A brutal awakening

I wake to the sounds of hundreds of birds chirping in the trees, and Torsten moving about to pack up and ready a few horses. It's a few hours after dawn.

My body is stiff from sleeping on the ground, and I groan as I roll to my side to sit up. So I'm still in this world. It wasn't a dream.

"We'll be' leaven in a few minutes Lass. Take care o' yer needs now," Torsten calls over when he notices I'm awake.

I nod and head behind one of the prickly bushes to awkwardly relieve myself with bound hands. Fuck this pencil skirt. I manage to wiggle it up enough one side at a time, and use the same method with my underwear, occasionally looking over my shoulder to make sure Torsten is not watching, but his back is turned away as he's still packing the horses. I'm going to have to find more suitable clothes in Tir Taingire.

Shortly after I have relieved myself and broke my fast on some more salted meat and hard tack handed to me by Torsten, we head out at a steady pace, taking a few extra horses with us.

I see the smoke well before we reach the village, but it's not enough to prepare me for what we see as we ride into Tir Taingire. The smell of burnt flesh and smoke burns my nostrils as we ride through a the remains of a cluster of homes with completely destroyed thatch roofs and blackened walls. Livestock run amok and turned over carts have spilled produce soaking in the mud. Dozens of bodies litter the ground in a way that indicates frantic attempts to flee. Some have spears and blades jutting out of their backs and chests. Others have slit throats, pools of blood forming under their face down corpses. Blood stains the mud and dirt where our horses’ hooves tread, smearing it more and more the further we head through town. Near a doorway of a burning home, I spot a man who appears to still be alive. Lying on his back, he clutches what appears to be his intestines towards his stomach with shaking hands and whimpers. His eyes lock on to mine for a few moments, wide with fear, before a gurgling sound comes from his throat and he stills, eyes still open and no longer seeing. I shudder and tear my eyes away from the sight, gripping the pommel with my bound hands and breathing hard.

A blood curdling scream sounds from my right, and I look up in time to see a woman attempting to flee from the doorway of a home still standing. Her dress is torn from her shoulder and one breast is exposed, her dark hair unbound and flying in the wind. She manages to get a foot out of the door before she is grabbed from behind by one of Frode's clan members. It's the bulky man I saw earlier who was brandishing his axe before the raid. She thrashes violently and claws his arms trying to escape, but he's got at least 100 pounds on her and is unmovable. He easily picks her up off the ground and takes her back into the darkened doorway before slamming the door shut, her screams becoming more muted. I think they will haunt me forever. I have no time to dwell on it as my horse trudges on, the reins attached to a rope on Torsten's hip, forcing me to witness the rest of this atrocity unfold.

A gust of wind temporarily clears some of the smoke billowing across our path, and I can see that on the hill ahead that a monastery is burning. A group of Frode’s warriors are descending the hill, carrying large sacks filled with what I imagine are spoils from the raid.

Suddenly a child runs across our path, soot smeared on her tear stained face. She barely dodges my horse's hooves, causing her to whinny and stumble. The girl looks to be about 6 years old, and wears a tartan overdress and a white blouse underneath, her chestnut hair lovingly braided down her back. She clutches a handmade doll in her arms, looking frantically around her. “Mamaidh? Dadaidh?!” she wails. Only the crackling of dying flames answer her, and she begins to cry, clutching her doll tighter to herself. The sight is heartbreaking.

“We have to do something!” I shout to Torsten, or to myself, I’m not sure, though I know he will do nothing. This is what the raids were like in my world’s history. Her father is most likely dead. Her mother, captured to be sold off as a slave, or an unwilling wife to one of Frode’s men. What will happen to this girl?

“It’ll be best for yeh not to look lass,” Torsten answers, surprising me. “But if yeh want to know, she’ll like’ly become a slave.”

Rage consumes me, and I grip the pommel with such force that my hands turn red. “All this…for gold? Spoils?” I glare at Torsten’s back as he rides in front of me, my horse’s reins tied to his.

“Dinnae assume yeh know our ways, lass,” he replies without looking back. Fuck him. He fucking joined them after they did the same to his village.

I act without thinking. Bracing my bound hands on the pommel, I swing my right leg behind me and dismount, feet sinking into the mud. My horse continues on without me, and I turn to the girl.

“What are yeh doin’ lass?! Get yer arse back here!” Torsten stops the horses and dismounts angrily. His large frame sends mud flying as he lands on the ground and starts stomping towards me.

"Just give me a minute. It's not like I can really go anywhere, Torsten," I bite back, displaying my bound hands for emphasis. He growls in frustration, but thankfully does not pursue me further.

“Hey, it’s ok, come here,” I motion to the girl. She looks over at me with watery eyes. “Cò thu?” she asked, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Càidh a..” that sharp pain slices through my brain again...ow! “my mama? Where's my mama?" Alright, a new language learned I guess. This one sounds more like Gaelic.

"I'm not sure, but I will help you try to find her," I say gently, offering my hand to her as best I can with it bound to my other. "What's your name?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Sorcha," the little girl says, rubbing her eyes. "Why are your arms tied up?"

"Don't worry about that, I will sort it out later" I try to smile. "My name is Beatrix. Would you like me to help you find your mother?" I don't say parents...because I doubt her father is alive at this point. I couldn't bear to get her hopes up.

Sorcha nods, and slowly wraps her small fingers around my bound hand. I lead her back to the horses, which are now stopped and the reins held by an increasingly pissed of Torsten.

"And what d' hell yeh plan to do with her aye?" he says as he eyes Sorcha.

"She can ride with me until we spot her mother," I say and lift my chin. Torsten raises a fuzzy red eyebrow. "Are yeh sure yeh want to risk his wrath lass?"

I stand my ground, keeping Torsten's glare with my own.

"Fine. Difficult woman!" he grumbles as he stomps forward, unceremoniously lifts me and throws me in the saddle once again, this time I manage to grip the pommel and not fall over. Sorcha squeals and looks like she's about to flee.

"It's alright Sorcha, you can ride up front." I make a pointed look at Torsten once I'm settled.

He rolls his eyes, but then picks up Sorcha and hands her to me in the saddle.

"Now, if yer done causin' me problems lass, we best be on our way."

"Thank you, Torsten," I say earnestly. In all honesty I didn't think he would let me take her, there must be a soft spot still there left in him despite turning against his own people and becoming a viking clan member.

He says nothing, and returns to his own horse. Soon after we continue riding through the wreckage and havoc, and I look around for anyone who might resemble Sorcha's mother, but all I see are bodies and smoke.

At last we reach what appears to be a tavern, with several of Frode's clansmen moving around and about. They eye me with recognition as we approach, one of them offering a feral grin which I pointedly ignore. From this vantage point, I can see that the town is near the bank of a large river to our left, likely why the people of Tir Naingire decided to settle here. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a giant raven, Huginn (or is it Muninn this time?) flying west. Probably communicating the success of this raid to Skuld and the other raiding party, I imagine.

"What's the meaning of this?" My heart jolts and I whip my head forward to see Frode standing in front of us. His ice blue eyes are already narrowed in on me of course. His dusty blond hair is wind swept and there is a generous amount of blood coating his armor. The fucker has a tankard of what appears to be ale in his hand.

I hold his glare. I've been doing a lot of that lately. "I'm helping her find her mother."

Frode blinks slowly tilting his head as he studies me, and I can't read his expression. Even though I'm on horseback and so technically above him, he still has a way of looking down at me somehow.

"Hmmm...then I suppose you should have a look at the new thralls we have acquired," he finally responds.

"Thralls?" I ask.

"Yes, we will use them for labor, and for the ones who cannot work, we will trade." Slaves. Well, I expected as much, but the way he talks of it so matter of fact disgusts me.

With the hand holding the tankard, Frode gestures lazily with his pointer finger to his left, away from the river. "Good luck," he smirks, gives Torsten a look that elicits an exasperated sigh from him, then turns and heads back into the tavern.

After dismounting the horses, we head in the direction Frode pointed, Sorcha holding on the hem of my pencil skirt. Soon we approach a fenced off field in front of a block house, the thatched roof still in tact. A group of about 20 people, including men, women and children stand in front of the house, weary, wounded and clearly frightened. Like me, their hands are bound. They share the field with a few highland cattle that continue to graze the field despite their new co-occupants. A female and male member of Frode's clan stand watch. The male looks bored and like he'd rather be inside the Tavern drinking ale. The female watches stoically, arms crossed in front of her chest and a long sword strapped to her back. She has fair skin and golden blonde hair, intricately half braided away from her face. She wears a chestnut leather breast plate and bracers over a teal woven tunic. Despite her grim expression and the masculine way she holds herself, I would describe her as beautiful. She is the first of the two to spot us with a side glance before giving Torsten a nod.

Torsten nods back, by way of greeting. "Sigrid."

As we get closer, a woman from the group of slaves cries out, struggling to shoulder her way past the rest with her bound hands. "Sorcha!"

"Mama!" Sorcha lets go of my skirt and starts running towards her mother.

"Stop!" Sigrid shouts in a commanding voice. Terrified, Sorcha stops in her tracks. Sigrid pulls some rope from a pile nearby, and stalks over to Sorcha.

"Give me your hands." Trembling, Sorcha looks to her mother.

"It's alright Sorcha my love, just giver her yeh hands," her mother says, her voice breaking a little. "It's going to be okay, love. Everything is going to be okay." This is heartbreaking to witness, and I wonder if I did the right thing or not by bringing Sorcha with me, but I remind myself that at least now she is with her mother. My shoulders slump. I feel so weak and powerless.

Sorcha lifts her hands slowly, looking up at Sigrid with eyes wide, and Sigrid roughly binds her hands. Once she is finished, she opens the gate to the fenced field and pushes Sorcha through with force, but not enough to knock her to her feet.

"Mama!" Sorcha runs to her mother, who lifts her bound hands to circle her into an embrace. They both start crying.

"It's alright my dear, we're together now." Sorcha's mother looks at me, then, tears streaming down her face, and whispers "thank you."

Deeply wishing I could do more for them, I just nod, and turn back to Torsten, who waists a few feet away with his hands hooked in his belt.

"Are yeh done causin' me problems, lass?"

I say nothing and walk back towards the tavern. Stepping into the entryway, I'm greeted by raucous laughter, the heavy clinks of tankards and the combined stench of sweat, blood and ale. Clansmen and women sit around a table filled with plates of roast chicken, tankards of ale, scattered gold and silver coins, golden chalices, decorative ornaments and treasures. Spoils from the monastery. Frode sits at the head of the table, leaning back against the chair with one leg casually crossed over the other. He has one elbow propped on the armrest and his hand stokes his chin, like he's sitting on a throne pondering the qualms of his kingdom. His other hand loosely holds his tankard. Our eyes find each other instantly and he rises an eyebrow.

"There you are, fiery one. Did you accomplish what you set out to do today?" he asks casually, like he's asking me about my day.

I want to scream at him. I want to rip that tankard out of his hand. I want to carve that smirk off of his face with a blade. But I am unarmed, and I am powerless. I am bound and at his mercy. For now.