolls her eyes. A fine lady like her is surely used to men behaving well around her, showing respect for her family and sensibilities. I had been shocked at how Asbjorn’s and Vidar’s men joked about me. They had not cared about my family’s status.
As women, we see glimpses of men’s crudeness, but traveling with warriors has opened my eyes. They can be animals.
“He can’t be that busy, trading this young girl,” says the jarl.
“He captured her himself.”
“Really? On what grounds?”
“She stole Asbjorn’s seax.”
A look of surprise crosses the jarl’s face. I’m getting used to people’s reactions now. I must be the only fool who hadn’t known about the importance of a man’s seax. You’d think it was a replacement for their…
“Stealing a man’s seax,” says the jarl, “a very bad idea.”
The urge to laugh bubbles. A light snort escapes my nose. Foolish girl.
“What? The girl in chains laughs at her crimes?” says the jarl. “What is amusing to you?”
I look to the floor, remembering Vidar’s orders, but he pushes me with his elbow.
“The jarl asks you a question, girl,” he says.
“I just… It’s just… Groa said the same words,” I stutter. “Very bad idea, she said.”
“Your Groa is wise,” says the jarl.
“She’s a wise-woman,” I reply. Both Vidar and the woman tense up. I have spoken out of line, replying to the jarl unbidden. But he doesn’t seem to mind, raising himself in his throne and looking straight at me.
“Is it Groa Veifinna?”
By the gods, he knows my Groa? A faint hope—escaping a life of servitude.
I don’t belong in chains, no person does.
My people have no slaves. Not that we can afford them, but if we could, I doubt we would own any.
Groa wouldn’t allow it, nor would our chief.
My heart drops, crushing the seed of hope.
There is no ‘we.’ I am no longer welcome by my own folk. I am nothing. Nothing in chains.
I breathe deep, catching myself. No tears.
“It is. She still finds the way,” I respond. “Uh, my jarl,” I tack on, trying to make a good impression.
“I have heard of her,” says the jarl, pointing at me, “long ago. Before you were born. Neither were the two of you,” he continues, throwing a glance at Vidar and the woman. She must be the jarl’s daughter, Vidar’s sister. The resemblance is quite striking now that I know.
They laugh briefly. I remember Groa telling me how hard it is for children to imagine their parents living lives before their existence.
“Like me, she still breathes,” concludes the jarl.
“And kicks,” I add. Vidar tugs my chain to correct me. I resist instinctively, even if the metal scrapes against my skin.
“Silence, slave,” he growls, yanking my chain to pull me on the floor. On my knees, the room grows. Everyone stands above me. Vidar’s sister grins. Tears press behind my eyes. My body screams to attack Vidar, rip his eyes out. Humiliating me like this, for a simple joke?
“Let her stand, boy,” says the jarl, his brow furrowed.
“But—” starts Vidar.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yes, Father.”
What a victory. That must hurt Vidar more than if I ripped his eyes out. Called a boy in his father’s hall. Hiding my smugness, I raise myself from the floor. I don’t want Vidar to hate me, nor his sister. I need them to trust me. Best to keep allies if I hope to be released. Or escape.
“Thank you, lord,” I say demurely, bowing my head. “Forgive me, Vidar.”
Vidar makes a better ally than enemy. I’m quite sure he likes me, even after that display. He’s a brute, but also influential, powerful. I need to keep him close.
The jarl sighs.
“What is your name, girl?”
“I am Kilda.”
“Well, Kilda, can you do anything useful? Other than stealing from others?”
“She might make a decent offering to the gods,” says Thyra. “If they would even accept her.”
“Let her speak,” says the jarl, holding up a hand to his daughter.