The Sword: Oddny Einarsdottir, #1

By Lilypearl Colman

Oddny Einarsdottir, 15, brims with excitement as she sets sail with her dashing foster brother. After a decade of separation, she's about to reunite with her father at his homestead in Iceland. But it is not to be. Just days into the voyage, she's screaming helplessly as the vikings butcher her foster brother before her eyes and drag her off with the booty.

A slave market would have been agony enough. But Oddny has already caught the lecherous eye of her brutal sea king captor.

The Sword begins the saga of Oddny Einarsdottir, a Norwegian girl struggling to redefine herself after three shattering years in bondage. Passion, resilience, love and vengeance unfold against a rich backdrop of medieval slavery, civil war and the day-to-day life of 10th century Norway — all seen through a woman's eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lilypearl Colman
• Release date: Mar 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224048724

Book preview

Lilypearl Colman

The Sword

Oddny Einarsdottir I

First published by Printwrite Press 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Lilypearl Colman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First revision.

Cover design and illustrations © Lilypearl Colman.

Second edition

Editing by Tonya Blust

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

To everyone who has helped me through dark times; listened to me when I needed to rationalize this world; and inspired me to make the most of my loneliest hours. To all of you, my deepest love and gratitude.

To all captive women.

"Now it is night.

Death lingers

so distant on the cliff.

Yet I will lift my head

a little longer—

with courage

and gladness await

the peace of Hel."

— Egill Skalla-Grímsson

Sonatorrek, c. 961 CE

Contents

Pronunciation

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Illustrations

Chronology, Calendar, Etc.

From The Vow

About the Author

Also by Lilypearl Colman

Author Lilypearl Colman has created a delightful character in Oddny whom all women will readily identify with, even a thousand years after the novel’s setting… I was glad to see that this is just the first in a series that promises so much… This was a fantastic read that I can highly recommend.

— Grant Leishman for Readers’ Favorite

Pronunciation

Many books or movies set in the Viking Age use Anglicized or Latinized forms of Norse personal names. This, however, can alter the names beyond recognition, for example, Lathgertha for Hlathgerthr, or Rollo for Hroalfr. This also blurs the distinction between male and female forms—Ljot vs Ljot instead of Ljotr vs Ljot. In this book, I have chosen to modify the spelling for ease of reading, but still use the Norse forms of the names.

While names look daunting at first glance, they are really not much harder to say than the anglicized versions. For interest, I have included a brief pronunciation guide for ease of reading. It is by no means exhaustive, but it gives a fair approximation for English speakers. However, feel free to develop your own pronunciation of the names as you read—whatever works for you!

Please note that the guide given follows modern Icelandic pronunciation, which is quite changed from the more nuanced Old Norse of the period.

Consonants

J is always soft, a y as in ‘yellow’.

Vowels

á — ‘ow’ as in ‘cow’

ú — ‘oo’ as in ‘soon’

æ — like English ‘eye’

ö — no real equivalent in English. It sounds something like ‘uh’ said with pursed lips.

au — roughly ‘oy’ as in ‘boy’

ei, ey — ‘ay’ as in ‘day’

Personal Names:

Here follows an approximation of some of the more challenging names in the book:

Áslaug: OWS-loyg

Bothildr: BOAT-hild-er

Ljot: Lee-YOHT

Ragnfrithr: RAH-gin-free-ther

Ægileif: EYE-gih-layf

Örlygr: UHR-lig-er

Place Names:

All Norse farmsteads, no matter how small, were named. Usually, the name was drawn from some sort of prominent landmark or unique feature about the place, for example, a single, scraggly tree behind the houses or a river flowing nearby. Often, these distinguishing features helped travelers recognize their destinations.

Askheimr — Place of the rowans

Einhamarr — Lone cliff

Fitjar — Riverbanks

Haukabær — Place of the hawks

Holl — Hill

Hvammr — Little vale/grassy hollow

Melaslettir — Sandy/rocky flats, banks

Toftir — Homesteads

Tún — Meadow, field

Skog — Forest

Sæbol — Seaside hollow/farmstead

Sword Names, Animal Names, Etc.:

Afspringr — One that springs back

Bylgjudreki — Wave Dragon

Frekja — Edgy, intense

Gjallandi — Yeller

Grásitha — Gray Flank

Hrottameithr — Warrior

Knúi— One that cleaves the waves

Rauthfaxi — Red Mane

Chapter 1

He had not followed her.

The girl crouched for a moment near the top of the stairs, shivering. Water sprayed down from the dripping eaves above. She gripped the raw edge of the narrow balcony and leaned out over the yard below, straining to hear past the pounding rain.¹ There were no footsteps. She stood up, hesitant, and started feeling her way along the stout log wall until her fingers hit a door frame. She clawed the door open and threw herself into the loft.

It was pitch dark in the musty room. Her blinded path was strewn with nameless clutter. Oddny cursed under her breath as she tore her hands and stubbed her knees on hostile crates and chests. At last, she stumbled upon some coarse leather sacks in a corner. She flung herself down on the heap, exhausted, and gave her outraged tears full vent.

She must have nodded off somehow, for suddenly, she was starting awake. She was cold from having slept exposed. She huddled together, cursing her lost cloak. Her cropped, frizzy hair was no longer dripping water in her eyes, but it had dried stiff and lay plastered across her brow. Her clothes were soaked. Both woolen coat and sturdy caftan felt disgustingly dank against her bruised flesh. To try and sleep again was useless. Oddny righted herself on her lumpy couch and hugged her knees.

Outside, the clouds had drifted apart. Through the grimy skylight overhead, a wan moonbeam strayed into the loft, fingering the jumbled objects heaped in storage. Oddny gaped stupidly at her surroundings. In the murky light, she could discern a bedstead with a scrolling woodwork frame, very like the one she had just escaped downstairs. Blood rushed to her cheeks. She turned aside, heart pounding.

She felt so sore, so stiff. Every sinew ached after that brutal beating. She stretched out her hands to the light, scrunched up her stiff sleeves and traced the fresh red bruises mottling her arms. Her eyes stung. She burrowed her head down between her knees and whined like a frightened child.

She was his slave.

Lifting her face, she stared at the littered floor. She pictured that brute before her—so lascivious, so boisterous and coarse. She relived that bloody day at sea when he had captured her, the terror and the misery. Then the slave market, where they had sold off some of the other captives. And all the days at camp in those desolate harbors, when she would hide among the baggage and listen while the pirates drank and sported themselves on her fellow captives. One of the women had warned her he was holding back only to save the game for home. Oddny blew out her breath in disbelief. She must have been right. For tonight, under his own roof, the man had been a fuming bull. How she had escaped his drunken groping in time, she could not fathom.

Weeks ago, she had felt young. Young and pretty. She touched the slave collar around her neck and sobbed.

It was daylight. Through her wretched stupor and the pattering rain on the roof, she could hear the clang of pans and kettles from outside, the cackle of poultry, and a tumult of strange voices. Suddenly, she remembered where she was and scrambled to her feet. She wiped her cracked lips on her sleeve and smoothed back her ragged hair.

After last night’s ordeal, and hours curled up on those punishing sacks, she was almost too stiff to stand. She wobbled painfully on her feet as she looked around, trying to make sense of this alien room—the row of empty bedsteads, the dust-caked chests, the goatskin sacks strung low along the rafters. No doubt they bulged with clothes. She caught herself wondering what had become of her belongings but forced the thought out of her mind and started rifling through the nearest bag. At first, she could find nothing but old, worn-out cloaks and breeches. But eventually, she dredged up a neatly mended shift and a plain leather girdle.² She skinned out of her foul clothes and redressed. Slinging the old garments over her arm, she slipped out onto the balcony to survey the yard below. It seemed deserted. She hurried down the stairs. Across the courtyard stood the chief hall; at its door, an ample trough hewn from a meaty log. Oddny hesitated, fearful. They would probably be passing around the washbasins soon. The light was already strong behind the heavy clouds. She dared not venture near if he were awake.

She darted over from the house where she had hidden and dropped to her knees by the trough. It was practically dry, boasting more of what drippings the wind had sloughed off from the long, sheltering eave above than any supplemental dregs. She squatted down, debating where to turn, when a faint mew drew her attention to the ground.

A wisp of a kitten peered out through a weedy gap in the log foundation. It looked to be a few weeks old, a harmless creature, with downy, gray fur. Oddny’s heart warmed instantly. She reached down to coax the kitten out and teased it with a couple of blades of trampled grass. Seduced, the kitten clambered out of its hole and started rubbing around the girl’s ankles, snuffling her shoes. Oddny scooped it up, smiling.

Hiding, then? Clever one, you are.

Oddny lifted her head with a start to find a woman standing over her. She looked young, barely out of her teens; thickset and ruddy with a shag of dark, curly hair. She smiled wryly, baring a wide gap in her small, pearly teeth. We all thought he’d kept you for the night, but then he took Geira. Don’t be scared now. The men are taking their leisure this morning, she consoled her, marking the rising dread on Oddny’s face. They bedded down where they were, in the hall. They were so drunk. You’ve washed already?

Only a little, Oddny stammered hastily, releasing her struggling kitten. The other girl skeptically eyed the grimy clothes slung over her arm.

You’ll need more water than that, she said, nodding at the trough. I must draw some water for the cooking, so you may as well take your clothes and scrub them in the river.

Oddny followed her to a group of dilapidated outbuildings and waited till the bondmaid reappeared, saddled with a heavy yoke. The two girls then cut across the courtyard in silence. There was a well-worn trail leading from the gate into the woods that framed the farmstead, and thither Oddny’s guide bent her course. She seemed well versed in these gloomy grounds and forged ahead briskly, but Oddny felt more apprehension wending through the bearded trees. She gripped the Mjöllnir amulet on her bosom, struggling to keep up.³

Presently, the root-laced path veered off into a shallow ravine. The stout girl descended promptly, leaving Oddny to duck after her through a screen of dead, tangled fir boughs. They emerged on the flat, rush-clad banks of a small river. While her companion moved upstream to draw the water, Oddny set to washing. The river was ice-cold and swollen from the heavy autumn rains, but she managed to rinse her clothes and beat them out on the rocks. After sucking and chafing her poor fingers to thaw them, she combed out her hair with a little water. It had already grown out since the raid.⁴

These were the only ornaments left her in this world, she reflected, drawing from her purse the two bronze brooches for her old shifts and aprons, now lost. Those, and the nail brooch in her cloak, and her silver comb. She had had sense enough to heed her foster brother and grab her sack of belongings when first they sighted the pirate ship. She had thrown in her casket of ornaments, too. But the vikings had had no patience for their fumbling captive and tossed her sacks, jeering, among the loot.⁵

You’ll comb your head raw if you keep that up much longer.

Oddny glanced up at her companion, who stood watching her now, just a step or two away. The dark girl shifted the yoke on her shoulders. You aren’t used to short hair, I figure. You look like a well-born maid. She looked Oddny over shrewdly. You’ll have hell enough fending off the master as you are.

Oddny flushed. Stooping quickly, she caught up her wet clothes and slipped her comb back into her purse. The other girl settled down with her buckets to rest. After a moment, she ventured:

I am Thordis Lodhottsdottir. And you?

Oddny sat down heavily on a boulder. Oddny Einarsdottir, Hafsteinsson. From the Orkney Isles. My mother’s name was Thorhalla Bergsteinsdottir.

So you’re Norse, then, as I thought. Well, did he take you at sea, or buy you at some market maybe?

Oddny could scarcely trust herself to utter a sound. Thordis flicked a stone into the water, waiting. I—I was at sea, Oddny faltered woodenly.

Ah. Thordis was quiet for a moment. She eyed the stricken girl perched on the rock. Oddny gazed blankly at the ground. We’ll be wanted in the kitchen now. You must be hungry?

Oddny shook her head. Thordis started without waiting for an answer. The younger girl stumbled dutifully after her. It was some time before she realized that Thordis led her down a route different from that which they had first taken. The ground sloped steeply upward under her feet, and soon the dense forest gave way to a broad rolling down, crested by a stand of neglected fruit trees. Stunted, knobby apples clustered tightly along their tangled branches. The windfall abounded. Coming closer, Thordis crouched down heavily and rooted through the wet grass. She tossed a rosy apple at Oddny while biting lustily into another.

Won’t we be late? asked Oddny.

Thordis looked at her. Are you in such haste?

They stood side by side, taking in the view. The orchard hill faced westward, sloping down into a vast lea that had been turned into the farmland of the estate. The grounds about the central homestead formed a patchwork of fenced-off acres, some open paddocks and pastureland, some cornfields studded with stooked sheaves. To the far southwest, divided by a ribbon of scrubby woodland, Oddny glimpsed the shorn hayfields and the flax hollow where the little tributary joined the Elfr at a frothing rapid.⁶

For a few minutes, they watched smoke curling from the houses huddled below, listening to the gurgling raven on the wing and the far-off rush of the curving river. Then, steeling herself, Oddny spoke up.

This seems such a poor estate for one so wealthy. A viking like this Örlygr—he must wallow in riches, with all the loot he accrues year after year.

"He’s a red–viking if ever there were.⁷ The Rock, they call him. Thordis snorted. Nay, he’s got far more holdings to his foul name than this bloody hovel. Always traveling from one to another. We need never suffer him longer than a season at most. You see he cares very little for working the land." She gestured bitterly towards the weathered trees.

The rain was spattering down again. Thordis squinted at the ashen sky. She started plodding down the slope. Oddny hurried after.

You have an eastern accent, she observed to Thordis when, presently, the other tossed out a comment on the waning season. How is it, then, that your master speaks in the manner of us Westerners?⁸

He was a fool and plundered his native coasts one year, returning from a raid, said Thordis.⁹ He needed no food, only craved a little extra sport and booty. Hákon-king punished him with exile, and he settled down at his property here in Vermaland—Toftir, a winning from some past duel. She paused and gave a cynical laugh. The law so seldom reaches these parts. Arnvithr–earl is not so friendly with the king as to purge the outlaws here.¹⁰

Oddny listened gravely. She could not tell what had driven her to ask after him when just thinking of the man sickened her.

Then Thordis looked at her and said, You take a great interest in him, I deem. You never heard of him before?

When Oddny shook her head, she continued.

"This Örlygr Thrasason is a sea king, and his league is as cutthroat as they come. I’d wager he’s as infamous now throughout Vermaland and Næriki as he once was in Norway. And he still maintains his reign of terror in the Baltic, for sure. He usually spends his summers pillaging. The rest of the year—when he’s not wintering over abroad, mind you—he makes rounds of all his estates, reveling with his cronies. He’ll also roam the countryside at whiles, so I hear, challenging to a duel whoever seems likeliest to lose. And so far, the method’s served him well, for he’s only grown fatter and richer and had no run-ins with the law. Just last year, he challenged a neighbor over a stud horse that caught his fancy. He killed the master and stole his land and daughter, too.

His exile hither has punished us Vermir far more than ever it did him, finished Thordis. He isn’t hurting for aught.

They had reached the farmstead by now.¹¹ Passing through the gateway, the girls entered a maze of activity. Breakfast was nearly on, for a couple of women were scurrying from the dairy to the kitchen, lugging vats of whey between them. Another carried in a huge wheel of brown goat’s cheese. A sullen young boy appeared with a steaming kettle of mash—headed, no doubt, for the pigpen.

Out near the southern row of houses, by the cluster of barns and pantries, a crew of thralls drove some horses out from the paddock. A small, dark-haired young man waited to tie them to the fence, armed with brightly polished tack, but he stopped in his work as the two girls passed. He gazed after them for a moment before turning away hastily and bridling his curiosity with the horses. Feeling his trailing eyes, Oddny could not help but swivel her head around towards him. He looked so familiar, like so many of the lean, swarthy Celts she had grown up among in Orkney. The sight of him nailed her feet in place. She stood spellbound for a second, staring through a haze of tears.

Thordis grabbed her arm. Come on, Oddny. We’re already late, she nagged.

Oddny flinched. Where are they riding? She kept her eyes on the dark lad. That was not what she had meant to ask.

Thordis glanced over at the men. Oh, ’tisn’t for them. I think the master’ll be setting out for Toftir to stow his loot. He should be gone awhile, happy fate—

A harsh shout cut her short. Nodding her leave, she sped off to the kitchen. Oddny called out after her. They won’t rebuke you, will they, Thordis? We were so long fetching that water.

But the other bondmaid brushed her off. This is only for the guests’ use, she yelled back. Go hang your clothes out and worry over your own hide.

In the kitchen doorway, Oddny found herself confronted by a tall, pockmarked woman. The latter had been grinding barley on the threshold for the morning gruel. Now she wrested the water buckets from the yoke and set them indoors, scolding angrily all the while. Thordis stood by humbly, a flaming red mark across her cheek.

The tall woman—evidently the housekeeper, from the fat bundle of keys jangling on her hip—peered blindly at the recoiling newcomer. There you are, child. Damn you! Ye took your bloody ease. She gestured roughly for Oddny to fill her post at the quern. "The master’s been bawling for his meal since daylight. And he’ll want you to serve, no doubt about that, nay. Don’t think he’ll take it lightly, you running off ere he could have his way with you." She stooped, agitated, over a loaded platter on the broad stump set near the door. When Thordis reappeared from an errand to the hall, she thrust the tray load of buttermilk into her arms. Oddny watched her friend out the door without a sound.

Didn’t he take Geira to bed with him? she ventured at length, working the millstones woodenly. It occurred to her that she hadn’t yet laid eyes on this creature, Geira.

Take her! Aye, he took her. Didn’t even realize it wasn’t you till daybreak, full as he was. She saw you’d fled and crept up wheedling, and he turned to playing with her just like that, one wench as good as another. Oh, you should’ve seen her fly out of the hall this morning, bawling and screeching. She got hers, all right. It’s been long since I heard him raging like that.

A wave of coarse laughter rolled through the knot of women at the hearth. At that, someone retorted with an angry sob, cursing, it sounded like, in some harsh foreign tongue. The housekeeper—Moeithi was her name—turned from Oddny, coughing violently. One of the women had opened the broiling pit in the hearth to test the meat therein.¹² Through the billow of savory steam, Moeithi hollered:

Oh, muzzle your filthy snout, you whore. We know you didn’t filch any brooches from the master this time. The trolls have ye, I’d think you’d be crying that he made it home at all! Two years now, and more, we’ve had respite from his cursed fists.

The loud whimpering continued. Moeithi rolled her bleary eyes skyward and swore. Then, swiping back greasy hair from her face, she bent over Oddny again. Haste, girl! I need to boil that damned gruel. Or would you rather breakfast on a beating? Ten of those foul servants he brings up here, and four others. I swear, even a sibyl couldn’t tell where he dredged those out from. She wiped her nose, casting a scornful glance at the hearth. Ah, Geira. Mind you, she’ll not take kindly to a little half-grown wench like you showing her out the door.

Oddny stood up and shook some meal from her skirt. I think there’s enough barley for the gruel, Moeithi, she said quietly. Her voice faltered. She tried to steady it with a hard swallow. Suddenly, Thordis spoke up behind her. No one had seen her return.

They want beer. They were all ill-pleased with the buttermilk, Moeithi. But I must rinse those kettles out for serving.

As though they hadn’t swilled enough last night, the pigs, grumbled Moeithi. She paused in scooping the meal into her vat, then squinted through the dissipating haze at the two or three women still bustling inside. Well, Kathlin’s still minding the flatbread, and I dare not send the other one again. Aye, no doubt he’ll crave a little sport, too. You, Oddfrithr—or whoever you are, she jerked her head towards a shrinking Oddny. Your hands are plenty free, I trow. May as well get it over with. Was he not boasting of his plans last eve? she remarked cruelly to Thordis. The latter reddened but kept her mouth shut. She pushed into the kitchen without looking at the fated redhead. Smirking, Moeithi handed Oddny a great, painted ale bowl and dipper and herded her out to the adjoining brewery.

Oddny could hear the carousing in the little hall even from her hesitant place on the porch. Her heart had stopped pounding now and felt glued onto her ribs. She walked up to the simple, rough-hewn doorway and lifted a hand to test if the bolt was drawn. Suddenly, she remembered that she was entering as a slave, to serve them. She blushed to think of the scene she would have made wandering in through the chief door.¹³ Perhaps they would not even notice her if she slipped in quietly enough. Rounding the corner of the hall, she sucked in a deep breath and plunged into the gloomy den.

The single hearth had been stoked to a hearty blaze. A few of the torches also burned. Still, the young smoke hung thick on the stale air, mingling sickly with the stench of sweat and drunken slumber. The men had strewn their filthy sailing garb across the trampled floor—horsehair capes riddled with bits of straw, trousers, and leather leggings stained from the long ride up the river. Oddny had to kick a path through the mess to keep from tripping.

The men were all still naked. Some lolled in their beds on the deal floor. Others, who had been privileged with the loft for the night, perched idly on the broad frame of the hearth, scratching themselves as they eyed the fair intruder. On the dais chair, buried among the dirty cushions and a couple of privileged dogs, sat Örlygr. He gave a hoot the instant she slipped in.

There’s as choice a collop of flesh as ever tempted man, he jeered. The other men snickered, whispering among themselves. Trying to ignore their brazen staring, she set the heavy bowl down on a bench within their reach. None of the men rose to help themselves. A few of them emptied their remnant buttermilk on the floor and belched. Others thrust their bowls at her rudely. Flushing, she moved down their ranks, eyes lowered. One of the younger crewmen gave her a bold pinch on the backside as she passed him. She squealed, springing up like a startled rabbit. They all roared with delight.

So you’ll serve me last, will you? Insolent bitch, taunted Örlygr. Oddny cringed. Hastily, she returned a few more bowls and made for the high seat to fill Örlygr’s. He sat there, watching, making no move to hand her the bowl. She felt her knees melting. She wished the ground would tear open and swallow her.

She’s a fine catch, Örlygr. Well done, commented Hávarthr, a winsome steward, after a slurp of ale. He slouched back on the wall and sneered, his wincing eyes a little dull and swimmy. "Good thing we ventured West this summer, else you’d have missed her.¹⁴ And what a shipload of loot she came with, too."

Oddny swallowed fiercely. She bowed her head. Örlygr joined in their gloating now, laughing over every gruesome detail of their exploits. Her thoughts raced as she listened, piecing out the course of events. He had drained the Promise Cup while in Denmark that Yule.¹⁵ So she and Authunn had merely furnished him with fresh glory—her foster brother to whet his axe and herself to grace his victory bed. A dozen vessels plundered and three trade posts sacked, all in the course of the summer.

Out of the corner of her eye, she scrutinized this beast. He was an ugly man, Örlygr. The rank smell of his grimy body and the intimate prospect before her made him utterly repulsive. He was little, a good half a head shorter than she, but a block of solid brawn, with stocky limbs and a bull’s neck. In his middle age, he had grown unflatteringly fat, with flabby thighs and a great, hard potbelly from years of heavy drinking. He had a broad, round face and a small head; cold, beady eyes set a little wide under a low, ponderous brow. His short, blunt nose was utterly graceless, and his crooked, yellow teeth were streaked with rot. A thinning crop of dark, blondish hair hung lank to his shoulders. He wore his grizzled beard shorn to a stubble.

The girl looked at him and revolted. Frigg, Thorr—was she fated for this man?¹⁶

He splashed her with the dregs of