SWANHILDE

CHAPTER EIGHT: LONG SHALL YOU LIVE

CHAPTER EIGHT: LONG SHALL YOU LIVE

'Long shall you live. Son will fight son, and the sons of sons will sicken and fall. Of the daughters, you will see them never-more. Long shall you live.' Words of the Seer to a sixteen year old maiden, shortly after her marriage to a king.

Seven Days After the Sacking of Trousbjorg. The North.

Swanhilde raised her shield, angling it to take the sword blow. The blow was feeble and did not even cause her to lose ground, and had she blade in hand it would have been the work of moments to slide her weapon into the belly of the attacker.

'Again! Do not fear your weapon. Use your sword and bear down on me with your full weight.'

'But Swanhilde, I fear to hurt you.'

The 19 year old maiden, now feeling at least a decade older after her recent experiences, smiled wryly. 'You will not hurt me, Fridgerd, but enemies can hurt you ... unless you prevent them. Attack me again,' she ordered the twelve year old. 'Imagine I am the raider who slew your kin. ATTACK!'

With a yell of anguish, the girl swung her sword, and this time put her weight behind the blow. The sharp edge bit into the shield, but nevertheless Swanhilde blocked it with barely any effort.

'Good. Use your anger and soon we will improve on technique. Go you now to Kraki and Beinir and practice for one half hour more. Raghild, your turn. Like I showed you.'

One by one the viking maidens continued their practice - a routine set in motion by Swanhilde from that first night that they had left the ruins of their home. She was determined that if bad fortune followed them, that at least her people would be able to give some account of themselves, though none would fall if first, she still stood their defender. Not unless the ravens were already pecking at her dead flesh.

Afterwards came Beinir with the lad Kraki, fast and swift and skilled with a bow, was he, although Swanhilde would lief have seasoned warriors at her side when she marched her people through the gates of her uncle's stronghold.

They climbed the hill together, leaving the others encamped further down. Not a word was said as the threesome trudged steeply upwards through the long grass as the howling winds capered and careened like the spirits of the mirthless dead around them. All three had tied back their long hair although Swanhilde favoured her usual braids, which hung down at each side like golden lengths of rope and threatened to smack heavily about her, urged on by the mocking winds.

Ignoring this, the old man, the maiden, and the boy reached the summit and stood looking down at the majestic vista below.

Beinir pointed. 'Look ye, my lady. The lands of your birth, now held by the usurper.'

'Nay, Beinir, there will be no recrimination or accusation. We come hither as refugees and if permitted I will humbly submit before the throne of my uncle.'

The greybeard frowned. 'Such fortitude may be prudent, princess, but by Odin, it sits badly within my heart. Had we but four dozen doughty warriors, I swear by the all-father that thy legacy would be restored by the morrow.'

Swanhilde, who as we know, was not now over fond of the gods, frowned. 'And yet we do not, loyal one. All we have is children, women and elder folk, those dispossessed and in need of shelter. I would see them settled before I move on.'

'You still hold firm resolve on this issue?' Kraki spoke up for the first time.

Swanhilde smiled at the youth, who stood, smooth faced and with his long fair hair, whose tie had somehow come loose, blowing in the breeze. 'Aye, little brother, the safety of the survivors can not be assured if I remain. Should my uncle show forebearance, we might yet achieve our aim, but if I should linger, danger would lurk forevermore in the shadow of those I love.'