#HistFicThursdays - The Skjoldmø and The Seer - Free Short Story

This short story is a part of my Caledon world - a much earlier incarnation of the spirit of Scotland. Here, the adventure heads back to the 9th Century Highlands, and the continuing skirmishes between the Norse and the Picts, as well as one of the most outrageous deaths in history...

The Skjoldmø and The Seer

“Not only is he a coward…” I listened to Father’s drunken words which filled the hall with laughter. No one would remember them in the morning. A spray of mead left his mouth as he added: “He is an ugly man.”

“Sigrid.”

Turning at the sound of my name, I frowned to find no one there.

“Sigrid, I’m outside.”

A smile split my face as I recognised that voice. I left the hall and walked to Bridei who waited there. His painted arm reached out to me and I took his hand, our fingers interlocking.

“There’s a great celebration in there.”

I nodded. “Father has challenged Máel Brigte to a forty-man battle, but he’s taking twice as many men.”

“It won’t work.” Bridei pulled his hand back, hiding his face as he rubbed his eyes. “I know he will kill your father. The waters told me. That’s how I knew of the ship which brought you here. That’s why my father left me here: to listen to the waters.”

I rested my head against Bridei’s shoulder. I was short for a skjoldmø, but no one would challenge Sigurd the Powerful on his runt of a daughter. Waiting until Bridei once more interlocked his fingers with mine, I listened to Father’s merriment. I couldn’t imagine Bridei behaving like that. His gentle nature was an embarrassment to Máel Brigte who showed consistent favour to Bridei’s two younger brothers. But I had always been surrounded by warriors. There was something enticingly different about Bridei’s calm mannerisms.

“Sigrid, did you hear that?”

I shook my head, reluctant to divulge the thoughts which had distracted me.

“The waters are calling your name.” Bridei turned to face me, and I was surprised to find his eyes glistened. Disquieted by this, I spoke sternly.

“Are you playing a game, Bridei? It’s not a funny one.”

“I have to go and warn my father.”

“It’s not your duty.” I snatched his hand. “He’s forsaken you.”

Bridei chewed his lower lip. “He must kill Sigurd,” came his whispered response, drenched in self-loathing. “He has to kill your father, Sigrid, or my prophecies will have been wrong.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I demanded. Father was nothing to Bridei, ignorant even of his existence. Had he not been, he would have had the young man put to death for placing a hand on me.

Refusing to meet my eye, Bridei shook his head. Something in his lowered expression sang a warning. I trusted him never to lie to me, but I knew he didn’t tell me everything. Without another word, Bridei slipped away, not westward to where Máel Brigte and his men waited to meet Father’s challenge, but to the north. Evidently, he had thought better of warning his father.

As the drunken revelry of the hall collapsed into loud snores, I lay awake beside the hearth. The smoke was circling in the air, reeking of this land’s strangeness but, every time I tried to hate it, I was unable to do so. Bridei epitomised it, and he didn’t need another enemy, another person he sought to please but only scorned him. Stepping into the night, I drew my blade and stared at the twisting patterns the fire had forged there. I had learnt to use it, partaking in all Father’s battles.

If Bridei had warned his father, this might be my last chance to see him. In death, he would never be granted a place in Valhalla, while I was certain a seat already waited for me. Bridei always went north, so I set out in that direction, keeping the sea to my right and the hills to my left. The terrain between the two was largely flat and empty. By the time I reached a small river, my feet were tired and I decided against crossing. There was a ford, suggesting it was used often, but I saw no one.

“Sigrid.”

I instinctively set my hand on my sword. “Bridei?”

“Skjoldmø,” the voice breathed.

For the first time, I felt afraid. I, who had charged into battle along the coast of this strange land, who had inflicted and received countless wounds, became rooted to the ground. The voice didn’t speak again but, feeling exposed by my fear, I continued up the stream. Whoever had thought to play such a trick would be sorry they chose me as their victim.

I followed the river, listening for sounds beyond the water. There were none, and I found myself in a deep ravine with sides like cliffs. There was very little light here. At times, I had to wade into the stream, trusting my leather boots not to leak. Shivering as I pulled myself onto the verge, I wondered whether my feet were wet or only cold. Dogged determination had now swallowed sense. I should have turned back. I was lost. But I had to find whoever had spoken my name. Someone here knew me. Perhaps Bridei had told his people and an ambush waited. Perhaps I had been wrong about his gentle nature, and he would seize me in an attempt to exchange my life for his father’s.

As I turned the corner, I instantly regretted my thoughts. Bridei lay before me, his head nestled on a pillow of moss, while his thin body trembled against the cold night despite his blanket. This was his camp, with a small basket of gathered mushrooms and a broad but uselessly short knife being the only possessions in sight.

“Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

I stared at Bridei. He was certainly asleep. His lips never moved as the words sounded again and again.

“Let him sleep,” I hissed, no longer afraid of this voice, only angry it was trying to wake Bridei. He did stir now, his breath a stream of mist. I shrugged out of the reindeer skin on my shoulders and placed it over him.

“He cannot hear me when I speak to you.”

Without moving my feet, I looked around. There was no one there. I stood alone over my sleeping friend.

Frothy bubbles trimmed the pool next to me, caused by a waterfall at its edge, but the centre was entirely calm. The birches which lined the gorge were thinner here, and the moon shone on the water, filling the air with a silver glow. But something else was mirrored there. In the surface of the pool, the waterfall’s reflection came to life.

“Njǫrd?” I stammered the god’s name in disbelief.

“I have need of you, Sigrid Skjoldmø. This land has need of you.”

“You’re who speaks to Bridei. He said you spoke my name. I rebuked him.” I felt suddenly guilty as I looked at the sleeping man.

“He has not told you all. If Máel Brigte fails to kill Sigurd, he will be renounced as a false seer and killed. As you asked him to spare your father through his silence, the same act will cost his life.”

I swallowed hard and glared at the water. If this was Njǫrd, a certain level of respect had to be maintained, but I felt angry at the obvious intrusion he had made into our earlier conversation.

“Take your flask, Sigrid Skjoldmø, and draw water from the pool. Before the moon is spent you will have need of its healing qualities. Drink of it yourself.”

I followed Njǫrd’s command.

“But be warned,” he continued. “Only one other can drink from it, and Sigurd the Powerful will be laid low by Máel Brigte.”

“Father will kill his enemy!” I loyally shouted. Birds flew from their roosts at this outburst and, as they obscured the moon’s light, Njǫrd vanished.

I shivered, staring vehemently at Bridei as though he were to blame for Njǫrd’s words. Father was a far greater warrior than Máel Brigte, and Bridei’s prophecies were nothing but an attempt to unsettle Father’s men.

By the time I reached the hall, my anger had subsided but my determination was stronger than ever. I readied to ride into the hills alongside the rest of Father’s men. Father’s scout reported Máel Brigte had assembled his men at the River Oykel, ready for the challenge.

Despite my resolve to see Father victorious, I was exhausted by the time we camped at the mouth of the river. Father wasted no time in having his cup brought to him, and I listened with a smile as he and his men shared their stories. They were the same stories I heard on the eve of every battle, growing with each telling.

“I will give Sigrid to whoever brings me Máel Brigte’s head!”

I glared as Father pointed at me. “I have a say in who I marry.”

“Wouldn’t you want to marry the man who killed your father’s enemy?” There was a tone to Father’s words which I knew I shouldn’t cross, but my tired senses were too slow to correct.

“I thought you wished to kill him, Father. Or do you fear the native prophecy will come true?”

“What native prophecy?”

I had everyone’s attention now, and I clamped my mouth closed, wishing I had done a better job of guarding my tongue. I couldn’t let Father know about Bridei. The men around me took my reddening cheeks as anger at Father’s words rather than my own stupidity. Contriving a way out of exposing Bridei and escaping marriage, I smiled.

“The natives say Máel Brigte will kill you, Father. His own son foresaw it. But I know you will not fail.”

Derision and curses were rained on the enemy and, to my immense relief, Father claimed he would slaughter Máel Brigte with his own hands if necessary. I was saved from talk of marriage. It wasn’t that I deplored the idea, but I liked being myself and the thought of living as a wife was not the future I had in mind. Besides, there was no man I wished to marry.

My dreams that night were determined to prove me wrong. In them, I was standing at the pool where I had met Njǫrd, but the water ran red.

“This is what awaits on the river,” Njǫrd’s voice announced. There was no emotion at all to his voice, neither angry nor sad.

“Father will kill Máel Brigte.” I heard the proud defiance in my words, but it dissolved into horror as Njǫrd spoke.

“Neither Sigurd nor Máel Brigte have turned the water red, Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

I gave a strangled sound as I lifted my gaze to Bridei. He was hanging by his wrists from a branch over the pool, countless injuries lacerating his body. For a moment, his eyes met with my own before a spear struck his stomach and his gaze dropped under this fatal wound.

“You are no longer your father’s daughter,” Njǫrd continued. “You have been called to this land. The life of the seer is in your hands. Do you have the strength to save him?”

“He’s dead.” I repeated the words in a cycle of disbelief, anger, and sadness.

“They seek a way of destroying him. You are that way.”

I awoke to a frosty morning. Father’s men were preparing for battle and I wasted no time in joining them. Consigning the night’s visions to draumskrok nonsense, I dismissed the possibility the Norns had prepared Bridei’s thread for severing. Father’s battlefield advice echoed in my head: Too many thoughts lead to too many deaths. Even if Bridei had warned his father, he would be far away now. Máel Brigte would never trust his eldest son’s weak arm as one of his chosen forty warriors. I couldn’t blame him for that, I wouldn’t trust Bridei to know what to do with a weapon either.

We met Máel Brigte at midday, as had been agreed between him and Father. It didn’t take him long to recognise Father’s cheat. Dismounting as the two armies met, I felt once more the thrill of combat. This was the road to glory, the road to Valhalla. Whatever happened on this field would result in victory, in this life or the next. The combat was brutal and bloody but, outnumbered two-to-one, there was little hope for Máel Brigte’s men.

Proudly hoisting the severed head of his enemy, Father concluded the battle. Máel Brigte was as ugly as Father had announced, his deformed jaw and teeth making him look more like a boar than a man. But, as Father attached this trophy to his saddle, I thought of Bridei for the first time since reaching the battleground. This was his father.

As we reached the river, Father’s horse sidled, throwing its head and stamping the ground. Grabbing and twisting its ear, Father cursed as he pulled Máel Brigte’s head free from where the man’s protruding tooth had sunk into his leg. The tooth, almost an inch long, was covered in Father’s blood.

“The swine still bites,” Father growled, ripping the tooth free from the decapitated head. “I shall adorn my hilt with this and use it as a second blade. And where is his son now, Sigrid?”

I glared at Father.

“False seer. He should be spreadeagled for such lies.”

“What of your own lies?” I realised I had spoken too hastily for any neutrality to be believed. Father threw his trophy at me.

“I want you to find this alleged seer, Sigrid, and bring him to me. I will show him what has become of his prophecy.”

My eyes narrowed, but I held my tongue as I passed Máel Brigte’s head back. “I’ll find him, Father.” Snatching my horse’s reins, I walked towards the battleground. North, that was the direction Bridei always went.

I had no plan beyond finding him. Reaching another river and remembering with a smile how Bridei spoke of his love of water and the words it shared, I followed it northward, over the gentle mossy shore and into the rocky, precarious mountains beyond. Unsure how much further the horse could go on this terrain, I wondered whether I had been wrong to come this way. I paused as the setting sun reflected on the surface of the river, colouring it crimson. Njǫrd’s words raced through my head and, discarding the horse’s reins, I scrambled further into the hills.

A short way along the river was a series of rocks supporting small rapids. Beyond this, the river was overhung by a cluster of alders and I stared in disbelief at the scene which unfolded there. Bridei hung from one of the branches. His feet were in the current, which tried to carry him downstream, but his bound wrists held him in place. Just as Njǫrd had shown me in my dream, his naked torso was torn and bruised. I glared at the four men who stood beyond the river, each gripping a spear. They hadn’t noticed me.

“You deceived him!” shouted one. “You tricked Father into facing those cheats.”

“I tried to warn him.” Bridei’s voice was frail, and I attempted to climb the rocks towards him. But the spray made them slippery and I slid back down.

“What do the waters tell you now?” mocked another. “Do they tell you he disowned you?”

“That Máel Brigte will kill Sigurd.” Bridei’s voice was frantic now. “He was still my father.”

“A bastard and a traitor,” agreed the third.

The final man turned his spear in his hand, and I clawed at the rocks, pulling myself up. I had to stop them. I had to make sure the dream remained as draumskrok.

“If you’re lucky, our aim will be true, or you’ll starve to death. What do the waters answer to that?”

“Sigrid.”

I stopped in the action of rising to my feet. Bridei hadn’t seen me, neither had the others. Then why did he speak my name? But a Norse name on the tongue of their kinsman only enraged the men more. Three of them launched their spears at him, one missed, while the other two cut into his side and shoulder as they continued their flight. Trapped on the other side of the river, I looked for anything which would stop the final man from throwing his spear. Bridei’s brother savoured each of the tears and sobs which came from the wounded man. This would be the wound which killed Bridei. I knew it. I had seen exactly this in my dream.

Without any projectile, all I could do was shout, hoping the surprise would be enough to stop the fatal trajectory of the weapon. I don’t know what I shouted. Perhaps there were no words, but I know it became an angry scream as I watched the spear sheathe itself in Bridei’s abdomen. I fell silent as his eyes met my own, just as they had in the dream, before his head fell forward. I had seen so much bloodshed today, inflicted so much death to secure my place in the afterlife, but this view horrified me.

My sword was in my hand before I had realised what I was doing. Splashing into the river, I tried to find my way across to the other side. But the world was growing darker and there was no clear path.

I stopped as I heard a new enemy. A voice, or perhaps more than one, echoed along the river with a prolonged howl. Unable to see more than shapes in the twilight, I watched as a leggy creature leapt at the four men. I could hear more than I could see. The pack were bringing down the men who had mocked Bridei, and I heard their own cries as pitiful as his had been. But I felt only disgust for them. After growls, snarls, curses, and whimpers, the night became silent as I negotiated my way to where Bridei hung. The water bubbled its way downstream, carrying Bridei’s blood amongst its crystals. I couldn’t hear any words on it.

“You won’t touch him,” I growled, more than matching the lupine expression which stared back at me. I pointed my sword towards the animal, wondering how many more were hidden in the night. In disbelief, I watched as the creature faded into the darkness.

Cutting Bridei down was difficult, but eventually I severed the cord and set him on the bank. The spear still protruded from his body and his breathing was laboured to the point of repulsing me. Taking hold of the shaft, I willed myself to remove the weapon. I had seen men survive being hit by spears, but never in their gut.

“Sigrid?” Bridei made several attempts before my name was formed.

“Quiet.”

“The waters…”

“They tricked you, Bridei.” I breathed out, tightening my grip, but I must have moved it slightly, for Bridei’s breaths became even more frantic.

“They’re calling you.”

Each one of those words was a battle to my friend, each one becoming more precious than the one before. Screwing my face into a sneer of determination, I yanked the spear from Bridei’s body. I couldn’t see his face, but his body relaxed as his breathing became shallow.

“No, I can’t be the reason they destroy you.” I reached my hand towards his cheek and willed myself to set it there. Unable, I pulled back. I had seen Bridei’s death foretold by Njǫrd. I couldn’t believe in draumskrok or coincidence now. So, as my hand brushed over my flask, I recalled the god’s words about healing.

“Your father,” Bridei sighed, trying to refuse the flask. But the act of talking proved too great for him, and I felt his chest become still.

“I am no longer my father’s daughter,” I replied numbly, praying to Njǫrd that the flask would restore my friend. My confused emotions battled as I realised Bridei wasn’t moving. Finally, I settled on anger. I would take him to Father. I would prove there was no honour in killing a man like Bridei.

The mountain mist soaked me as it closed in. Carrying Bridei was difficult, but my horse hadn’t wandered and, setting him over the saddle, I led the animal forward, careful to follow the river. Without it, I would have become truly lost.

As this river met with the River Oykel, I stopped for the night. The landscape was more open here and snatches of diluted moonlight shone through. I had left the mist behind, but the ground was damp. I lifted Bridei down and looked at him, my lower lip trembling.

“Njǫrd will guide you home.”

They were the only words I spoke that night.

I awoke to the smell of smoke, and immediately my hand reached to my sword. Kneeling up and drawing the weapon in one smooth movement, I gaped at the view before me. A tiny fire smouldered a short distance away and, huddled beside it and shivering violently, was Bridei.

“You were dead.”

He turned at my words. I watched as he looked down at his stomach, nodding slightly. But this return from death had silenced his gentle tongue and, while I spoke continuously to him, he never offered anything more than smiles to me.

This posed a conundrum. If I were to take Bridei to Father, he would certainly be killed. But I couldn’t abandon Father. No, I would take Bridei and defend him. Njǫrd said Bridei’s life was in my hands, I was determined to have the strength to save it.

Bridei never challenged me on my decision, although he was clearly anxious about its outcome. But neither of us had need to worry for, as we reached Father’s men, it was to the terrible discovery that he had fallen sick. Abandoning Bridei, I entered Father’s tent.

“Sigrid,” he began, his eyes wild as they settled on me. “Where is that seer?”

I pointed to where Bridei stood at the tent opening, hugging his arms around his scarred body. But all the wounds he had received only the day before, looked years old.

“I won’t let you hurt him, Father,” I stubbornly announced, but Father’s eyes were not angry but awestruck. I had never seen such an expression on his face.

“Curse you, boy! I should have heeded your words.”

Bridei glanced at the warriors who gathered for their leader’s final moments. I stared at them, my expression pulling an explanation from their lips.

“Máel Brigte’s bite festered, Skjoldmø. The poison is in Sigurd’s blood.”

“The waters were right,” Bridei sobbed, the first words in his new life.

“No man could have known,” Father hissed through gritted teeth, his brow drenched in the effort of words. I looked down at my flask, realising the weight of Njǫrd’s and Bridei’s words. I couldn’t save him. “Trust him, Sigrid. He hears the gods.”

I remained with Father as his fever rose, induced by the wound from the corpse’s tooth. Bridei stood at my shoulder, silent once more. But I didn’t want words. Repeatedly, I assured Father of his journey to Valhalla, that his death would be looked on as glorious.

He died in the evening, facing the sea. The following morning, he was buried within a howe with Máel Brigte’s head at his feet, before the celebration of his journey into the afterlife began. I partook in each stage of the ceremony but, as the drinking continued into the night, I slipped away.

There was no mistaking Bridei. He was thinner than all of Father’s men, and the remnants of the painted emblems on his upper arms shone in the moonlight.

“I’m not a false seer,” he whispered as I stopped beside him. “The waters were true.”

“What do they tell you now?” I threaded my fingers into his own and stared across the river.

“Your name.” Bridei’s lips turned into a shy smile and, without meaning to, I openly laughed. He hurriedly continued. “And that you’re the strength we need to restore our land, Sigrid Skjoldmø.”

“If that’s true,” I continued, placing my free hand on his cheek without caring what such things meant, “I’ll need the guidance of a noble seer.”