Note: Because Icelandic is the closest modern language to old Norse, I will be using it to represent the Norse tongue. Translations are at the end of the story if you want them.
In the deep of night, the only sounds in the village were ones of the wild. Nelda listened intently to the bog, hoping the soft croon of ducks and hum of insects would lull her into a restful night. She knew it was a fruitless hope. Thoughts of the morning buzzed relentlessly in her head.
Tomorrow the King's men would come for tribute and Nelda would not have what they ask. Would they find the grain and furs she'd hidden away? She barely had enough for the winter. Nelda could only hope they were satisfied with the goods she'd laid out. It wasn't much, but it would still be cutting into the winter rations. The wooden shutters above her bed picked up the wind and began to rattle and bang against the side of her tiny cabin. The sound amplified her anxiety and she almost wished Lord Eahlstan was home. She had been sold into his service when he was quite wealthy. He was cruel, twice her age, and had a habit for drink - but if he were here, it would be him the soldiers beat instead of her.
Nelda sighed, sitting up onto her knees. She shivered at the breeze blowing straight through her night gown as she pulled the shutters closed. Lonely and anxious, Nelda flopped down on her stomach and released another long sigh into her pillow. As her eyes fluttered shut, she noticed a new sound. Nelda lay still, listening.
Was it the wind? No. It was garbled and disturbingly like a human voice but Nelda couldn't make out any words. Could it be a night jar? Or an owl?
The beginnings of fear rolled in her stomach. Was someone outside? She listened more closely, waiting for flapping wings or more wind. Before Nelda could panic or think, the cabin door flung open with such force and noise that she could not hold back her startled cry. The locked door landed hinges-and-all on her tidy floor. Three men with torches flooded into the cabin, their silhouettes hulking within the tiny frame of her home. Nelda's scream immediately drew their attention and one came stalking toward her. Without thinking, she jumped up off the floor and swept up the wood axe by the fireplace. She held it aloft, ready to swing, and could see by the light of his torch that he was draped in furs and resting his other hand on the hilt of a sheathed sword. Raven-dark hair was swept into a skull-tight braid and his thick beard adorned with beads. Nelda was slightly envious of the thick furs on his shoulders, protecting him from the cold autumnal night. Colorful metal rings on his knuckles distracted from the white scars that marred his hands and she thought of the women in town whispering about demons from the sea who took what they pleased and burned everything else.
"Misstu það," the scarred man said flatly. His words were nonsense to Nelda but he stared her down with the eyes of a predator. These were not the King's tax collectors.
When he started toward her she took a frenzied swing at him but the axe only grazed his bicep. He snarled and cold terror washed over her. For a moment Nelda could not tear her gaze from his oozing blood, which looked black as pitch in the torchlight. Once again she raised the axe at him. Nelda refused to die like this after all she had survived.
She was stunned to feel the handle slip from between her fingers as a hand ripped it away from behind and shoved her forward. She stumbled straight into her adversary. The scarred man easily locked her arms at her sides in a bear hug and she writhed against his steel hold, bucking against him like a frightened animal. He was seemingly unhindered by the wound she inflicted and laughed breathlessly.
"Þetta helvítis sárt."
He whispered the words close to her ear. She shivered at the sensation of his beard against her neck though Nelda did not understand him. He walked her back to her bed as she continued to struggle and threw her to the thin mattress belly-down. She let out a scream of indignance when the scarred man pinned her with a knee to her lower back and wrestled her arms behind her. He forced her arms into a crossed position with her forearms pinned one on top of the other. With deft hands, he wrapped and knotted a rope around them made from fibers that made her skin feel raw and sensitive.
