Page 2 of Shared By the Vikings

“Please, I beg you.” Ingrid also stood.

“Why, why do you beg?” He paused and tilted his chin. “You are a princess and a shield maiden, are you not?”

“Ja, that is true, but...” She hesitated. “A privileged birth means my path is not an easy one.”

“Many would say the opposite.” He was hunching forward again, reducing in height and retreating into his hood and the folds of his cloak so she could barely see his face. The small white skull pendant—a mouse most likely—hanging from his neck swayed with the ticking of her heart. “Many would say you have everything a woman could desire. A father who loves you. Comforts and treasures many have not. The gods have blessed you.”

“And I am grateful, really I am.” Ingrid twisted her hands together. If Thor or Odin were listening, she needed them to believe her. Her heart was thankful for all that she had, truly it was.

The seer turned and dipped his hand into a wooden box.

A squall rattled the door, shaking the iron latch.

Ingrid ignored the wind as the seer withdrew something from the box. He held it in his fist and turned to her, gnarled fingers clenched.

“This,” he said, “will help you find your way, child.”

“What is it?”

He didn’t reply, instead he turned his palm over and revealed a small dark rune stone. Red flecks shone from its green surface and it was the shape of a plump berry.

“Bloodstone,” he said as she took it. “It will help a lost soul see change on the horizon.”

“Change on my horizon? Am I the lost soul?”

“I give you this rune as a protective talisman. It will give you the strength and courage you need to brave the storm.”

Ingrid trapped it in her hand and glanced at the wooden door, which was still rattling as the wind beat it. Was this the storm the seer was talking about? The one that shook her village right now. Or were there more on her horizon?

“I am tired,” he said, staggering a little to the right before clutching a table littered with dried herbs. “You must see the change and summon courage. But beware the bear and the wolf.”

“But I thought I had to beware of the bear and the ocean.”

“All of them, the bear will drive the wolf to the ocean.” He slumped into a chair beside a waning fire. The skull hanging from his neck settled on his chest. “Now go, the gods have exhausted me with their instructions and delivering them to you has drained the energy from my bones, sinew, and tendons.” He held out his upturned hand.

Ingrid poked out her tongue and dragged it over the cool, dry flesh of his palm. She had so many more questions for the seer but it was clear her time with him was over. Now she had to get back to her home, to her father, for there was a royal banquet being held in honor of a faraway visitor. If she were late for that, there’d be displeasure in the king’s eyes, and since losing her beloved mother, she hated to give him further reason for pain.

She had one last glance around the seer’s abode then slipped the bloodstone into a pouch attached to her belt. Once it was safely nestled beside her strike-a-light, she slipped through the door.

Instantly the wind whipped around her and she battled to refit the iron latch; it seemed the angry air wanted to take the door from her and hurl it toward the gods. When she’d finally managed the task, she clasped her cloak beneath her chin and ran down the dark hillside, using her free hand to steady herself on passing tree trunks that were dotted with lichen. It was wet and slippery underfoot but Ingrid wore leather trousers beneath her cloak and her boots were new and made by the finest tanner in the village so she traveled with swift ease.

The rain pelted her face and stung her cheeks. Twice the wind gripped her hood and yanked it from her head, sending her dark hair flying out behind her. The winter seemed to penetrate her soul, invading her lungs with its rusty brew of storm rain, mud, and fungi. But soon she was back in Ravndal making her way past longhouses, stables, and pens of chickens and goats.

Peeking inside the great hall it was apparent the banquet was about to start. Two of her father’s servants were stoking a crackling fire, above which three vats of bubbling fowl stew were suspended. Another servant was setting out tankards of mead on long tables that were littered with apples and nuts. Three more fires in cast-iron bowls hung from the ceiling on chains and kept the night chill at bay.

Several villagers were already there, picking at a plate of smoked fish and talking loudly, clearly excited about the evening and merriment ahead.

Unseen, Ingrid rushed home, keen to remove any evidence of her trip up the muddy hillside to visit the seer.

Quickly slipping into her chamber area at the west of the longhouse, she dragged the weaved curtain across to afford some privacy. Then, using an old rag, she wiped the worst of the mud from her boots. She removed her cloak, hung it up to dry, and slipped from her trousers.

“Ingrid. There you are.”

She turned. Her handmaiden, Helga, stood there, face pale, long neck peeking from a woolen tunic.

“My dress.” Ingrid pointed.

Her father had asked that she wear a dress, plait her hair, and displayed her mother’s jewels. She’d barely given herself time to preen yet alone be presentable for a village feast hosting guests. One particular guest her father seemed unusually keen to impress. Ingrid had no idea why even though he’d talked of Bjorn Har many times over the last few days.

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