An orange spearhead split the black of the fjord’s near-still surface. Conall listened to the twittering of newly woken birds as he walked through Lindholm’s gate and turned toward Skadi’s steading, just visible in the deep-shaded inlet. He thought the morning to be the most beautiful he’d seen, which caused a lump in his throat. To consider this strange place—a place he was now part of—better than his home wasn’t something he could ever have anticipated. Juteland was supposed to be the frozen north, full of barbaric people who lived like animals. Instead, it was a place of infinite beauty, and its people, although hard, were happy.

As he neared Skadi’s inlet, Conall heard a splash and turned to see the shieldmaiden rising from the black waters of the fjord. In all his summers, he’d never felt any arousal at the sight of naked flesh. That said, there was something about the way the water dripped from her body or glinted in sparkling diamonds on her flesh that gave him a prickling on his skin. The thick rivulets caused by the hair at her groin made his heart beat a little faster. Her nipples, the same color as her hair, standing proud from her small bosom—exaggerated by the cold water—were winking at him in the slight movement caused by her swagger. Her thigh muscles rippled as she gripped the sand with her toes and gave him a small welcome gesture. Her lack of self-conscience reminded him of another strong woman who hadn’t cared about nudity, and his stirrings fled.

Will I ever be rid of that image?

An image of the Witch Queen standing dripping before him after the battle of Gáirech, when she threatened those he loved, made the veins at his temple throb. If only he’d killed her then, he would have averted so much sorrow. Shaking his head, Conall admitted he would never have been able to kill her before she proved the depth of her depravity. Standing there dripping and grinning at him, Medb seemed to be a defenseless woman, her infamous bodkin lying in the folds of her dress. Her words had been vile, and she had the same snarling face as on the day he did kill her, but he’d thought the threats idle.

“Pass my cloak,” Skadi said as she arrived before him and placed her hands on her hips, dragging his eyes to what lay between.

Conall felt a blush burning his neck as he looked behind to see a woolen cloak lying on the sand in a pile. Mumbling, he wasn’t sure what, he handed her the garment but kept his eyes averted.

After a short delay, she said, “You can look now, Conall of the Victories.”

He felt a momentary confusion at the inflection she put into the epithet before turning and seeing the mirth dancing in her eyes. He could not think of another time when a woman had teased him in such a way and felt the redness of his blush spread to his face.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

Skadi nodded. Her resigned expression told him she knew—or at least suspected—what he wanted to ask. “Come,” she said, leading him to a fallen tree on her land’s edge.

Sitting on the bole, she patted it, and he sat beside her. “You looked so sad just now.”

“Aye. I was thinking about lost friends.”

“Tell me. Often, a sadness shared is a sadness diminished.”

Conall wondered at the sagacity of her words. They were words he’d often heard in one form or another. In his experience, sharing sadness made it grow rather than shrink. He didn’t want to shatter her illusion and said, “I was thinking about all of those I failed.”

“I doubt you ever failed anyone,” Skadi said with a snort.

“Aye. Your skáld songs have me painted as the hero who never errs, but I am not what they claim. Not all, anyway. I’ve made mistakes, Skadi. Some of them have cost the lives of those I loved.”

Nearly all those I loved, he realized.

“Ya, ya. So, tell me.”

Conall hesitated, considering what to say. The birds continued their mating songs, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Like me, what your skálds tell you about Queen Medb is not all true. Some of it isn’t even close.”

“That she was a warrior and a witch. Strong. That you killed her because she ordered the death of Cú Chulainn.”

“Aye, well, after Gáirech, she stood before me, naked and wet, and threatened my friends. Instead of removing the threat, I did nothing. The same day she ordered the death of Fergus Mac Roi—”

“I thought King Ailill had Fergus killed because he was humping Medb.”

“That’s the rumor she spread. In reality, she had a coward murder Fergus while she lay beneath him.” Conall saw the grimace his words evoked. Skadi was as disgusted as he was at the depth of Medb’s malice. “She killed my friend because he let Mac Nessa live.”

“How do you know it was Medb?”

“Because Ailill told…” He stopped as he realized what prompted Skadi’s question. Glancing at her and seeing one raised eyebrow confirmed his suspicion. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Ya. What am I thinking?”

“That Ailill would say that. Especially to me, knowing I would avenge Fergus. But I know the King. He’s a fair and honest man. I can’t say the same about Medb. The Queen always did what was necessary, giving no never mind to the consequences of her actions.”

“You are making her into an evil woman.”

“I fear that she was. She wasn’t always that way. When I first met her, she was distant, so she was, but not evil. Her malice came later—after Connery… your sagas tell of King Connery?” Skadi nodded. “Well, after the battle at Da Derga’s hostel, she changed. I think her son, Mane The Honey-Tongue’s execution played a part, but only a part.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Conall didn’t recall when the words between the roundhouse started to spread, words that said Mac Nessa raped Medb on the banks of the River Bóand during the Assembly of Kings. Twice, he’d seen the Queen scrubbing her flesh almost to the point of drawing blood. Both times had been many summers after the alleged rape, and he could believe it. The act that caused such a depth of trauma must have been horrific. He also knew the Ulster King, and he was more than capable of such atrocity.

“I must say, Conall, I am confused. Why are you telling me this?”

“Oh,” he said, rubbing his bristles. He had also forgotten why he was telling Skadi about the events leading to the Battle of Gáirech and what happened afterward. He thought back to how the conversation started and blushed at the memory of his arousal at her nakedness. “Your leaving the water dripping wet reminded me of when Medb threatened my friends.”

“You are comparing us. You think me evil, Conall?”

“No, no,” he sputtered but stopped when he saw her smirking.

Laughing at his discomfort, she said, “What was it you wanted to ask?”

Conall gazed over the fjord, now shining like an enormous mirror. He caught the jump of a trout and wondered how it would taste, imagining it would be succulent. He sighed, not over the succulence of the fish, but because staring into the dark water didn’t give him a tactful way to ask his question. Turning to Skadi, he asked, “What path did you choose that means you can’t be Malthe’s Champion?”

The shieldmaiden took several moments before she answered. He was not surprised, sure that her reasons would be painful. Eventually, she said, “You saw Mikkel’s foot. He was born that way. Our mother died birthing him. The elders wanted to leave him in the forest for the wolves, but I wouldn’t allow them. I’d already lost my father, fighting on a raid east. Sometimes, I wonder if our mother gave up on life because my father never returned. Anyway, Mikkel was all I had.”

Conall nodded but didn’t really understand her point. Skadi must have seen his confusion because she went on to explain how she stayed in Lindholm caring for her brother until he was old enough to care for himself. Those had been hard times, standing by the pier to watch the Vikings leave and return. When her brother was strong enough, she became Champion and joined Malthe when he sailed to Ériu in search of his sister. Mikkel wanted to have the life of a Viking but could not. Because of that, he didn’t want Skadi to have it either.

“He wants us both tending pigs and chickens, even though it only takes one.”

“What about crops? Harvesting?”

“There are none. The soil is not good enough. We must buy grain from the Germanics or steal it when we raid. The other night, as you slept, I promised Mikkel I would stay. Malthe cannot have a Champion who cannot sail with him.”

“I understand,” he said, but really, he wanted to tell her the choice to stay was a mistake. She was young, and that youth dictated her reaction to Mikkel’s envy. She would quickly grow to resent the boy’s selfishness. Still, Conall recognized that it wasn’t his place to say anything. One aspect of youth he’d grown to realize was that the young must make mistakes to mature. With that in mind, he thought it would be better for her to err in Lindholm. Vikings were not allowed to learn from their errors because, for a raider, getting it wrong often meant death.

“Why did Malthe choose me?”

“That choice was easy. As well as who you are, you saved him in Béal Feirste. Him and many of his degns.” Though not me, her laughing eyes said.

“That was just luck. I looked back and saw the archers.”

“Have you not noticed how the lucky warriors are always the best?” Skadi asked and then laughed at his frustrated look.

Even though her brother forced her to abandon what she wants, Skadi can laugh.

“How were you chosen as Champion?” he asked, rubbing his chin again.

“There was a competition,” she said, feeling her scar. “I beat the others.”

“And that’s how you got the scar?”

“Ya. I was lucky. There were thirteen warriors, all trying to kill each other. Two men died in that fight.”

“All the warriors fight together?”

“Ya. Last warrior standing is the new Champion. How is it done in Ériu?”

Conall explained that the Chieftain or King would choose a Champion from the best warriors available from those who had trained either under Scáthach or Dornoll, the warrior druidesses. He thought Ériu’s way to be less barbaric but kept that to himself. There was merit to doing it the Jutish way because the survivors would respect the winner even if resenting them at the same time.

“How do they know who is best? How do they choose?”

“Mostly, they choose wisely,” he said, thinking of Fandall.

“Not always?”

“No. There was one I recall, Champion of High King Nuadu—”

“I like that name,” Skadi interrupted. “I will call my first son Nuadu.”

Conall shook his head and rubbed his chin. In Ériu, Nuadu was a name all mothers would avoid. That particular High King had been nothing short of a disaster. Nuadu usurped the throne from Eterscel, which had not been before time. The old High King’s brain had started to waste away, so he needed replacing. No, Nuadu’s disaster was when he failed to kill Connery, which was unforgivable. He also chose Fandall as his Champion. Fandall had wanted to be a great warrior, but that didn’t make it so.

“It is not a name many would choose,” he said.

“You rub your face a lot, Conall of the Victories.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Why? It’s your name, ya?”

“No, Skadi. My name’s Conall. Just plain Conall.”

“Well, just plain Conall, would you like to borrow Mikkel’s shaving knife?”

“Aye. I would,” he said with a laugh. “Mine is in that midden of a hostel along with all my other belongings. Except for my hammer, which Bradán stole.”

“You will get it back. One day. That is my promise.”

He smiled and turned away. Another thing he learned over time was not to make rash promises.

***

Conall was shaving in the fjord with Mikkel’s knife when he heard Malthe call. Looking over the inlet, he watched the jarl walk towards him, waving a sword above his head. Even at a distance, he could see that the jarl seemed to have had some news that pleased him.

Coming to sit beside Conall on the bank, Malthe said, “I have just left Olaf. The song is going to be ready, which is good.”

“Ready for what?” Conall asked.

“Tomorrow, Olaf will recite it before the moot. We will celebrate my sister’s life and then choose a new King.”

“And you think it will give you an advantage?”

“Ya. Dervla was loved. The jarls will be pleased that I showed her the proper respect.”

“What’s that?” Conall asked, nodding at the sword.

It was in a scabbard with a belt wrapped around its length. Unlike a sword from the Five Kingdoms, the hilt was plain. Ériu’s smiths tended to be more flamboyant when creating weapons. It was as if they thought the more intricate the design, the better at killing a sword would be.

“My father’s sword,” Malthe said, turning it over and looking at it ruefully. “It is for you.”

“For me?” Conall asked, shocked.

“Ya. Tomorrow, you will stand behind me as my Champion. Without a sword, how will you protect me?”

“Oh. You have my thanks,” Conall said as Malthe handed the sword to him.

“You can keep it until you get your weapons back from the pig turd.”

Conall nodded and belted the sword around his midriff. Feeling its weight on his right hip made him realize he’d missed having a sword. Thinking about it, he’d been with a sword belted to his hip since he went to Dún Scáith as a youth of fourteen summers. For a warrior, losing that weight was like losing a limb.

“Rest well today, Conall. Tomorrow, you begin your duties.”

Malthe stood and walked towards the settlement without saying another word. Drawing the sword from its scabbard, he admired the fine quality of the blade. Turning to watch Malthe walk through the gate, he wondered why the jarl hadn’t told him its name. Still, it didn’t matter. He would ask him the next time that he saw him.