CHAPTER TWO

 

Vörnen, Norway, 871 AD

 

The muscles of Sigurd’s back and arms screamed. His body strained, his fists wrapped around a rope, levering a stake that would become part of the fortress. Made from a giant ancient pine, it was twice as tall as Sigurd. The bottom was planted in a deep ditch.

Sigurd had only one helper—Floki—who was pushing the stake from the other side so that it would stand vertically. They needed at least one more man behind Sigurd to haul the rope and one more to help Floki.

They were building the palisade wall under a massive stone arch that the gods must have carved when they were creating the world. It looked like rocks of different sizes had been stuck together by an invisible force in a rough line between the granite walls of the mountain, forming a natural gate over the dirt path that led to the village.

The palisade wall beneath the arch would protect the village as part of the fortification system from the west. From the north, the village was shielded by the mountains, but it was vulnerable to overland attacks from the east. The southern side needed the most defense, as it bordered the beach where any raiders coming by sea would arrive.

The mud sucked at Sigurd’s shoes, making it hard to get a foothold. So far, the stake was winning.

“Hold!” yelled Floki, his face red, the veins on his neck bulging.

It had been hard labor to build the fortress. Last year’s late-summer battle against Fuldarr had taken half of the male population. Sigurd hoped that his father feasted with Odin in Valhöll, for he had fallen in the battle like a hero, taking many enemies with him. Thankfully, Sigurd had won, his second line of defenses tipping the balance to their side. Fuldarr had retreated with only a third of his ships—and with Vigdis.

Fuldarr would not recover soon from such defeat, but neither would Vörnen. The battle, which had lasted many hours, had left them an easy target for raiders. It had been the end of raiding season, thank the gods, so no one had attacked them since. Now it was June, and most neighbors were busy planting this year’s vegetables, rye, and barley—too early for raiders yet. They had to finish the fortress as soon as possible, and most certainly before the end of summer, or they’d be an easy target for common raiders. Of even greater concern was next year, by which time Fuldarr would have most likely gathered new troops.

The rope burned Sigurd’s hand and creaked softly. He had to pull it up now, or the stake would fall on Floki. If only Sigurd had more men.

He filled his lungs with air and roared “Noooow!” pulling the rope towards him, hoping that Floki would push at the same time.

Asa, Floki’s wife, appeared on the path with their lunch in a basket. Her eyes widened and she rushed towards them, basket dropped on the ground. She took the rope behind Sigurd and hauled with him. Sigurd felt that the rope gave easier and the stake started moving towards them, but he grunted. “What are you doing, woman? Go away.”

She only groaned and pulled harder. The tip of the log rose up, but too quickly. How was she so strong?

“Go away, Asa!” Alarm rang in Sigurd’s voice. She’d surely make a mistake, she had no idea how to do this and was going to get them both killed.

“You need help, jarl,” she grunted through her teeth.

Anger rose in Sigurd’s stomach like hot bile. He’d seen the kind of help women provided... “I forbade women to come near the fortress!”

Rage gave Sigurd strength he did not know he had. He yanked the rope, and the stake jerked up. It stood vertically for a moment, then lost its balance and fell on the left wall with a thump. The arch above the path cracked in the thinnest place from the blow. Sand and small stones showered on the path below.

Floki jumped away. But the arch did not break.

“Silly woman!” Sigurd growled. “How are we going to build the wall when stones can fall on us at any moment?”

Sigurd caught a movement, and his eyes darted to the ground by the ditch.

A woman lay there.

The air shifted as if heat radiated from the ground, but then it was gone. Freyja, the goddess of love, sprawled on the path, her famous golden hair spilling over the ground around her.

He blinked. How did she get there?

The stake began sliding towards the ground. The friction of the heavy log against the wall shifted the fragile balance of the cracked arch, and a rock the size of a child’s head began falling towards the woman.

It all took just a moment, but Sigurd saw it as if time had slowed.

He darted towards the unconscious body and yanked her just enough. The stone hit the ground right where her head had lain.

Everyone held their breath.

Sigurd stared at her. She was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. Her skin was flawless, her eyelids sparkled with hues of golden stardust, her soft pink lips swelled as if calling for a kiss. She wore the strangest clothes he had ever seen: a gray jacket hugged her waist and arms so that she had little room for movement; a skirt clung to her hips and ended just above the knees, shamelessly exposing beautiful legs. Sharp sticks that could pierce a man’s eye were glued to the heels of her shiny shoes. Did she use them as weapons?

On her neck lay a golden thread of a necklace of such delicacy that it could only have been crafted with magic by dwarfs from legends. Pearls stuck from her earlobes. An armring around her wrist had one white circle, tiny runes along the edge, and two arrows that pointed at them from the center as thin as bone needles. The armring ticked and one of the arrows moved.

Human hands had not made these objects. “She must be a goddess,” Sigurd whispered.

Asa came close. “Is she alive?”

Sigurd pressed his ear against her jacket, warm from the heat of her body. He heard a good thump-thump, thump-thump. He nodded to Asa. He looked the woman over to see if she was visibly hurt, but she looked unharmed.

Realization hit Sigurd. He looked at his people. “The gods must have sent her to help us with the fortress.”

He did not trust mortal women, but goddesses were another thing altogether.

They nodded, their eyes big and full of wonder. Maybe she, as a goddess, favored him. Maybe she would do magic and bring them strength to finish the fortress by the end of summer. With the number of men they had now, they had no hope.

“Well then, jarl,” Asa pressed her fists against her waist. “What are we going to do with her? She looks fine to me at first glance, but I need to examine her properly. And treat her if need be. But imagine what she would think if she woke up on a bench in my house. Floki’s feet in her face, chicken poop on the floor, cows mooing. She shouldn’t even sleep on a bench in your great hall.”

“Why not?” Floki said. “It was good enough for Vigdis her whole life. Even kings sleep there when they visit.”

Asa’s eyes rounded. “Do you want to offend the gods, Floki?” She turned to Sigurd. “She needs to be in the best place in the whole village so that she feels honored.”

Sigurd knew where Asa was leading. But he did not like the thought of a stranger in his bed one bit. Gods, he hated when women were right.

“My bedchamber,” Sigurd said. “Indeed, she should feel welcome. We need a miracle to finish the fortress.”

Sigurd took the woman in his arms like a precious spoil from a raid and walked towards the village. His skin tingled where her body pressed against his. There might, after all, be nothing wrong with having a goddess in his bed.