Chapter One: The Fierce Woman of the North

Page 1 of 3

Bathed in the gentle light of morning, Onni wove her fine, smooth hair into a traditional Nordic flower braid, wrapping a loose linen skirt around her waist. It felt a bit tight, so she loosened it, thinking she resembled a strangled rice dumpling. With a fingertip, she dabbed some sea salt and bared her teeth like a baboon to clean them, then wrapped her entire head in a scarf, leaving only a pair of brilliant eyes, blue as aquamarine, exposed.

In these troubled times, possessing an outstanding appearance could easily invite disaster. She preferred to wrap herself up tightly, keeping any sign of wealth well hidden and taking pleasure in her own solitude.

Her leather boots rose high enough to cover her calves. Stepping out of her home, she made her way early to the harbor where the ships lay anchored. The sea breeze carried a salty tang; the endless expanse of ocean and the majestic line where sea met sky stirred a tumult within her, filling her with awe at nature’s power and her own smallness.

History, she mused, was forged in war. Compared to the heroic Viking lions who followed the legendary son of “Woolen-Britches Ragnar” — with White-Cloaked Halfdan Ragnar invading England at their head — she, a landowner’s daughter, was indeed insignificant.

She had no clear purpose in coming today, only the hope of trying her luck and welcoming her father—Feld, a man weighing over three hundred pounds—home.

Feld had accompanied the local lord, Jarl Awalson, on a Viking expedition along the Rus’ coastline. By now, according to their plan, they should have returned.

Onni waited, hoping her bearded father would see her among the first faces to greet him when the ship docked. Yet, dark thoughts crept in. For days now, the same nightmare had tormented her: Feld, pierced through the belly by a long spear, while she stood helplessly by.

She prayed it was only a dream, not a premonition.

Clasping her hands to her chest, Onni looked skyward, making the sign of the hammer, and silently prayed to the gods—hoping Njord, deity of the sea, sailing, and wealth, would grant her father a safe return.

Feld was her only kin and support in this world; her heart brimmed with longing and blessings for him.

The crowd at the harbor swelled, the clamor growing louder as people speculated about the returning fleet. Clearly, she was not the only one awaiting the lord’s ships.

But the Norse voices were thunderous, making her ears ache. She tightened her scarf, hoping it would muffle the din.

As she adjusted her scarf, she suddenly felt an odd movement at her skirt’s hem. She turned sharply, eyeing the stranger behind her with suspicion.

Even with her face concealed, her striking figure drew unwanted attention.

“Hey, beautiful, want to find a quiet spot to—ow…” The man approached, leering.

Onni dodged, not wishing to cause trouble, but the man, sensing her timidity, reached out, attempting to grope her.

Seizing a moment when he was off guard, she stepped in close and drove her knee directly into his groin.

She thought she heard the sound of eggs breaking—a savage blow. She could almost feel his pain herself.

“You damned wench, how dare you hurt me?”

Onni felt the stares drawn by the commotion—some sympathetic, some mocking—pricking her like needles.

Page 2 of 3

She knew that in this world, where the strong preyed on the weak, she had to be resilient.

Yet her heart felt as if it were being torn apart. She was afraid, angry, but forced herself to hold back tears and face her assailant with determination.

Still, she retreated a step, putting distance between them in case he lashed out.

Seeing her innocent, frightened eyes and the wretch writhing on the ground, the bystanders quickly understood.

“Shameful!” someone muttered.

Clutching his pain, the man glared at her with venom but fled into the crowd.

Relief washed over her, and she smiled faintly, grateful for the scarf’s protection; her face remained hidden, sparing her from further revenge.

Thank goodness for her foresight.

“They’re back! They’re back!” someone with sharp eyes shouted, and the crowd erupted.

Onni looked up at once. A fleet of sailboats appeared on the horizon, decks crowded with returning warriors, all gazing toward the shore.

After braving countless perils, the warriors received a hero’s welcome—cheers and whistles filled the air, pride and admiration shining in every heart.

At first, delight sparkled in Onni’s eyes, but slowly her joy turned to unease—she could not see the ship Feld had sailed.

They hadn’t returned?

Impossible!

As her thoughts spun, another group of sails appeared, among them the very ship Feld had boarded.

She breathed out in relief—her spirits soaring from hell to heaven. This likely meant Feld was safe.

The fleet docked steadily. Lord Awalson, resplendent in fine clothes, raised his hand to the people, basking in their adulation.

“After a long voyage, we have conquered storms and the Rus, returning with glory and wealth. I have ordered my steward to prepare a feast of food and malt ale for our brave warriors in the lord’s hall, and to divide the spoils. These slaves we offer to the gods—let the gods rejoice with us, and let us drink to our courage!”

Another triumphant Viking raid!

Basket after basket of loot was carried ashore—gold and silver objects glittered everywhere. Slaves from Eastern Europe, hands bound, were driven to kneel in the open square, and the crowd’s cheers swelled anew.

Onni glanced at the slaves with pity. These, no doubt, would be strangled and sacrificed to the gods, but she was powerless to help.

Pressed into the crowd, heedless of the crush, she searched desperately for a glimpse of Feld.

“Have you seen Feld?” she asked.

“No, miss, I haven’t,” a well-mannered voice replied, charmed by her pleasant tone.

“Have you seen Feld?” she persisted.

“Oh, darling, what a figure you have! Who’s Feld? I don’t know him. Care to join me at the tavern?” someone leered.

“Excuse me, have you seen Feld return?” Onni ignored him, asking again and again, but no news of her father came.

Page 3 of 3

She moved through the crowd, each inquiry weighing her heart down further.

Her voice grew hoarse, her eyes filled with despair.

She dreaded hearing the truth, yet yearned for it—this inner conflict nearly broke her.

“Are you ignoring me?” The man who had harassed her seemed suddenly deranged, pushing through the crowd toward her.

Just as Onni, on the brink of giving up hope and convinced her father was lost, felt a hand seize her scarf.

She clutched it protectively—thankfully, she’d wrapped it tight.

“Wench, didn’t you hear me talking to you?” a voice snapped behind her. She turned, bewildered.

Who was this? What had she done?

As trouble seemed to loom again, another voice rang out: “Let her go and get lost!”

Onni turned to see a tall young Viking warrior, a round shield slung on his back, a Germanic helmet—nicknamed the ‘skullcap’—in his arms, his tired eyes fixed on her, wonder in their depths.

“Are you looking for Feld? Are you his daughter, Onni?”

My God, she thought, in this era, this height—he was a giant, his size enough for the secret berserker training of the high priests.

She glanced at the balding old man and the troublemaker beside him; next to this newcomer, ordinary men looked like children.

“Harold?” The man seemed to recognize him, blanched, and slipped away into the crowd.

“As your father said, your eyes are beautiful. He also told me there isn’t a woman in the world more lovely than you!”

His gaze was intense, predatory even, making her uneasy.

She resisted the urge to punch him, certain he could crush her with one hand.

“Do you know where my father is? I can’t find him. Will you help me?” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

“Sorry, what did you say? It’s noisy—I didn’t catch that. Could you say it again?” She could scarcely believe her ears.

“Feld is dead.”

Onni’s heart seized, as if gripped by an invisible fist.

A flicker of terror flashed in her eyes—the kind of terror born from losing one’s dearest, a pain so sharp she could hardly breathe.

Her thoughts scattered; memories of her father’s warmth, his laughter, his strong embrace played in her mind—now lost forever.

“No, it can’t be. My father can’t be dead! He was the bravest of warriors, could best three swordsmen alone, could wrestle a maddened brown bear. You’re lying, aren’t you?” Onni grabbed a fistful of his clothes, shaking her head in denial.