Yule rose, all-of a sudden thirsty from battle. He gathered his axe and split open a great ale keg and drained it dry as drink and shower in one. As he stood with his fury and his thirst now slacked, he lowered the drained keg, and looked down to his left, between the slain chief and his slain wench and the now useless fat wench, to regard the beautiful, naked slave-girl, caressed to a nice pinkish hue by Sister Sun, with the purple wyrme tattooed on her perfectly formed shoulder. She knelt naked, chained by the wrists between the antler-like reigns of two iron-horses, regarding him with a numb look of shock.
My, she is a fine young thing to look upon. I shall take her.
There is only room for one wench on the back of my iron-horse. These iron-horses are too impatient to walk, so that the other might follow along with her household goods.
Well, then I suppose my new wife will have to stay with her slain kinsmen.
She will resent this, and raise her half-mortal son to hate me.
Then let him come. When I can no longer slay challengers it shall be his turn to assume rule over men and face the giants.
So be it.
The slave-girl looked with worry upon his brooding face, so he decided to comfort her, “Do not worry, girl. You are my property now, and need fear the hand of no man.”
She does not seem overly comforted.
Indeed, women are difficult to fathom. Perhaps they were cruel to her and she thinks you to be like them?
He extended his left arm, torn and dripping with blood and ale, placed his iron fingers gently under her chin, and looked with kindness into her eyes, so that she would know that he meant her no harm.
She looked up into his eyes and smiled innocently.
He made certain to adopt a kindly tone, making a mental note always to address this one with kindness, for she smelled like a favorite, “It is settled then, girl. We’re off to slay the prophet. But first an inn and a warm bed for my battle-weary bones—yes, and a joint of beef! Come now.”
He broke off the slave-bracelets that encircled her perfect wrists—remembering dimly wearing such in a former life as a man—between his fingers, and tossed her over his shoulder, having already forgotten his battle-bride, who reclined comfortably numb by the fire on this late-summer day in these grassy uplands kissed by his Sister’s radiant locks of gold.
She will tell her kinsmen, and they shall come.
…and fall like leaves they will.
After stopping to dress the slave-girl he approached the finest iron-horse of the herd with her hand in his. When his booted foot crushed a loose cheekbone under heel he felt her tense up and begin to sob and then choke it back. He was moved to pity and consoled her, “Not to worry, girl. This is not to be your lot, to be a battle-wench. I shall keep you safe in my hold. You’re to be for bedding and passing the ale horn, nothing more and nothing less. I’ll not let hands like yours roughen and age in the kitchen. If Mother agrees I’ll make you my Most Honored Bride.”
“I hear your heart pound, girl. Not to worry, Mother cannot have you for dinner. You are mine to cherish.”
Words finally spilled from her pouty lips, “Oh God, please?”
At last, one who remembers!
His heart glowed with pride, to have such a pious new wife. “I share your desire, girl. But we must wait for a proper bed beneath us before we consummate our marriage. You are no battle-wench to be taken on a field. It’s the hall for you.”
He set her upon the back of his fine battle-won iron-horse. He had only to change the soaked battle rag he wore under his helmet, to leave a bottle of ale with his abandoned battle-bride and to stop and transfer the scabbard and his axe to his new mount and he would be off to a comfortable inn for the night.
After his weapon was secured, he relaxed in the saddle as he rode off with her finely wrought arms wrapped around his rock hard waist. It was a good day to ride. And when the wind picked up from the speed of their progress along the Great Processional Road and the flowing scalp of the Death’s Head Chieftain, laced to the nape of his spiked helmet, rose to tickle her delicate nose and she flinched in disgust, he belted out a hearty laugh, overcome with the joy of being a man once again.
He then spoke into the wind so it would carry his words to the girl behind him, “The blasted Skraeling Prophet can wait until tomorrow! For today I am an earthly king again. Hold me tight girl, for the night is closer than you think.”
Feel her tiny heart race. What a thrill it must be for a mortal woman to ride with a god, knowing that she’s to share his bed.
This ends Yule’s portion of this story thread, which shall be concluded from Kelly’s viewpoint and will appear as her concluding chapter in the print release of Seven Moons Deep. I have been writing this novel since 2011 and I appreciate your reading time.
A Well of Heroes
