How to Tame Your Thrall

Thorsten strolled down the hill through the market. The breeze from the fjord was laden with the smells of the stalls: fresh bread, leather, wood-shavings, dung and very dead herring. He wrinkled his nose at the last - Aelfhund the fishmonger had never been the best at keeping his wares fresh. In the heat of the late spring day, they'd be humming by noon and by dusk even the dogs wouldn't touch them. He sped up, making his way to the harbour and the cattle pens.

The harbour didn't smell much better. Cattle, fish guts and rotting seaweed combined to assault the senses, and the thin wind bit deep. But it was a smell that offered the promise of something more. The snap of the sails in the wind, and the sound of men's boastful tales as they loaded supplies onto the boat, were all anyone needed to hear to know that a raid was planned. Thorsten felt his spirits rise as he contemplated his immediate future in the belly of the boat. He knew that it would be a week or more of being alternately bored, terrified, wet and cold, but the promise of excitement and plunder at the end of it made it all worthwhile.

"Thorsten, man!" a loud voice hailed him from the water. Thorsten peered down into the belly of the boat to see Erik staring back up at him. "You're back from the high pastures already?"

Thorsten grinned down at his cousin. "What, you mean you thought I'd make the journey as slowly as you, stumpy?" he taunted.

Erik laughed good-naturedly, and made his way up onto the quayside. The two men were ill-matched - Thorsten's huge bulk dwarfed Erik's slim, bow-legged frame - but years of raiding together had bound them together closer than brothers. There was no-one Thorsten would trust more, on land or sea.

Thorsten threw his pack at his cousin, who took a step back and let out a grunt as he caught it before throwing it onto the deck. Heads together, they walked the length of the boat, finalising their plans and checking the vessel closely from prow to stern.

They set sail the next morning on the dawn tide. As they left Thorsten looked back at the receding mass of the harbour, the wheeling gulls and the green hill rising steeply behind. As he always did, he issued a silent prayer that this may not be the last time his eyes saw the grey smoke of home. Then Erik called to the steersman and the Vikings bent to their oars, singing as they pulled the slim boat out of the fjord and onto the wide ocean.

The crossing was smooth, the trade winds favouring the Vikings' boat as it made its way across the sea, heading first for the rocky Shetland islands, then picking its way down the western coast of Alba, the rich land of the Dal Raita, the painted Picts and the curious, soft-handed monks who hoarded their treasures so greedily, but guarded them so poorly. Erik, who had plundered this coast many times, took the helm as they slid through the iron grey waves. This time he followed the coast far to the south, deep into the Celtic lands, seeking a large settlement he'd spotted briefly on an earlier raid.

The lithe craft nosed slowly and silently along the rugged coastline for three days, searching for its target. The Vikings were growing restless when, at dusk on the eighth day, the light of cooking fires twinkled tantalisingly through the gloom as they passed a small inlet. They landed on a narrow pebble beach so that the boy Snorri, an experienced scout despite his youth, could follow the inlet upstream to investigate. He returned at dawn, a

satisfied look on his face as he scrambled into the boat.

"What have you for us, lad?" Erik asked, his face intent.

"There is a village," the boy replied. "A big one - and it seems there's to be a market, too. Looks like a good few traders here." The assembled Vikings muttered congratulations to Erik and Snorri. Traders meant wealth, and a village rabble held few terrors for the battle-hardened warriors. They pulled away from the inlet and back around the headland to prevent their untimely discovery, then, with the results of Snorri's expert reconnaissance, the Vikings planned their attack.

...

The raiders came out of the glow of the setting sun, the dragon boat dark on the waves. Shouts rang out from the watch-point on the headland as the sail came into view. The men of the village, already half-drowsed with

ale following the market, fumbled for their weapons and straggled, cursing, to the muster point, knocking aside the last stalls.

Caitlin was coming down from the forest with a brace of grouse, her bow slung on her back, when she heard the watchman's cries. She immediately looked to the sea and swore quietly at the sight of the long, black shadow approaching the beach. She started to run down the steep track to the village. As she got closer she heard the cries of men mustering, the women grabbing belongings and children, the merchants yelling for their horses, scattering their wares as they made a dash for the high road and relative safety. She ducked and scurried through the crowded streets to her own door.

"Eilidh! Eilidh!" she called. No response. The room was dark, the hearth cold. Her little sister had not been here for some time. Caitlin scowled and turned on her heel, pausing to swap her bow and arrows for a stout cudgel. The road was quieter now, the men rushing down to the shoreline to meet the invasion. She shook her head. We should be out of here too, and into the forest. Damn that girl.

She raced like a shadow to the shore path, knowing that Eilidh would be watching the battle - and in particular, her new betrothed. Sure enough, there she was, posing proudly on an outcrop of rock above the shingle, her best cloak wrapped around her, long hair unbound and flying like a flag of war against the darkening sky. About the only warlike thing about her, the daft mare, Caitlin thought, uncharitably. She struggled through the heather up to her sister's lofty perch and pulled her ankle roughly.

"Ow, Cait - let GO!" came a whining voice from above.

"Get down from there!" Caitlin hissed in response. Her sister shook her head and jutted out her chin defiantly.

"I am here to show my love for my man. I am not leaving until the sea is stained by the blood of these filthy Norsemen. It would look quite wrong."

"These filthy Norsemen likely have bows. And they'll be in range soon, and here's you, lit by the sunset, making the most perfect target for them. How pretty do you think you'll look with an arrow sticking through your stupid stomach?"

Eilidh paused, but then shook her head. "Domnhall won't let anything happen to me. Have some faith, Caitlin."

Caitlin growled in frustration at her sister's stubbornness, before taking shelter behind the smooth grey stone. Just then the noise of the longboat's prow crunching on the gravel beach came up to them. She reached up and tugged her sister's skirt. "Please, Eilidh. You can go and stand up there like Domhnall's personal war-goddess once they've finished. Don't you think he will be distracted by knowing you're up here?"

"Not at all. You clearly know nothing about love! All the songs say it. He will fight the fiercer knowing that I am watchin...eargh!" Her last word ended in a throttled squawk of panic as an arrow hissed through the air towards her, landing ten feet short of her rock. Suddenly Caitlin found her sister cowering behind the rock with her. "They shot at me!" Cait rolled her eyes, but refrained from further comment, instead concentrating on finding the best way out of their now even more precarious position.

Below, on the beach, Thorsten glanced up just as another arrow flew at the rock on which the pretty Celt had stood. "Who shot at the Celtic waif? That one was mine!" he yelled furiously.

"Sorry, Thorsten," shouted a voice in the gloom.

"Don't waste your arrows, Ragnar," replied Erik. "It's too dark to shoot straight." He looked across at Thorsten. "Not that Ragnar can shoot straight anyway, Thor," he added confidingly. He looked around at the beach. Most of the defenders were down, either dead or wounded, and the few that had kept the use of their legs were scurrying away into the woods and fields.

"Vikings! Plunder!" he shouted. He looked back at Thorsten. "Go on, then, if you must," he said, tolerantly, and nodded towards the outcrop. "Just don't expect us to save any gold for you if you're late back!" Thorsten laughed, clapped his cousin on the back, and made his way across the beach.

The sun had set and the ground was treacherously uneven. Thorsten hooked his axe back onto his belt, leaving both hands free to scramble up to the waif's rock. He forced his way through heather and bracken, moving quickly and as quietly as his bulk would allow, but by the time he reached the outcrop, it was deserted. Suddenly he saw a movement below. A dark head had poked out of a cave, a pale face turning carelessly to see who was approaching. It was the waif! He heard a muffled squeak of panic as she ducked back out of sight, but he had her position now.

Thorsten raced down the hill, not caring about the noise his steps made, and reached the cave within moments. He spied a movement within and moved forwards, blocking the entrance. Suddenly, a hellish pain spread through his skull as something large and heavy made contact with it from behind. He stumbled forward onto his hands and knees. He turned, muzzily, to face his attacker, who was shouting at the terrified waif whilst pulling her bodily past him and out of the cave.

He got to his feet. The waif screamed and fled out of the cave into the night. The other lifted a shadowy weapon and swung at him again. He caught the blow on his arm. Reaching forward he grabbed a slim throat, pushed backwards hard and swept his assailant's feet out from under them. They choked and fell heavily in the darkness. Thorsten pounced, pinning the other to the ground, ignoring the painful blows to his face and torso from unseen hands and feet. He felt himself stir unexpectedly; the body under his exploring hands was supple and angry and very clearly female. She'll do, thought Thorsten, kneeling on her chest to keep her on the floor as he took rope from his pouch. She'll do nicely.

...

"Did you catch your waif, then?" Erik called as he saw his cousin lumbering back to the ship under the weight of a bound, struggling form.

"No, Erik. She ran. I got this hell-cat instead!" Thorsten shouted back, then grunted as the hell-cat twisted and drove her elbow into his throat. He lifted his free hand and brought it down sharply on her rump, prompting a squeal of "mhac na GALLA!" He laughed and gave her a few more hard slaps, until she stopped struggling and lay limp against him. "That's better.." he grumbled.

He threw her, none too gently, into the boat. She landed with a teeth-rattling thud and he frowned momentarily, then relaxed as a stream of Celtic curse words flew back at him. At least, he assumed it was cursing - certainly the words sounded familiar, although it had been a while since he'd heard so many together, uttered with such fluent vigour. He jumped in and bent over her, his big hand on her throat, pressing her against the deck.

"Now then, wench. Do you speak any Norse?"

She glared back. Her face, in the moonlight, was smooth and unlined. Her mouth worked and he leaned back just in time, as she spat with pinpoint accuracy exactly where his eyes had been. Sighing, he reached for a none-too-clean rag from his pouch and wiped the spit from his chest. He leaned in again and spoke with quiet authority. "Girl, if you try that again this thing is going in your mouth and not coming out until tomorrow. Is that what you want?" He showed her the rag, damp with her spittle and stained with who knew what. She looked at it, and at him, then slowly shook her head.

"Good." Thorsten put the rag back in his pouch and began check the bindings on her wrists and ankles. "And since you clearly do speak at least some Norse, care to tell me your name?"

"Tolla-thon", she muttered. He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Tolla...?"

"Tolla-thon, Thorsten. It means arsehole!" Erik had followed them aboard, and was watching the two of them with amusement.

Thorsten chuckled ruefully. "I should have known. I'll call her Girl for now, then, until I come up with a better name."

"For now? You're taking her home?" Erik looked bemused. "I thought you were going to fuck her in the boat and let her swim ashore like usual. Since when did you keep a thrall?" Thorsten shrugged. He hadn't consciously decided to take her back until that moment, but why not? It was about time he had a slave-woman of his own. Besides, for some reason, he suddenly didn't feel like taking her here, especially not with Erik cheering him on.

Erik studied the bound woman, then turned and grinned at his cousin. "Well, she's not the ugliest you've had, and she looks hardy enough. You'll need to tame her though. Celts have to be broken before they're any use."

Thorsten grunted, stood up, and considered his captive. She suddenly looked young and vulnerable lying at his feet. Exhaustion showed on her pale face. "Ah, Erik. She's only little. How hard can it be?"

...

Ten days later, Erik's boat docked in the harbour. Thorsten jumped out and sighed with relief. Erik's voice rang out behind him "Hey! Don't think you can run off and leave me with her!" He grimaced and turned to see his cousin struggling with an angry Girl.

Little she may be, but she'd been nothing but a nuisance on the voyage. She'd cursed and spat and threatened to bite, until Thorsten had made good on his promise and stuffed her mouth full of cloth. The first time she'd spat her food back at him, he'd hauled up a bucket of salt water and held her head in it for a moment, much to the amusement of the crew. She'd surfaced, coughing and choking, to see his implacable face staring at her. "No more of that, Girl", he'd said. She'd glared at him for a long moment, then finally looked away.

After that, she maintained a furious silence for the rest of the voyage. He hadn't dared to loosen her bonds except when absolutely necessary, even when they were out at sea. At least her attitude had meant he hadn't had to watch out for his shipmates taking advantage of his prize. Nobody wanted anything to do with the vicious bitch.

Erik hauled her out of the boat, still bound, and dumped her unceremoniously on her rear end by Thorsten's feet. "Good luck, Thorsten, lad. Remember - they need breaking or they're never any good. Treat her like you'd treat a dog and you'll be fine!"

Thorsten looked down at the woman, then reached down and cut the ropes around her ankles. "Up you get, Girl," he said. She looked at him sullenly. He frowned and reached down to grab a handful of her wild, salt-crusted mane. "I said...UP!" he growled, lifting her by the hair as she howled with outraged pain.

She stumbled as he let go. "Mo chasan!" she squealed and promptly collapsed.

Thorsten looked down at her agonised expression and puffy, red feet, and grunted in understanding. Ten days of being tied together probably hadn't done them any good. He leant down, picked her up and slung her easily over his shoulder. He carried her up the hill until he reached the edge of the village, then set her down on a tree stump, knelt before her and looked into her face.

"If you kick me now, I will drag you by your hair all the way home. Do you understand?" She nodded, and he took one of her feet between his hands. She winced, biting her lip to stop a whimper of pain. He looked up at her. "Try to relax," he muttered, and started to work her swollen flesh with his fingers.

"Ohhhh..." she moaned, as he massaged life back into first one foot, and then the other. His capable hands worked on her ankles, then slowly moved up her legs to her knees. He paused, holding one well-formed calf in each hand, admiring the softness of her skin. Hearing a strange, choking noise he glanced up, expecting to see her glaring down at him. To his surprise her eyes were full of tears.

"Are you...does it hurt, Girl?" he asked softly.

Her lips twitched into a sad smile as she shook her head. "No. No hurt. It's good." Her voice was quiet, her Norse accented but clear. His eyes examined her tired face, smudged with dirt and sweat and tears. She looked back at the tall, bearded Norseman with the iron will and the gentle hands, then ducked her head, a flush spreading over her cheeks. Silently he finished his work and stood. He reached around behind her, untying the rope holding her wrists together, leaving only the knotted rope around her waist. He held out his hand to take hers.

"Try to stand, Girl," he said, gently, and she tentatively got to her feet. She winced but stayed upright, looking up at him. "All well?"

"Yes...it's good. I am good." She said no more, but kept her gaze on his face. He noticed that her eyes were a warm, tawny golden colour, studded with flecks of green. Beneath the grime, her features possessed a wild, elfish beauty. Her hand was warm in his. For a strange, heart-pounding moment, he thought of simply leading her home, hand in hand like a pair of lovers.

Then the feeling passed. She was a captive, an untamed thrall. She'd doubtless be off as soon as her feet recovered. Treat her like a dog...He reached down and secured the end of the discarded wrist-rope to the waist loop, making a short lead. "Come on then, Girl," he said, sternly, tugging on the lead. "Time to walk."

...

The path wound upwards through the forest. Thorsten strode ahead, his long legs covering the terrain easily, tugging Girl along behind him. She'd slowed down noticeably as the way had got steeper, her face set and drawn, hissing occasionally as her bare feet hit sharp rocks. Thorsten pretended not to notice. Home was close, and Erik's parting words rang in his ears, daring him to show even a scrap of mercy.

Finally, they turned the corner into the home clearing and saw his small, boat-shaped house before them. Without warning two hairy, vicious-looking dogs came barking and bounding across the ground, leaping up at Thorsten.

"Thunder! Stone!" he shouted, cuffing them affectionately. A slight, bent figure rounded the corner of the building.

"Thorsten! I heard the dogs. So you're back already? How was the raid?" The newcomer, a wrinkled old man with white hair and few teeth, peered leeringly at the tired Girl. "What's this then, Thorsten? Bring me back a present?" She scowled, muttering something Thorsten didn't catch, and took a step back.

Thorsten tugged on her rope. "Stay still, Girl," he said sternly, then turned to his visitor. "This one, Egar? You'd not thank me. She needs breaking." The woman winced at his words, her face flushing.

The elderly Egar grinned and stabbed a bony finger into her breast. "Plenty of meat on her at least!" he crowed.

Thorsten heard a quiet gasp of pain and felt a rush of pity for his captive, but he ignored it with an effort. "Thanks for looking after the dogs, Egar. Tell Uncle I'll come down to the longhouse and fix the roof in the next week."

"Oh, take your time! I can see you have work to do with this one. Maybe you can bring her down with you?" The old man looked hopeful.

Thorsten shook his head. "Maybe, Egar. As long as she's still able to stand!"

The two laughed heartily as Girl bowed her head silently, her face hidden behind her tangled red-brown hair. Egar, still chuckling, set off down the path, squeezing Girl's backside as he passed. He cackled as she flinched away from his groping hands, then Thorsten was tugging the rope again, pulling her towards the house.

Inside it was dark and smelled of musty reeds. A fireplace stood in the centre of the gloomy hall. Wood was stacked neatly along a wall, leaves and pine cones in a basket next to them. Thorsten dropped the makeshift lead and looked at the woman, speaking curtly to her bowed head.