Chapter Eleven: Shadows Closing In

"Is there any way for me to defeat someone physically stronger than me in a head-on fight?"

Ouni looked up at the oak tree and gave it a gentle push. It was as if she hadn't even disturbed the wind; the leaves remained as still as before.

"No way. The gap in strength is too great, unless the opponent stands perfectly still and has no weapons in their hands."

She curled her lip. Wisdom truly did come at the cost of muscle mass, constantly vetoing any efforts to train; the two could not coexist.

Releasing her grip on the oak, Ouni strolled forward with Harold, heading toward the warm embrace of the settlement at the foot of the mountain.

"Then do you have any brilliant combat techniques you can teach me?" she asked, feeling unconvinced.

"None. Combat technique is simply being faster than your enemy—killing them before they can harm you. Wearing armor better than your enemy's—so good that when their weapon strikes you, trying to kill you is no easier than smashing a shield with your bare hands. Only then can you attack your enemy while they are attacking you, or even shatter their sword against your armor."

"Is that so?" Ouni paused. She had studied many historical battles in her past life, but she had indeed lacked knowledge of these fundamentals. She thought of the "Maid of Orléans," a knight who wore heavy plate armor and charged into the fray repeatedly, yet was rarely wounded.

"Yes. But in unarmored combat, you can use a longsword as a shield to defend, parrying the enemy's weapon with strength and speed while delivering a counterstrike."

Harold snapped two branches to make wooden sticks, shoved one into her hand, and crooked his finger, signaling her to attack.

Ouni did not hold back. She was curious, and her intuition told her these things were useful—they might save her life at a critical moment. She moved like a dancer who had lost all sense of direction, flailing the stick wildly toward Harold as if performing an absurd act.

It was a clumsy, frantic mess!

But before she could even react, she found the branch snatched from her hand and sent flying several meters away. Harold’s stick was pressed against her throat; he smiled smugly and pulled it back.

What just happened?

Ouni’s eyes lit up. She looked Harold up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. "Can you teach me?"

"Your strength is too weak. Too weak to even hold a weapon properly, let alone pull off what I just did. And with so little power, you couldn't inflict any damage on an enemy. I don't recommend it. With your strength and technique, you would surely die the moment you enter combat!" Harold frowned, seemingly searching for a solution.

"Forget it!" Ouni sighed. Thinking of her donkey, she suddenly asked, "Do you know how to ride?"

She felt that a rider wouldn't need to rely on raw strength, would they? After all, with the speed of a horse, the momentum could turn her soft, weak attacks into something lethal.

"I do! I have a Finnhorse; my father taught me and Robert, though I rarely ride it. We spend most of our time on ships." Harold looked at her, puzzled. "Do you want to become a rider?"

Ouni nodded. "I have plans to. I spent money to buy... hmm!" She suddenly thought of something and asked, "If you don't have riders, how did you manage to evade enemy pursuit during your Viking raids?"

"Evade?" Harold looked at her, completely bewildered. "Why would we evade? By the time they discover us and give chase, we’ve already returned home with our holds full."

Right... She suddenly realized that Vikings didn't run from a fight; they met it head-on. Naturally, they had no need for riders to serve as scouts for enemy intelligence.

A few minutes later, Harold stared blankly at the donkey in the shed—the one that made a sound like a high-pitched, squeaky hinge—and Ouni, who was busy soothing it. "This is your warhorse?"

"Laugh if you want, I won't mind!" Ouni’s face darkened, remembering an unpleasant memory as her backside throbbed with a dull ache.

Harold suppressed a laugh. "I’ll give you a Finnhorse, but it’s a one-year-old foal. It will be ready to ride by next year. Do you want it?"

Ouni, who didn't want to owe anyone any favors, was about to refuse when she caught sight of two of the Jarl’s warriors approaching. She quickly straightened up, clasped her left hand over her right wrist, and crossed them in front of her lower abdomen.

"Ouni Feld, the Jarl’s steward, Lord Holger, wishes to see you. Come with us!"

"Did he say what it was about?"

"Don't ask!" The Viking warrior was blunt. He seemed quite unhappy with Ouni; clearly heartbroken, he treated her like someone who had betrayed him. "Just come!"

"I'll go with you!"

"Prince Harold," (referring to the son of the former lord and chieftain), "the steward said she must go alone. Don't cause trouble for us, Harold!" They clearly didn't hold Harold, who lacked power and favor with the Jarl, in any regard.

"You..." Harold’s temper flared, and he stepped forward.

"It's alright!" Ouni pulled Harold back to defuse the situation and shook her head. "Wait for me here."

The two Viking warriors walked ahead. Ouni, tired from the walk, struggled to keep up.

"Be careful of the steward!"

She wondered if she had misheard; the warrior in front had spoken, but he didn't turn his head. What did he mean?

Ouni was brought to a house near the lord's estate. To the right stood the great hall and the temple of the old gods.

"Lord Holger, the person you wanted is here!" one of the warriors shouted toward the room.

"Bring her in, and stay outside the door. No one is to enter!"

The voice came from within. Ouni was pushed, her pupils constricting. Combining the warrior’s earlier warning with the atmosphere, she felt an indescribable sense of unease as she stepped into the shadows. Looking back, the two warriors stood on either side, backs turned to her, leaving her not knowing how to ask what was going on.

"Why haven't you come in yet?"

The voice sounded like a death knell. Ouni stepped into the room. There were several slaves with collars around their necks inside; seeing her enter, they all looked toward her.

"Ouni Feld, we meet again!" Holger wore a fake smile. Under the subtle influence of rosemary, he let his gaze linger on her insolently and gestured for her to sit across from him at the table.

Ouni walked up and sat down. A female slave handed her a cup of ale. "Thank you!"

The slave lowered her head in fear, not daring to meet her eyes.

"Have a drink of ale first. I need to discuss the perfume formula and the ship delivery with you."

Ouni took a small sip; she was indeed thirsty. For some reason, she felt that Holger’s smile grew even broader.

"I’ve already settled things with the Jarl. I think we should follow the Jarl’s wishes!" Ouni felt there was nothing left to discuss; she feared complications.

"No, no, no. You can deceive the Jarl, but you cannot deceive me. We need a new agreement. For instance, the profits from the perfume should be donated to the Jarl for free, rather than you trying to seize wealth that does not belong to you!"

"What do you mean?" Ouni stared at him, frowning. Suddenly, she felt her heart racing. Her face beneath her headscarf grew flushed and hot, her breathing quickened, and she felt an embarrassing discomfort in her chest, forcing her to press her legs together.

Her expression changed. This was the reaction to an aphrodisiac. She stood up abruptly, intending to run out—it was the only way to save herself.

But as she rose, she felt her hands go weak, and her body began to lose sensation. Fortunately, she caught herself on the table. Her palms began to sweat, and every breath felt like inhaling fire. The heat in her body made it nearly impossible to think.

"What did you put in the ale? What do you want?" Ouni turned, bracing herself against the table, struggling to stay conscious and not be overcome by the toxin, while questioning him.

"Nothing, just added some herbs!"

"Is it mandrake?" She saw Holger stand up. Given the speed of the drug's effect, she instantly realized what she had consumed.

Mandrake was a potent aphrodisiac. In Norse culture, it was often described as a plant with a humanoid root, and its harvesting required special rituals to avoid the scream that could drive the listener mad or kill them.

Ouni’s heart hammered like a drum. Fear gripped her throat like an invisible hand. She felt like a beast trapped in a snare, struggling but unable to escape.

Holger wore a triumphant smile. He rubbed his hands together as he stood up and walked toward her. "Oh, my beauty, you are finally mine. Don't worry, even though the Jarl’s wife wants you dead, I can't bear to do it. I will hide you away and pamper you well! You should thank me for saving your life!"

"Don't come any closer... help... help!" Ouni felt a desperate panic, her words slurred—the anesthetic effect of the mandrake was taking hold. She grabbed the horn cup to throw at Holger but found she couldn't even lift her arm. A wave of drowsiness washed over her, and her vision began to darken.

Holger’s footsteps echoed in the silent room; each one sounded like a funeral bell in Ouni’s heart.

"No... no... I will kill you... I will..." Her body lost all sensation, and she collapsed completely.

"Master, she has fallen!" The female slave caught her, held her in her arms, and looked at Holger, waiting for instructions.

"Take her to my room. You stand guard outside the door!"