Free Daughter of the Wind by Michael Cadnum Page A

the air took on a richer hue, and the very flavor of the wind became more sweet.
    This was the first confirmation Hallgerd heard that she was an intended bride. She knew there was a cruel honor in being such a valuable prize, and there was an implied promise that she would suffer no further physical harm. Of course, no woman from her village would ever accept such a marriage. She knew that her duty was to behave herself in a way that would reflect the dignity of Spjothof, and to buy time for the ships that would, eventually, avenge her capture.
    â€œWhat war chief dares,” she asked, “to think his bed can comfort me?”
    She imagined Lidsmod arriving to do battle with a rich Dane, a fisherman with a fleet or a timber merchant grown wealthy. Certainly the man who sent an army to steal her away must be a landowner with chests full of silver heirlooms. Even the warriors he had employed had the robust, well-fed look of men who did not have to boil their own mutton.
    But Thrand merely laughed, the soft, kindly chuckle her father used when he sought to end a conversation.
    And he brought her a blanket of kid-wool and tucked it around her, his touch as gentle as his gaze.
    Hallgerd looked skyward when all but the helm and the night-watch were asleep. Thor was the god most like a human being in his aspirations and pleasures. He loved to test his strength, rolling boulders and hurling his weapon, just like mortal men. He loved the smell of fertile fields after a long rain, and was saddened at a widow’s tears.
    Guide me to freedom , she prayed. Give me the power to escape, and Lidsmod and I will name a son and a daughter after you .
    Hallgerd knew that if she fled now, trying to swim to the nearby rocky shore, she would lose her live in the profound cold of the water. And she would not be alive to witness the sea warriors of Spjothof when they wet their swords in the blood of these Danes. She longed for Lidsmod with his affectionate, thoughtful eyes, and his ready laugh. She wanted to breathe into his ear, even now, that she was well in body and spirit, and faithful to him.
    Perhaps she would ask Lidsmod to spare Thrand. Certainly she would. In fact, these Danes were an oddly likable crew, despite their warlike nature. None of them was as quarrelsome as Spjothof’s Gorm, or as tirelessly boastful as Opir, who did try Hallgerd’s patience at times.
    But the Danish laughter was softer than the hearty guffaws of her village, and their songs tuneful and touched with an almost unmanly sadness, the sort of songs Spjothof widows sang, or lonely wives. A tough lead oarsman from Spjothof would never have sung the lilting poem that was the favorite of one scarred Danish seaman.
    A sailor fell in love with an Arctic fox, in this chant, a creature who was a human female only during the months of summer. “ Come back to me, silver-whisper, ” sang the Danish warrior.
    â€œSing it again, Sverri,” his shipmates would exclaim.
    Morning, Thrand offered her a cup of mead.
    The colorfully decorated ship that carried Hallgerd and her captors was called Visunder —Bison. Thrand was more than happy to point out the refinements of the craft, a thirty-four bencher, by far the longest Hallgerd had ever encountered.
    Gilt paint scrollwork decorated a sea chest used by Thrand, and each of the other seamen had arm-rings or silver buckles kept carefully polished against the sea air. An eye on each side of the prow gave this ship some passing resemblance to a beast.
    â€œShe looks like a living creature,” said rough Olaf, “doesn’t she, Jarl’s Daughter?”
    Olaf was so openly proud of the vessel, and so boyishly in need of hearing it praised, that Hallgerd had to suppress a smile.
    â€œIn my village,” she said, “any boy and girl can carve a bison out of whalebone.”
    But the half-resentful, half-pained look in Olaf’s eye made her relent.
    â€œShe is a noble ship, it’s