Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter II - Brynja

Five years later...

The sun had sustained the land with ceaseless light for nigh on thirty days, but the night would have her turn soon enough. Sól had finally begun to dip ever lower of an evening and soon she would disappear altogether. Brynja smiled, though her lips were hard as frozen bone. Winter had never bothered her kind heretofore and that would never change.

The men would be arriving soon. Only a matter of waiting now. They had been abroad for months, but 'twas time they returned. The giant eagle, Hræsvelgr, who sat at the edge of the world, would have flapped his colossal wings by this time and sent a gale to guide them hither, ere the ice mountains grew from the ocean.

The swan waded through the frigid rock-pool and cast her eyes over the grey waters of the Istyrr Sea. As if she had called them onto the horizon herself, she descried their towering silhouettes parting the mist like the monstrous serpent wraiths of the ocean.

The white-capped waves and ebullient spume raged and tossed as the longboats sliced along the heavy swell. Harald was home, finally. Her blood roared in anticipation as she watched the ships draw nigh.

The largest of the drakkar, in the fleet of nine that bore down upon Norrsvall's seaport, was that which belonged to the chieftain himself. Harald's ship was long and sleek, its keel elongated and curved up at both ends to form the neck and head of a ferocious eagle. It was certainly an unusual design.

Most of the vikings in Nordurlund preferred their longboats to bear the ubiquitous serpent. Every ship, save Harald's, displayed just that — a dragon's head crowning the prow with fangs bared fiercely. At the opposite end of each wyrm's savage grin, a long, serpentine tail adorned the symmetrical stern. But this was not Harald's way; he was a man without equal, an undefeated chief, and desirous always to evince his eminence with displays of ingenuity.

His drakkar flew across the waves, the apex ship at the fore, from which the others trailed to form the rest of the arrowhead. Its red, square sail of woven wool, Harald's golden eagle filling the sheet, lay stretched and bloated by the eastern wind. All along the eagle-ship's railing hung the red and gold shields of the warriors that she conveyed ashore, their oars plunging and pulling either side of her narrow hull.

Yes. This is why our people are feared. The swan laughed suddenly, if indeed a swan could do so.

It was a dark sound, even to her own ears, akin to the crackle of gathering storm cloud; much like the blackened mass that banked across the sea behind the returning heroes. She could feel the pride surging up inside her core like a geyser. They were magnificent to behold and she, imagining the man at the forefront of his pack, allowed the lineaments of his strong face to unfurl behind the back of her shuttered eyelids.

But this form she held was not sufficient to feel the full measure of her keening arousal, so she spread her wings, her white feathers shimmering as they fell away to reveal long, pale arms. Once her plumage had been shed, she arched her naked back, her flaxen tresses draping down her spine, and shivered as the breeze swept the brine across her breasts. There was no better body than a woman's, and this body served her best of all.

But Harald did not belong to her. He had never lain his calloused, warrior's hand across her hungry flesh nor wound his large fist within her hair. Nay, he was the husband of another — an unworthy girl of fifteen summers.

Brynja shrugged her strong shoulders and emerged from the pool, the shale and pebbles shifting beneath her feet. When she had donned her woolen smock, and pulled her calfskin boots over her salty feet, she picked her way across the rocks. With one more glance towards the vessels, she began ascending the strait path that would take her to the top of the cliff and thence to Norrsvall, to greet the returning chief.