Song of the Shieldmaiden Read online

  Song of the Shieldmaiden

  Daughters of Valhalla Book 1

  Ashley Hagood

  Song of the Shieldmaiden by Ashley Hagood

  Copyright © 2022 Ashley Hagood

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical people, events, places, organizations, and establishments are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Ashley Hagood

  Published by Arrow Heart Press

  https://www.ashleyhagood.com

  Created with Vellum

  For my husband, mi vida, who makes all my dreams possible

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Svanhild

  Chapter 2

  Haldis

  Chapter 3

  Brynja

  Chapter 4

  Svanhild

  Chapter 5

  Haldis

  Chapter 6

  Svanhild

  Chapter 7

  Brynja

  Chapter 8

  Svanhild

  Chapter 9

  Brynja

  Chapter 10

  Svanhild

  Chapter 11

  Haldis

  Chapter 12

  Brynja

  Chapter 13

  Haldis

  Part II

  Chapter 14

  Svanhild

  Chapter 15

  Brynja

  Chapter 16

  Svanhild

  Chapter 17

  Haldis

  Chapter 18

  Svanhild

  Chapter 19

  Brynja

  Chapter 20

  Svanhild

  Chapter 21

  Haldis

  Chapter 22

  Svanhild

  Chapter 23

  Brynja

  Chapter 24

  Svanhild

  Part III

  Chapter 25

  Haldis

  Chapter 26

  Brynja

  Chapter 27

  Svanhild

  Chapter 28

  Brynja

  Chapter 29

  Svanhild

  Chapter 30

  Haldis

  Chapter 31

  Brynja

  Chapter 32

  Svanhild

  Thank You

  Free Short Story

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Svanhild

  Svanhild swung the sword, hitting the practice pell right above its straw thigh. She cursed. It was not where she wanted the blow to land.

  Sweat plastered her dark blonde hair to her forehead. As the night grew colder, her breath came out in clouds. Her body steamed like water vapor from a hot kettle, yet still she battled on.

  Across the yard, a door was open to the longhouse. Light streamed out from the grand hearth within. Svanhild heard a cacophony of familiar sounds inside – the voices of her family, the sloshing of ale horns, the friendly taunts and laughter of the warriors just home from their latest journey across the sea.

  It was the end of summer, a time of celebration.

  The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread made Svanhild’s stomach growl. But she could not stop now. She still could not land a hard blow against the pell after spinning. Knowing that someday she would feel the surprise of an enemy behind her, she wanted to master this move.

  She had to be prepared for anything if she was to be a shieldmaiden. She needed to prove herself. If she succeeded, skalds would sing songs of her bravery, and when it was her time to leave this realm, Odin would welcome her into Valhalla.

  This time next summer, she hoped to go raiding with her father and his loyal warriors – if her family allowed her, of course.

  She let out a battle cry, spinning with her sword outstretched. The edge of it lodged into the straw practice pell, but it was not enough force to stir many needles.

  “Hold the sword tight to your body, until you are ready to strike.”

  The familiar voice made her stop. She turned to see her father, Jarl Tove, standing between her and the longhouse, a horn of mead in one hand. He wore his best fur-trimmed cape tonight, his long brown beard knotted and adorned with silver rings. He made a formidable shadow against the light from within the hall behind him.

  Even in the darkness, Svanhild saw his twinkling eyes. She smiled. Whatever revelries he had been enjoying with their family and his warriors inside, he was taking time to come and watch her train. As he always did.

  “Show me,” Svanhild said, thrusting the sword hilt out to him.

  They exchanged mead for training sword. Svanhild took a sip from the horn while her father got into position. The mead was sweet tonight, like berries and honey. As she watched Father swing the sword at the straw man, she took another gulp from the horn. She had not realized how thirsty she was until now.

  “Do you see?” Jarl Tove asked. He demonstrated the move again, holding his sword upright before him as he whirled around to face the practice pell. Then, just as swiftly, he jabbed the sword directly into the stomach of the straw man. “Swords are made for slicing, not stabbing, but that is how we take the enemy by surprise.”

  Though Svanhild would have enjoyed more mead, her fingers itched for the sword again. “Let me try,” she said, hurrying to return her father’s ale horn to him.

  Once the sword was back in her grasp, she faced away from the training pell. She tried to mimic her father’s move, holding the sword flat in front of her face. Then, she twirled as fast as she could. The moonlit world of the training yard swirled around her.

  “Hold the momentum inside your core,” Father said.

  She held her breath as she spun. As soon as the straw man swam into her vision, she slammed her boot into the ground and lunged forward, sword pointing out from her waist. The tip of the blade dug into the straw with a satisfying crunch.

  Her father whistled his approval. The sound made Svanhild glow inside.

  “What are you two doing out here?” came another voice.

  “Hello, Mother,” they both said at the same time, then laughed.

  Svanhild’s mother, Helga, stood in the light of the longhouse door. She wore an embroidered red dress, her thick golden hair braided and swept over one shoulder so it hung in front of her. Despite her status as the jarl’s wife, she wore only a simple necklace set with a delicate green stone – not nearly as much as she could be wearing, given the treasure the men had brought back from their travels.

  “Come in from the cold,” she called to her husband. “Your people dislike getting drunk without your example.”

  Tove returned to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He stroked her braid, probably a little drunk already. “Whatever you say, my shieldmaiden.”

  Helga laughed, shaking her head at him. “It’s been too many winters since I last held a shield.”

  “You will always be a shieldmaiden to me.” The jarl kissed his wife again, this time on her long neck.

  Svanhild made a face at them to get them to stop, though she didn’t really mind. Her parents were always particularly affectionate after her father returned from his summer travels.

  As her parents headed back to the feast, Helga called over her shoulder, “You’re coming too, Svanhild.”

  Sighing, Svanhild lay her training sword next to the pell and followed them into the building.

  Inside the sprawling main hall
, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted meat. Wooden tables ran the length of the room, with benches and stools where men and women sat together, flirting and sipping their mead. Everyone feasted on plates of goat meat, roasted vegetables, and bread twisted into the shape of elaborate knots.

  At the center of the festivities, a fire roared in the hearth, making faces flush and sweat form on the brows of those who had drunk the most. The smoke drifted into the rafters, disappearing out smoke holes in the roof. Svanhild glimpsed moonlight there. As happy as she was to be with her family now, she wished she could be out in the fresh air, sword in hand.

  Shaking off the thought, she joined her family at the jarl’s table. Positioned at the end of the hall, it faced the rest of the longhouse so they could look upon their people. Jarl Tove and Helga sat together in large chairs at the center of the table. They were already flanked by their two other daughters, Svanhild’s younger sisters.

  “How fast can you eat?” Svanhild teased Brynja, the youngest of the brood, whose plate was already empty.

  Her sister peered at her through her curtain of shimmering brown hair. “It’s only my first plate,” she insisted, smiling a little. Though she was easily the most beautiful of the three sisters, Brynja hid her gaze behind her lashes and seemed overly occupied with her food.

  Nearby, a group of warriors eyed Brynja, nudging each other as if to see who would dare approach her. Svanhild wasn’t surprised. Half the men in the village had been waiting for Brynja Tovesdotter to reach marrying age. Yet now that she had, no one seemed to have the courage to approach her – especially as she sat right beside her father, the king of the land.

  “You have admirers,” she pointed out.

  Brynja blushed and stuck her tongue out at Svanhild, making them both laugh.

  Svanhild moved around the far side of the table to sit beside Haldis, the middle sister. Tonight, Haldis wore a hood to hide her all-white eye and red rash from company, even though everyone in the village had seen these features at some point. Her long, straight hair streamed out the sides of the hood, pale as moonlight. With her seeing eye she scanned the room, watching everyone, observing everything.

  “How is the feast so far?” Svanhild asked.

  Her sister glanced at her from beneath her hood. “I see you wore your best dress to sword practice.”

  Svanhild laughed. Though Haldis’s high-pitched voice always sounded lost in dreams, Svanhild had learned to read when her sister was teasing her. The voice only made it more comedic to Svanhild.

  “I always train in dresses,” she said. “This way, I’m prepared for anything.”

  “In case you are attacked at a feast?” Haldis said.

  “Are you still teasing me? Now I can’t tell.”

  Svanhild saw the flash of a smile beneath Haldis’s hood. She returned the expression. Then, feeling flushed from her training, she lifted her dress at the shoulders and waved the fabric a few times, generating a breeze beneath the layers of wool and linen. The gown closest to her skin was stuck to her back and sides.

  “Perhaps I should have changed into something lighter,” she admitted. At least tomorrow she was due for her weekly bath.

  A thrall brought her a plate of goat meat, vegetables, and a knot of seasoned bread. She bit into the meat with relish, famished after her training session. When the thrall returned with a horn filled with mead, she gulped it down as quickly as she could, without a thought for what the strong drink might do to her head in a few moments.

  Haldis watched her. “Are you trying to pass out as an excuse to go to bed early?”

  “That’s not a bad idea. If you see a thrall, let’s ask for another round.”

  Haldis laughed. The sound was light as a feather drifting in the breeze – so different than the growl and crackle of the last village völva, who had died last year of old age. But that was what Haldis was training to become: someone who would commune with the gods, cast lots, and tell fortunes. Such work was of special benefit to a jarl, who needed to consult with the gods to lead his people well. But Haldis would also share her gifts with anyone in the village who sought to know the plans of the Norns, the female deities who wove everyone’s fate.

  Svanhild downed another horn of mead. The sweet flavor was catching up to her, making her even thirstier than before. Still, the drink dulled the aches in her body where training had challenged her. Watching her father’s warriors celebrating, sharing stories of their bravery with their wives and children, she felt a pleasant tingling throughout her body.

  This was true happiness. Family, friends, warriors home from battle.

  And someday, she would be with those men, telling stories of her own.

  A man’s voice interrupted her peace. “Good lady, may I share this drink with you?”

  Svanhild looked over to see a man standing at her end of the table, ale horn raised to toast with her. He had a long red beard, ruffled and unkempt. On his wrist was a bracelet, a chunk clearly missing where he must have paid someone with the silver.

  “What makes you approach the daughter of the jarl?” she asked. She was used to invitations from men who wished to woo her, but only during these festivities each summer – after weeks of travel and an abundance of ale – did men approach her quite this drunk and disheveled.

  The man swayed a little. His cheeks were almost as red as his hair. “It would honor me to drink with the jarl’s daughter. And it would honor me to drink with a woman so beautiful as…” He lifted his horn even higher, raising his voice. “The great… fierce… Svanhild of Kaldvik!”

  She heard a few chuckles from a nearby table, where several other warriors were watching this exchange. She wondered why this poor man had chosen to approach her over her sister Brynja. At least Brynja would have turned him away with a blush and a shy smile.

  “If you wish to drink with me, you’ll need to entertain me,” Svanhild said. “Tell me, what is the most difficult battle you have faced so far? If it is grander than my greatest battle, I will drink with you.”

  The man chugged from his horn before answering. “Well, once I faced…” His eyes seemed to go out of focus for a moment as he thought. “I faced a great black bear, in the forest beyond this village!” He sounded quite proud that he had thought of this story. “I know it was a test from the gods, for it sought me out while I was hunting…”

  Svanhild lifted a hand to stop him. “If the hardest battle you’ve fought is a bear, then I am afraid we must part ways for the night.”

  Haldis giggled beside her. She felt the eyes of her parents watching this interaction now, too.

  “You fought something bigger than a bear?” the man said incredulously.

  “Oh, I faced a far greater battle,” Svanhild said, “when I was forced, against my will, to weave the tapestry that hangs on that wall.” She pointed to a large tapestry nearby, taller than the man and draped across a large part of the wall. It depicted the god Odin leading the Wild Hunt, his horse Sleipnir proudly paving the way through a dark forest; above them, the sky was speckled with stars, and the shadows of two ravens could be seen soaring over the raiders’ heads. Svanhild shuddered to remember the weeks of torturous sewing, while their seamstress Ursula hovered over her and rapped her knuckles at every tiny mistake.

  The man studied the fabric for a moment, then guffawed so loudly Svanhild nearly dropped her ale horn in surprise. Several people nearby turned toward the noise, and the men who had been watching all laughed along.

  “I suppose I will have to try again another night, then,” the man said, bowing at the waist to Svanhild. The gesture seemed to unsteady him, for he staggered a step backwards, still chuckling to himself.

  Svanhild inclined her head to the man as he took his leave.

  Helga clucked her tongue at her daughter. “That was not your cruelest rejection. You must be in a good mood tonight.”

  “It was not your cleverest either,” Haldis said.

  Svanhild shrugged. “I am not t
rying to best Loki. At least it got rid of him. And look, he’s still laughing.”

  “I think he’s too drunk to let anything bother him tonight,” said Haldis.

  Svanhild nodded in agreement. “Everyone here is happy to be alive. That is what they say battle does. It brings pure joy that cannot be had with a simpler, less courageous life.”

  Jarl Tove leaned forward to meet his daughter’s gaze. “We do not travel just to fight, Svanhild.” His amber eyes seemed to shift and flicker in the firelight. Svanhild, knowing this signaled the gods’ wisdom working in him, listened more carefully as her father continued, “We fight to protect one another and what is ours. That is the call of a warrior. But with cleverness, we can avoid most fights and gain a new treasure in the process.”