Author's Note: This story is a work of fiction and is based primarily on the fictional country of Nordland, a small island nation in the North Sea between the UK, Norway, and Denmark. All characters, events, and places described in this narrative are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This is a short story I wrote in response to requests by readers for a Nordlandic Viking-themed story. It doesn't have the more detailed plots or character development that I have in my other stories and is essentially a stand-alone story. Depending on the response, I may consider writing further stories set in this time period.
All comments and feedback are welcomed.
HF
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The West African Coast, 865 AD
The dazzling orange morning sun had just begun to rise over the horizon, casting long shadows on the rocky shore as the small fleet of longships approached the unfamiliar coast. The few sandy beaches were interspersed with rocky outcroppings that dotted the shoreline, limiting their options for coming ashore with such a fleet of ships.
The storm that had battered them all night had disappeared. The turquoise-colored waters, once treacherous and foreign from the raging storm, were now calm and placid, the sunlight sparkling off the surface, reflecting on the scarred and determined faces of the Viking warriors that lined the decks of the small, stout vessels.
They were all hard men, and women, born into a cold, harsh world of violence, where a glorious death in battle meant passage to the eternal feast in Valhalla. Each of them was adorned in their battle armor, heavy chain-mail outfits that had protected them through countless battles with their foes. In their hands they gripped their weapons and shields, ready to charge forth to do battle the moment their leader, Hilda Skjaldmær, gave the order.
Hilda stood at the prow of her ship, the tips of her fiery red hair whipping in the breeze, her vivid green eyes fixed on the strange land ahead. The breeze was warm against her skin, a contrast to the cold, north wind that she was used to in her homeland. This is indeed a new land, she thought grimly to herself. A dangerous land.
They had been at sea twenty days. Twenty days since her father, Jarl Thorbjorn, the ruler of the Viking clans that had inhabited the isles of the North Land, had bid her and her trusty crew of Viking warriors farewell, sending them forth to seek new lands to explore, pillage and conquer in his name.
Their farewell had been in the traditional Viking tradition with her father gripping her shoulders tightly, looking into her eyes, judging her. Satisfied with what he saw, he had given her his blessing before kissing her on both cheeks, sending her and her warriors forth into the roiling North Sea.
Departing the bay of North Haven, the settlement where her father ruled the North Land, she and her fleet of five vessels had sailed south, skirting the Frankish coast, keeping an eye out for the vessels of the Frankish kingdoms. The small, stout wooden vessels, built for long voyages in the harsh, unforgiving waters of the North Sea had been battered by the harsh winds and crashing waves the moment they had left port.
Nonetheless, they had still made good speed, soon entering the waters of the Franks. She had been on several raiding parties of Frankish settlements, leading her warriors as they pillaged the small communities that dotted the Frankish coast. They had no stomach for a fight, preferring to surrender at the first sign of the arrival of the fearsome Viking warriors. Worthless peasants, Hilda had thought of them, not useful for anything other than fornicating and lying around drunk.
That was not to say Hilda didn't enjoy the pleasures of the flesh or of the goblet. She still recalled the feast her clan held upon their return from their last voyage to the isles to the west of the North Land. They had feasted for five whole days straight, Hilda dividing her time between eating, drinking and fighting with the other warriors.
With a faint smile, she still recalled how two of the warriors in her clan had ambushed her one evening as she was returning to her tent, having thought they could best the drunken Viking woman in mock combat. Both warriors had quickly learned that she was not one to be trifled with in a fight and soon that mock combat had turned into something equally energetic, but far more pleasurable.
It had taken all of her self-control to muffle her cries of ecstasy as one plundered her toned, muscular body from behind while she took the other into her mouth, enjoying the taste of his thick, creamy essence that spilled from the tip.
Having passed twenty-five winters, Hilda had grown into a fearsome warrior, inheriting her father's skill at arms. He had trained her from a young age, guiding her developing, sparring with her, forcing her through increasingly arduous feats. She still recalled the day where she had eventually bested her father in one of their sparring contests. Instead of unleashing his wrath on her, he had hugged her and looked her in the eyes, telling her she was now a warrior. Continuing her training, she became highly proficient in the use of the wickedly dangerous Viking sword, preferring it over their other weapons her clan used.
More than just what her father had taught her, she had gained the wisdom of Odin, a warrior's gift that was more valuable than brawn or muscle. He had come to her one night in her dreams, his visage fearsome and determined. When she awoke, she knew she had been changed, she had been transformed by him becoming a skilled tactician, able to discern the intentions of an enemy and, rare amongst her fellow Vikings, able to temper and control her bloodlust in battle.
This trait became apparent seven winters earlier when she was on a raiding party with her father and the other warriors of her clan. They had struck a small Frankish village, a quick and easy raid. However, this time, the Franks had put up some resistance and through the battle, she saw her father surrounded by a group of Franks. Rather than hurl herself, crazed with bloodlust, into their midst as many of her clan would have done, she had moved swiftly around to the side of the group, taking them unawares.
She had speared the first Frankish warrior in front of her, a young, brown-haired man, in the side of the neck with her sword, pulling it free with a slick, wet sound as a fountain of blood sprayed from his neck and he dropped to the ground, gurgling and shaking as he drowned in his own blood. Her vision had narrowed, her mind focused, as she moved forward, dispatching two more of the Frankish warriors before the rest of the group realized they were under attack from the rear.
While her father swung his great battle-axe in wild arcs around him, his own bloodlust clearly in control of him, she had been precise, methodical in her strikes. Soon, the pair of them had defeated the remaining Franks, leaving their bodies lying in the dirt. She had approached her father, her green eyes clear and sparkling with the energy of battle. It had taken him a moment to compose himself, to reach out to clasp her arm, gripping it tightly. They had spoken no words, none were needed. From that moment onwards, she was the right hand of her father, fighting for and with him in countless battles to maintain control of the isles of the North Land.
