Valhalla's Swordsmith

Tom Hill

Description

A thousand years ago a slave girl becomes a Viking warrior and swordsmith. Raiding far Castille in dragon ships with her Norse Swordsmith master and friends. A Vike that risks everything but offers secrets that will transform their ancient craft. A life or death journey and a clash of culture and religion.

Sujets

• Adventure
• Adventure (Guyana)

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 12 novembre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782344391
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
VALHALLA’S SWORDSMITH
by
Tom Hill



Publisher Information
Published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2012 Tom Hill
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The right of Tom Hill to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



THE SLAVE GIRL WHO BECAME A VIKING WARRIOR
She clawed at his eyes, missed by a hair’s breadth, running three cat claw, red stripes down his cheek. As he drew his head back from the ‘she cat’s paws’, she kicked at his balls, again missing by just a fraction. He now made a grab for her throat and with a calloused and gnarled hand lifted her from the deck. This time she was more accurate and spat in his eyes, while screeching like an alley cat in some foreign tongue.
The rest of the crew and some of their customers were enjoying this entertainment, at least most were. For Morag, it brought back too many unhappy memories from her past. Gunderson, who was with her, tried not to notice the commotion, this was not his type of entertainment, but it was hard to ignore.
The crewman tried to silence the girl’s screams with his hand, as the ‘she cat’ twisted and writhed in the air. This time, it was he who screeched, as the ‘she beast’ sank her teeth into his skin, biting through the salt encrusted leathery skin and tasting less salty but bloody fare, her teeth stopping as they met bone. Morag laughed at the girl’s resourcefulness and Gunderson also had to grunt a respectful chuckle at the girl’s fight and courage. She was only a child, perhaps six or seven summers. The man was twice her height and three times her girth, yet she fought as if they were almost fairly matched.
Morag muttered to Gunderson
“That arsehole needs a lesson in compassion to his thralls, if he continues, I will give him one.” Gunderson held her elbow and tried to guide her away, but Morag was not a woman to take lightly and could be as stubborn as a hungry mule.
“Come Morag, lets buy what we came here for, that arsehole looks like he has his hands full, at least the hands that are still working.”
The crewman was holding his hand, as blood seeped between his fingers, but this did not stop him chasing the child around the deck. Her hair was jet black and sprung from her head like a thorn bush in the winter it had been untended for many weeks and held an assortment of detritus. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril, from the other, a small stream of clear snot. Her body was only covered by a string tied rag around her waist. Her skin was the colour of a horse chestnut in the early autumn, with a redder hue on the exposed parts, from wind burn and the days at sea. The rest of her hide was marked by red whip stripes and welts from a switch these were tarnished by filth and dirt, no doubt from the work of bilge bailing. She was willow thin and her ribs and bones showed clearly under her sinewy muscles. She danced well among the barrels and cargo on the long-ship’s deck. The crewman was now furiously chasing her, tripping and cursing pushing loose cargo aside as his crew mates laughed or shouted encouragement at this makeshift theatre
“Run Lars, you oaf! Chase the Vixen she has the better of you!”
Morag was glued to the scene below and would not be distracted by Gunderson’s idle chatter, as they walked among the makeshift market stalls that lined the small pebble beach, looking down from their higher vantage point at the deck of the beached long ship and the mad chase around the deck.
The man swung his blood soaked right hand and managed to slap the young thing across the cheek, knocking her backwards head over heels on the ship’s planks and spraying blood from his bitten hand in droplets, that caught the late morning’s sun, smearing her cheek with a red patch. Gunderson snarled at the blow, he loved a good fight and was not opposed to mixing it with anyone, although few challenged him. He was not one for bullying or abuse and had a strong sense of honour and fair play, at least among his own culture. This was not fair play and he felt the old familiar feeling welling up in his body. He tried to distract himself and Morag. He knew that unless he controlled himself, further action would not have a good result. He pulled his eyes away from the scene and tried to concentrate on his reasons for coming to the fiord shoreline.
Turning around he brought his attention to the stall selling all manner of oils. He had a brief chat with the stall holder about the whale oil which he was selling in a glass bottle. The price was outrageous, as the bottle was small, and even though the oil was expensive and the glass bottle even more so, it still did not justify the weight of hack silver the man was asking. Gunderson held the bottle to the light
“This looks slightly greenish, not gold! It would need to be shiny yellow and heavy to justify your price. The trader shot back
“It is only slightly green because of the bottle the Whale oil is fine and clear as the mountain stream behind us. It will do a good job on your fine swords, master sword smith, and is indeed worth its weight in gold.”
Gunderson was about to counter this, when he heard Morag scream. Gunderson turned to realise that Morag was gone from his side and was now by the gunwales of the ship and shouting furiously at the crewman, Lars. Gunderson put the bottle down quickly and rushed towards Morag she could be headstrong in matters of injustice and was now barracking the man from the shore, close by the ships supports.
Morag now called to the ‘she cat’ and beckoned her to come to her. The language meant nothing to the girl, but she understood the gesture well enough and leaped past the shields, over the oars and into Morag’s arms in one courageous leap. The girl was light in Morag’s arms and now seemed more like a loving kitten than a ‘she cat’ and Morag held her as a Mother would hold a new born baby. Thor himself could not shift her now.
The crewman, Lars, stood on the oar and walked down the bending, long shaft of wood, like a skilled tight rope artist using his arms for balance even though his hand still dripped blood. Snarling at the girl he jumped onto the shore scattering pebbles to face Morag. His crew mates expecting some fun hung their head and shoulders over the Gunwales and shouted encouragement at him, while he sucked at his damaged hand, spitting the result on the pebbles
“Give me the girl I will whip some respect into her.”
“Looks as if you have whipped her enough” Morag barked at him
“and to no good result?” She gave him the evil eye.
The crewmen barracked him mercilessly from the open ship deck, laughing at his caution and shouting encouragement. Lars was angry and vengeful, but at the same time cautious. Women seldom talked to men like this, and certainly not to warriors, nor did they dare hold a stare. He could see from her forearm the decorative scars, dark coloured runes and shapes, signs of her connection to the spirit world. She looked like some sort of Shaman, Sorceress or White Witch, certainly an important female, and not a bad looking one at that. Lars was careful with his next words, sensing a chill and an imminent danger from the woman with the dark angry eyes.
“Young thralls are sometimes trouble until they learn who their new master is, she will learn soon enough.”
“I will take the troublesome girl off your hands, leave her with me!”
It was unlike Morag to plead.
“Ask me again when she has learned her lesson.” Lars sneered as he looked back at his shipmates, seeking approval.
“Take the vixen from the bitch.” One of Lars row mates called, laughing, head hanging over the gunwale.
Suddenly a huge hand gripped his jerkin from below and slammed his head forward onto the oak gunwale, with a sound like a rent collectors knock on a widow’s door. The man slumped semi conscious to the deck, spitting teeth. The rest of the row bench crew were suddenly quiet, as Gunderson, who looked like Thor’s body guard challenged them with a stare that chilled the afternoon sun.
“Anyone else care to insult my woman?” An insult was a serious matter to a Viking even though Morag was not Gunderson’s woman, but no one here knew that. Nor did they care to insult her again and incur the wrath of this man; they had just seen the results and the hand on the sword hilt he carried at his side.
Gunderson shifted his attention to the crewman. Lars looked at the man before him, huge forearms, knotted muscle, covered in scars; some looked like burns, others like weapon cuts. His upper arms had the warrior rings around his biceps, but they were three times larger than a normal man’s and richly decorated. His eyes were set in a determined stare, and appeared as cold as the North Sea drift ice. A magnificent sword hung at his waist and a matched seax was tucked in his belt. This was no ordinary man; Lars decided to tread carefully
“I just want my thrall back and we can all go our separate ways.”
Gunderson growled back in a deep rumble
“My woman will buy her! She is worthless to you. Name your price.” At this Morag was swaying slowly from side to side and seemed to have entered a trance state, her face had lost its beauty. Lars involuntarily shivered as Morag started to chant in Old Norse, her face a mask of intent almost spitting the low toned guttural sounds, emphasising the high notes.
“Send this evildoer to Niflheim and let the dragon