Prologue
The stillness of the night was foreboding, as if the world had come to a halt in the dark hours of predawn. It was so silent that the ringing in her ears seemed like a roar, a sense of uneasiness residing deep within her bones. It was a feeling as old as she was, Tilde had learnt to trust her gut and everything in her gut was screaming for her to get out before it was too late.
In a flurry of tangled limbs and the one thin blanket she possessed, the slave climbed from her nest of straw and ran barefoot into the chilly spring night. She wore only the thin dress of cotton, a symbol of her status within the clan. A thick leather collar wrapped around her neck, a small iron ring resting against the hollow of her throat meant to be tied to a post like some kind of animal.
Tilde crept through the sleeping village, suddenly being yanked to the side by a fist in her hair. Her heart leapt into her throat as she was pulled back into a broad chest, a beard tickling the top of her head. The strong scent of whiskey revealed that it was one of the village regulars, a cruel man by the name of Mord. He liked to drink and fuck, he was cruel in both endeavors and cared little if he hurt anyone in the process.
"What's this? The little slave woman off for a midnight walk?" His voice sang in her ear, making her cringe. Tilde struggled against his grasp fruitlessly, stopping when the cool metal of a blade was pressed against her throat.
"They'll whip you if they catch you out again, girl," he spat, digging the knife in slightly. It wasn't enough to kill her but enough to draw blood. Tilde grimaced, more in fear of another whipping than in pain.
"I had to get out…it was too quiet," Tilde's voice was little more than a whisper, frantic blue eyes scanning the tree line in anticipation. Something was coming.
"My heart breaks for you, slave," he enunciated sarcastically. The knife twisted against her throat harder and she could feel the bulge in his pants that formed at her whimper.
With a deep breath for courage, Tilde reached back and slammed her elbow into Mord's face, causing the man to lose his grip on her with a pained cry. Tilde fled, bare feet scrambling in the cold mud that oozed between her toes.
"Come back here you little bitch!" Mord's cries did nothing to slow her, nor did the thundering footsteps of him chasing her which slowly faded back into silence as she reached the outskirts of town and lost Mord.
Tilde slid down a small bank, splashing through a stream in the dark in her hurry to get out, to get away from whatever the feeling of foreboding was emanating from. Tilde slowed as she spotted figures in the distance, illuminated faintly by the rising of the sun.
Striding towards her from the horizon was a hoard of people, armed with multicolored shields and baring weapons of all kinds; bows, daggers, axes, swords, anything that could be used to kill. These were the dreaded Northmen that Fortriu had feared. There had been accounts from England, from France and beyond.
Tilde sank to her knees in the grass, knowing there was no way out of this. She would die today and rise to Valhalla, for even if she followed the same beliefs as these Northmen, she was not one of them.
