Enchantment

ONE Will there be much fighting?" came a girlish voice. "Much," came the old man's rasping reply. "Will she have to kill many men?" came a second young voice. "Only the Allfather himself knows that." The night was moon-bright and as chilled as the depths of a Frost Giant's cave. Four cloaked figures made their way slowly down a treacherous mountain path and paused on a rock ledge overlooking a dark, silent forest. Far below, beyond the forest and extending into the distance, lay a vast, silvery expanse of water, the great Lake Vanern. "Is Jarl Borger's hall large and fine?" the first asked. "Is it covered with carving and hung with silk banners?" the second added. "I have said so." "The great hall flows with the finest mead?" "Drunk in toasts by the fiercest warriors in all of farmland?" The questions wearied the old man; they asked not for information but for assurance. He paused and raised a gnarled hand and pointed to distant specks of light on the jagged line where the forest and water appeared to meet. "There it is." His voice was dry and forced. "The village. Even as I remembered." He looked to the moon-paled faces of his three daughters. "When we enter the hall you remain by the door . . . I will approach the high seat alone." The two young ones nodded and he turned to the third, who towered above them all. She stood motionless, staring at those distant lights, which seemed to move and change with each blink of the eye . . . lights that meant an ending . . . and a beginning. "Are you ready, Daughter?" he said, laying a hand on her arm. Ready? To take up her life-task and fulfill her destiny? Aaren Serricksdotter looked down at the anxious faces of her two young sisters and her throat tightened. For one tumultuous moment she ached with longing to go back to the mountains from which they had come . . . back to their log hut in the meadow . . . back to the simple lifeways they had shared. As soon as she recognized that yearning she recoiled from it, naming it weakness. Focusing on what she could see of the old man's face beneath his felt hat, she nodded. As they started off again, descending into shadows cast by the restless, whispering trees, the old man's question drummed in the chambers of her heart. Ready? Are you ready? As she moved along the narrow path, her mind filled with powerful, unbidden memories that crowded out the sounds of owls hooting and the rustle of leaves in the dry autumn forest. Suddenly she was in their home in the mountains once more, tussling and giggling with her little sisters before the evening fire . . . lying on her back in a summer meadow filled with the scent of ripe grass, searching the clouds for a glimpse of the gods who lived in Asgard . . . holding the body of the little forest cat she had raised from a kit, while tears burned down her cheeks. Her jaw clenched. Her hand brushed the cool metal pommel of the sword at her side and her fingers closed reflexively around its leather-wrapped horn handle. This was what mattered now, she told herself, shaking off the clutch of longing at her heart. This was all that mattered. One by one she locked those painful remembrances away. There would be no place in her new life for longing, gentle memories, or tender mercies. Father Serrick had taught her about the world of men. It was a fierce and pitiless place, filled with hard bodies, hard steel, and even harder fighting. That was the way of things in the lands of the Norsemen. The highest glory and surest reward came from fighting well, and if the faKrahn, Betina is the author of 'Enchantment', published 2005 under ISBN 9780440242673 and ISBN 0440242673.