TORBJÖRN

Chapter 6

"Long did I sleep, my slumber was long,
And long are the griefs of life;
Othin decreed that I could not break
The heavy spells of sleep."
Poetic Edda poem Sigrdrifumol, stanza 4

Late Ninth Century Scandinavia

The pounding in Kiersten's head abated somewhat, the pain more bearable since she first woke. From what she could tell, she was in the same bed, in the same room as before. But this time she was alone. An itching ache under her breast drew her attention. She ran a hand along her skin until she came to a scab as long and wide as her finger. Still weak, she sat up slowly, propping herself on her elbows. The furs covering her breasts were pulled back, and she examined the healing wound. Cauterized.

What in Óðinn's name had happened?

The remaining pelts were tossed to the side. Scratches and fading bruises covered the rest of her body. She reached up and tentatively touched the tender welt on her cheek, then felt the large knot on the side of her head.

She searched her mind for the cause of her injuries, but came up with nothing. In fact, she couldn't remember anything. Nothing from her past. Glimpses of people and places flickered deep in her memories, but remained out of reach.

Her eyes scanned the large room, searching for anything recognizable. Nothing. No spark of familiarity in anything she saw. She placed her fingertips to her temple.

She lay back and immediately became aware of two pressing issues. Sore or not, her bladder was full and her mouth so dry she could hardly swallow. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and had to fight a wave of nausea as she stood, steadying herself until it passed.

With a pelt wrapped around her torso and praying she would not fall over, Kiersten slowly made her way to the door and peeked outside. It was early evening, the sun still up, but beginning its descent into the horizon. The sound of hammer hitting steel came from the only other building, from what she surmised was the smithy. Other than that, not a soul was around. It seemed odd that that there were no other buildings, that the smithy wasn't in the heart of a village. A narrow road led away from the house, disappearing into the surrounding forest.

She didn't have time to think on it further. Her unsteady legs barely held her up as she snuck off into the bushes to relieve herself. She returned to the house, feeling the need to disguise her footprints as she went, and shut the door behind her.

A water bucket sat near the fire pit and she scuttled over, near desperate to quench her thirst and rinse the cotton from her mouth.

She took great gulps from the ladle and studied her surroundings. Everything, from the table to the door was oversized, as if built for a giant of a man. And carved in great detail, even little things like the handle on the door and the legs on the bench. But what stood out was the bed; a true masterpiece. This was no raised wooden pallet that most slept upon. The ladle fell into the bucket and she moved to study it up close. A sturdy oak frame raised the straw mattress from the floor. The bed boasted a headboard and footboard, the likes of which she had never seen before. Every inch of exposed wood was intricately carved, serpents and dragons looping around each other in complicated knots. But instead of the traditional dragon heads crowning the posts, carved bear heads were in their stead, red stones set into the eyes. They seemed to watch as she brushed her fingers over them, the stones cold under her touch.

She moved about the room. A large chest sat at the foot of the bed, and when she opened it, found only the simple clothes of a workingman. She looked about the room again. There was no sign that a woman lived here. Was this not her home?