Valhalla's Swordsmith: The slave girl who became a Viking warrior

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 Nidhogg gnaw on his corpse. . .

Lars looked at first worried, and then terror slowly gripped him in an icy fist. The row bench crew were now silent, crouching lower behind the oak, as if the gunwale offered some protection.

Even Gunderson shivered

Name your price man, before she completes her ‘Nid’ or that Vixen bite on your hand will be the least of your problems. I would rather swim to Vinlandia in a storm, than face that curse, I have seen with my own eyes, men wither and die under that Nid. Lars looked at Gunderson but found no more help, then looked for a moment at the row bench crew, but they all looked terrified, there was no one to help him, his resolve seeped away like the waves on the pebble beach, so he dropped to his knees and begged

Take her, but please lift that Nid, I meant no harm.

Morag continued a while longer, until she felt the man was punished enough and his fear was like a living squirming thing, looking for somewhere to hide. Suddenly she stopped and smiled at the girl as she placed her on the ground and took a vial from her belt pouch. It contained a distillation of lavender and other calming mountain herbs. She pushed a Raven’s leg bone, into the small glass phial and then approached the prostrate Lars. Her smile now gone, she scribbling three sacred runes on his forehead, with the small white, bird bone wand, and spoke the three words of incantation as she scribed

"Once against the Elves.

Twice against the Trolls.

Thrice against the Thurs."

She muttered a few more unintelligible words in the Old Norse, under her breath, and then continued in a clear voice for all to hear

Before Odin you are cleansed, but never invoke the earth spirits again with your cruelty, or the Nid will return to haunt you, mark you well. I command a Nid pole that could point in your direction at any time. With this last statement she held the young girls hand and walked off, back to her small holding at the edge of the village, leaving Gunderson to finish his market trip alone, and Lars to praise Odin for his escape from a fate worse than death.

Gunderson felt a little sorry for Lars and removed one of his giant arm rings and handed it to the crewman with a grunt; it was much more silver than Lars could have expected to sell the slave girl for.

Where did you get the girl? Lars was almost slavering with greed at the generous payment and his eyes bulged unpleasantly as he answered Gunderson.

"We raided a small village on Anglesey half a day from Olaf of Dublin’s castle ‘Castell Bon y Dom’. Many of our men died, we lost a quarter of our crew. They had good archers, fierce red haired bastards. We thought it would be easy; we have raided that island before. My mate Rolf was with me as we viked a farm on the outskirts of the village. We had entered the place, thought it was empty. I grabbed a few fleeces and Rolf took some ham hocks. We were about to leave when Rolf got skewered through the neck with an arrow shaft, dropped like a stone in the doorway. I was pinned down inside until some of our men overpowered the archer as he tried to close in.

A woman came screaming from the barn with the child when she saw what had happened to him. It must have been her man. We took the woman and child as thralls and left, we were still under fire and our shields were studded with shafts. The thralls probably saved us, as the archers were reluctant to fire on the captives. I was lucky to be carrying the fleeces; they saved me from an arrow in the back. When we got out to sea we took it out on the woman, many of our friends had died. She did not last long. The girl was quiet until today, never whispered a word, did not even need an iron thrall collar." Gunderson nodded at the tale, it had little to recommend it, but was only the usual story of a Norse raider. He left Lars on the beach showing his crewmates the silver arm ring.

LOKIS

That evening Gunderson visited Morag and was amazed to see the difference in the girl. She was clean and her hair had been oiled, trimmed, brushed and plaited with two red ribbons. She wore a simple homespun tunic over leggings, tied with thin leather straps. Gunderson took a good look at her, but did not try to touch her. As he drew closer she snarled and showed her teeth. Morag hissed at her and she quickly calmed. Earlier that day Morag had invited Gunderson to a meal at her home. As soon as she served the food, lamb shanks, oat dumplings and woodland garlic, the girl tucked in with a real relish. Gunderson was amused watching the girl feed and decided to keep quiet about the story of the girl’s captivity. It was not the sort of story Morag would enjoy and Gunderson did not wish to spoil the evening.

Looks like it is some time since she last ate?

She had two bowls of soup and a pot loaf as soon as we got back from the beach. Morag smiled.

She is a good looking child, good bone structure, I had not noticed under all that filth. What will you call her? Loki? Name her after Thor’s demon brother? Asked Gunderson laughing at his own joke, spluttering crumbs as he also tucked in.

That’s a good name for a demon boy, but ‘Lokis’ may suit her better, being a demon girl! Morag and Gunderson were both amused at the name and giggled as they ate. It was only meant as a joke, a simple jest as they ate, but as the Old Norse saying goes ‘Many a true saga is told in jest’. So just as Morag’s dumplings stuck to the belly, the name ‘Lokis’ stuck to the demon girl child. Over the years Lokis thrived under Morag’s care; she picked up the language as good as any local and was quick witted and keen to learn. Lokis was always more interested in ‘man’ things rather than ‘woman’, things, she would prefer to work with weapons, sword, spear, bow, sling shot and fight the boys. Perhaps it had been her early ill treatment that had fostered this interest, as a form of self protection, but whatever the reason over the years, Lokis gravitated more and more towards Gunderson in her interests, than towards Morag’s many skills.

She would spend days with Gunderson at his forge and without being asked, would do odd jobs, fetching peat moss and charcoal, pumping the bellows, sweeping the floor, carrying the water. In her spare time she would practise with any weapons she could find and there were many at the forge. Over time she would ask Gunderson questions about his craft and pester him to allow her to try his sword smith skills. Gunderson would pretend grumpiness and say it was not a girl’s job and certainly not ‘woman’s work’, but he was secretly delighted to show her anything she asked and he discovered that he loved teaching her.

She would spend time every day in the forge just watching, listening and helping. Even at the tender age of eight he would constantly lecture her on what the craft required.

"Why the first tools any civilised and intelligent man held were a hammer and an anvil, a chisel and a set of tongs, without tools there is no work. Only a fool upsets the blacksmith and only a good blacksmith can become a master sword smith. There is much to learn girl and perhaps this work is not a skill for a woman. After you have learned how to dig the peat moss properly and stack it to dry, you will need to learn how to melt peat moss in the furnace into a bloom of iron, working the bellows. Then craft the bloom of iron the size of a goats head in the forge fire by scraping the forge paddle and gathering the iron elements together. As it becomes whole, you will need to lift it from the furnace and pound it with the heavy hammer on the anvil. Gently at first as it will be fragile and easily crumble. The hammering will help to remove the impurities. Then as the bloom solidifies we will hammer harder and often after each re-firing, until your own arms feel as hot as the fire and the iron bloom feels right under the hammer blows. You will need to know, and control the fire, recognize the correct colour of hot iron and when it is just right and ready.

Many of the folk in the village feel we are bewitched, because of what we can create with fire and sparks and a good load of sweat, peat moss and charcoal. As far as they can see we put peat moss in a fiery cauldron in the floor, pump huge bellows and create a glowing heat, the like of which they have never seen. From this strange mix, iron and then weapons emerge, with little more than hammer blows. Witchcraft indeed and who could blame them for thinking it.

Nothing good can be created without sacrifice. The Gods also demand sacrifice and you must be humbled and cleansed before Odin, give offerings and beseech Thor for guidance as the master of all smiths before you commence work. First, the art of imagination and design; the name, let the spirits guide you, shapes, the blade, the patterns, the hilt, the pommel, the scabbard, the artwork and all the artistic vision of the final piece, before you lay a hand on any material. You will need to learn to sketch and draw, to scribe patterns and sacred geometry. Our history and sagas are important; some designs have been passed from our forefathers. Next, you will need to choose your materials and know all their qualities, advantages and limitations.

There are seven sacred principles to the master sword smith’s skills when working or crafting the wrought iron, much of it is within the realms of the blacksmith’s art;

One: The fire welds or hammer weld to meld the metal together.

Two: Punching, to create holes or stamps.

Three: Splitting, to separate or cut.

Four: Twisting, this can make for the internal patterns and strength of a blade.

Five: Bending or scrolling.

Six: Drawing down, so the ‘iron bloom’ can be made ‘long and drawn out’.

Seven: ‘Upsetting the bar’, this means bunching and thickening of the bar by compression hammering.

A master sword smith must learn all these craft skills and be better than any blacksmith, you will need to be able to make almost anything in iron. On top of this there is the skill of grinding, filing, riveting, shaping and polishing this takes a long time and much patience and accuracy. A good weapon can easily be ruined at this stage. The use of the crucible and the alchemist’s art of casting, transforming peat moss, rock or junk metal into new forms, casting bronze, silver, gold and other precious metals and their mixes. Finally the skill and craft that goes into the hilt, pommel and scabbard, using leather, precious stones, wire and even wood." Gunderson finished as usual with his favourite teaching phrase

You have much to learn girl!

By the time her thirteenth year had passed and she had become a woman, there were few jobs Lokis could not do in the forge after five years of patiently absorbing the knowledge, including swinging the heavy welding hammer. Even Gunderson had stopped calling her ‘a girl’. He was aware that her moods were changing as she became a woman. She could one day be sweet as a meadow flower, the next the familiar alley cat, red in tooth and claw. Morag had long ago explained the ways of nature and reproduction; the needs of men, of egg, seed and fecundity, of becoming a woman and the tides of the moon.

There were few weapons she was not familiar with. Next to her love of swords, she had always loved the long bow, and called it ‘Silent Death’. She had an untutored mastery of this weapon through the sheer pleasure of its use. Her figure had filled out beautifully with Morag’s cooking and Gunderson’s hard forge work. She had never asked Gunderson for anything but surprised him one day by saying

Gunderson will you take me on as an apprentice sword smith and teach me the fighting arts.

Gunderson, a little taken back at her request repeated in his usual, grumpy, predictable manner

These things are not ‘women’s work’ it takes many years to learn the skills of sword craft and a lifetime to learn the warrior skills. Find yourself a man and make children. Lokis threw the hot iron, along with the tongs she was holding in the quenching trough, splashing scalding water, causing a mighty hiss and cloud of steam. She threw her gloves on the floor and tore off her leather apron, and stormed out of the forge in an angry huff, cursing him in Celt and Old Norse as hot and steamy as the forge atmosphere.

Gunderson was left feeling foolish as he watched her back as she left, regretting immediately his poor handling of her request. He suddenly remembered how good she was and realised it was his stupid masculine vanity that had made the thoughtless comment. They did not see each other for three days. Gunderson had grown used to her company and moped around the forge like a bear with a sore head and was unable to concentrate on his work. He was sorry for what he had said and really missed Lokis’ help and company around the forge, but Gunderson was proud and stubborn and apologies for him were as hard as the iron he hammered.

THE WAY TO A MAN’S HEART

Lokis spent the three days chopping firewood and attacking a tree, with any weapons she could find. She would ease the bow stave and shoot her bow for hours until her fingers bled behind the leather guard. When this was only partially successful in calming her, she would swim across the fiord and run back up the steep hill path to the Borg to increase her stamina and to help cool her hot head. After three full days Morag realised that Gunderson and Lokis had never been apart this long and that they were each as stubborn as the cargo mule. She decided to invite Gunderson over for a special meal and asked Lokis to help with the preparation. Morag knew these next seven years would be a testing time for Lokis, until she reached her calming twentieth year. As Morag worked and kneaded the barley flour she asked

Has Gunderson upset you, Lokis?

Lokis was chopping various vegetables a little too viciously, her fingers looking perilously close to the blade

It is not Gunderson, it is me, I do not know where I stand. Nor can I see my future. I was rude to him and he has only ever taught and helped me . . . but he made me so angry. Morag covered the dough and left it to stand and prove

Why do you not know where you stand?

Am I a thrall, and if so, who is my master, is it you Morag, or Gunderson? Morag wiped her hands on her apron and asked

Do you feel like a thrall, or have you ever been treated as one? Lokis set the pan to the fire and poured in the stock

No! You have both treated me with kindness . . . and love, but . . . what am I and what is my future?

Lokis you are free to choose, think of us as your friends, you are neither in bondage nor in thrall to us, and your future is for you to make. As Lokis chopped the onions, Morag was unsure if her tears were from the onions or a release of tension of the worry she was talking about

Gunderson will not teach me, he wants me to have babies with some man I am supposed to find? I have asked to be his apprentice; I want to make swords and become a sword smith, and to do that properly, I need to be trained, as an apprentice, as a warrior, like Gunderson.

Has Gunderson refused to teach you these skills, surely you are already doing what you want?

He told me ‘it was not women’s work’. Morag smiled at this and butchered the brace of hare that Lokis had hunted with the long bow. A mountain hare was an awkward animal to kill with a long bow and many a good archer had failed; Lokis had managed two.

"Don’t worry! Gunderson just needs time to get used to the idea. I know he cares a great deal about you, as I do. He loves teaching you, even though he