SWANHILDE

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE WHITE WOMAN

CHAPTER TWELVE: THE WHITE WOMAN

She came one morning appearing as if from nowhere - the morning mists co-mingled upon the beach, starting from the shoreline and creeping up towards the ruined settlement.

This was Trousbjorg after the fall, and there was no one left there to see her. None save the hermit, old and slightly blind was he. And yet how could he miss the White Woman?

Her form was girded in grey leathers and upon her bare arms were rings of silver. The furs that cloaked her shoulders were dark grey, the pelts of wolves slain by her own hand. Tall, she was. Tall and lithe and strong with it - for across her back, which was not broad, was slung a mighty war axe which she hefted with ease. A sword and knives were buckled to her slender waist, and criss crossed over the axe's blade lay a quiver to carry arrows for the bow she held in her left hand.

But all this, striking as it may be, was not the feature that most drew attention. The White Woman was so named for her mane of snow white hair, thick and lustrous but straight with some braided back at the centre of her forehead, while behind her neck the waves of white hung loose, overlapped by the long braids from above.

It was hair that would have befitted an elder who had lived a long life, but her young old face was ageless - smooth skinned, unlined and glowing with youth - and yet her purple eyes spoke of limitless age - they had seen everything and there was a hard, cruel set to them. Although, as the hermit later told, when the White Woman smiled she could be warmth and kindness itself - it made you trust her and want to answer her, he said. And if you felt inclined to withhold, the cruel glint would return in a instant and compel truths from you.

But all that was yet to come in the telling - for about the time that a maid of this settlement sailed past southern shores towards hotter climes, here in the south of the north, in colder lands, the White Woman did come and it was on that beach as she surveyed the debris of past slaughter, that the hermit's path crossed hers.

He still had enough sight to scavenge and now that this place was reckoned accursed, the hermit had moved along the shore to settle a while, for he knew it would be left in peace and here he could be comfortable.

And so when he first spotted the impossibly tall woman - who he reckoned a man at a distance, the hermit was somewhat agitated, although he reasoned he should take a closer look. For perhaps this warrior would have something of value to trade for fresh victuals and the wine that he had accumulated.

Then when he got close enough to see her clearly, he reconsidered. A woman and a special one at that - this would be an event worth the telling when next he traded up river at the settlements to the north - they were already sure to reward him for his tales and though a hermit he be, every once in a while he sought comforts and company. Maybe a young maid in need of his coin.

The White Woman was knelt by the rotting corpse of one of the attackers. It was near a large stone stained with blood and she seemed to be sniffing at it.

'That's a reaver, good lady,' he called out. 'The survivors buried their own before they departed, but left the carrion to rot in the sun.'

The White Woman was crouched upon her haunches, grey leather heeled boots making imprints in the sand - her position must have been awkward, but she had removed neither axe nor quiver from her back.

'Eh? There was a raid here but the men of this place fought them off? But at heavy cost it seems or why leave?'

The hermit leaned upon his stick and gazed at her in wonder for a moment. 'Ah, excuse my impudence, lady, I had but to take a moment to catch my breath.'

'Talk, old man. I see you have an answer for me.'

'Aye. The men ... all but boys and the old, were gone when this happened.'