Queenguard, p.1
Queenguard, page 1
Harper Euphoria
Queenguard
Copyright © 2023 by Harper Euphoria
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Prologue
The men surround the table, each of us eager to receive the next order to retrieve the woman. The fire blazes in the hearth, the only sound in the room is the crackling embers. The tension lingers in the air. We have all waited years for this moment.
My father, King Leif, sits at the head of the table, and my mother, the head priestess, takes her place on the other end. As the religious leader of our people, she is the only woman on the Round Table, the council where the fate of the village is discussed. How land would be distributed, who should be rewarded for their service and duty, and preparations for our ceremonies. It was how it was done for thousands of generations before me, and it will be done for thousands after.
I stare at the fire, allowing it to hypnotize me in its rich colors. The power that coursed through my veins was fading day by day. The others felt it too. We are running out of time.
“We have located the Stolen Daughter of Frigg,” says my father. It is the news that all of us have been waiting for. The room stirs with new life as my father continues, “The High Priestess has news of her whereabouts. Gunnar—,” he turns to me, “Your raids along the coast have been successful. Thanks to the artifacts you discovered, we were able to piece together where the Daughter lives. I knew that you were the proper one to lead the charge.”
Fists of the other men around me pound the table in agreement.
It is my duty. There is no other choice.
“It is your divine blood that has made you the perfect vessel to discover the artifacts needed for the High Priestess to locate the Daughter,” my father turns to look at my mother, her hair is intricately braided, falling to one side of her chest. She looks at all of us—the council of the Round Table. “All of us have been waiting for this moment,” my father continues, “I know the road has been long and hard for us, with many of our brothers and sons lost along the way,” the table fills with silence.
I think of my brothers who fell on the search to find the Daughter. My eldest brother, Arne took during a sacking of one of the larger Holtian cities. He was taken down by a string of arrows—over a dozen. He fought until his last breath, making sure to take down a unit of soldiers with him. Then there was my middle brother, Frode. Lost at sea after one of our ships was destroyed during a raid only moons ago. The tides were too strong and the sea was too black for even him to be found.
All that is left of our divine bloodline is me. The third son. The only one left to bring home the Daughter. And I must.
“It is up to us to restore the glory of our people, and that often means sacrifice,” says my mother. She stands, her regalia as the High Priestess glows in the firelight, “Throughout the centuries, our blood has been diluted, but now, after so long, we can reclaim our rightful place as master of the seas,” her voice clear and calm.
“The Holtians who took the Daughter from the Great Temple did so knowingly. I have consulted with the divine, and all signs point to Gaia, the Holtian settlement to the North of here as the location of the Daughter.”
Whispers spread among the Round Table.
We have heard the same tale before. Every time we thought we believed close; it was simply a false hope. The Holtians were smart in their plan to destroy our people.
I was only a youngling, about ten years of age when the Loss of Agoir occurred. After generations, the Daughter was finally born. Our stories always told of the day when Frigg would bless us with another of her divine children. We worshipped her, praised her, followed her doctrine, all to gain her favor once more. Our people need the Daughter to survive. It is thanks to her presence that women are born, and it is thanks to her presence that the people of Agoir can fully benefit from Frigg’s Divine Blessing—offering us strength and power, as beloved acolytes of the true goddess.
The Loss was a devastating blow. My eldest brother took it personally. Only a few years older than me, Arne was her betrothed. He was the one that was meant to protect her. But we were only children, and no match for the massive army that the Holtians sent.
We used to live on the mainland.
Our people were simply left alone to worship Frigg. The mainland became too crowded when news of the Daughter’s birth spread. The power she offered us was a point of jealousy—why should only one tribe be given divine power? But we were the ones who worked hard for it. We were the ones who earned the attention of the goddess.
The day of the Loss was burned into me.
The fire, the screaming. I remember my mother taking me and Frode away first. We were put on a boat among other priestesses’. Arne and my father remained to fight and protect as many of us as we could. It was then that the people of Agoir recognized that we would never be welcomed on the mainland again. Especially after they stole her.
We retreated to the harsh archipelago of islands where the Agorians originally settled. The story goes, that as our population grew, it became harder to sustain on the smaller islands, so we had to move. It was a mistake to attempt to join the cultures of the mainland.
I often wonder—if we were left alone, would we have been safe?
“Gunnar, you will be the one to lead the charge and reclaim the Daughter,” says my mother.
“Gunnar will be successful,” my father says, his voice assured, “We have no other option.”
If I do not succeed, it could be the very end of Agoir.
“The Daughter will have hair as black as the night, and eyes as blue as the sea. She will be marked with the sigil of Frigg,” spoke the High Priestess.
The symbol is the same sigil as my house. A spinning wheel.
A symbol of our divine heritage and strength. Of creation, and growth.
I stand, “We will leave at once. We will return and there will be songs of our victory and triumph.” I hold out my weapon, the same great axe my brother wielded before he fell. A sign of my dedication.
“Prepare the ships,” I command, “We will stake out the city and strike when the time is right. The Daughter of Frigg will return to us.”
Chapter One
Lined up we stand like animals, our hands bound behind our backs, our feet chained together. We listen to the sounds of the ongoing battle in the distance as our conquerors guard us. I stand in my armor, heavy after days of wear, my skin rubbed raw in some places. As the days wore on, it was clear to us all—Gaia had fallen.
The battle started three weeks ago when the first of the raider ships from Agoir were seen on the coast. We received word that the raiders were coming down the shore, pillaging the smaller Holtian towns one by one, it was natural Gaia would soon be next.
Gaia was one of the many settlements of the people of Holtia, nestled in a series of river towns sprinkled along the coast. Our walls are fortified by the stonework of master craftsmen and are said to be completely impenetrable. How wrong, and how arrogant my people were. Odin betrayed us.
With winter approaching, we spent so much time hunting and preparing for the long winter ahead. Even I slacked off on my training. To attack right before the winter was a risky gamble—it meant fewer people could focus on preparing for winter, but if raiding were a success, the attacking party could walk away with more stores than they could need. It make me sick to my stomach to know that our resources were being pillaged by a group of barbarians. Even if we are left behind, it would be difficult to survive the winter. Perhaps that is the point.
“Revna, please stop fidgeting,” whispers the King’s daughter of Gaia, Mary.
“I can’t help myself,” I answer, “I must protect you.”
“You’re going to rub your wrists raw,” she says, “Well…more raw.”
I wriggle, trying my hardest to loosen the rope. Who cares if my wrists are bruised? Chances are they will murder me anyway. I am an enemy warrior, and I have no plans on simply accepting this fate without trying to escape.
“Revna,” Mary whispers to me once more.
“Quiet or I’ll make ye shut up,” spits our guard. We both remain frozen. I have gotten weaker over the days held captive. Even if I were to break free, it would be a challenge to free Mary and to make an escape. A guard is always kept on us, no matter what.
I do not want to test the patience of these men after seeing the atrocities they committed.
I cannot forgive myself for failing at my one duty.
I was tasked to keep Mary safe, escape to the neighboring Holtian settlement, and await orders. We made it just outside of the city when we were ambushed.
When the battle started, my mother immediately sent me with a few of our best knights to meet the barbarians by the coast. I had proven to be a capable fighter on multiple occasions. Whatever information these Agoir barbarians had about us was impressive. All of the male warriors were murdered, same with the women who showed the most resistance. The only reason I played along with my capture was to keep Mary safe.
Mary and I were spared along with a handful of others. For days I heard the sounds of mothers crying for their children. Powerless to do anything to stop the destruction. Any prisoner who caused too much trouble for the guards was taken away. None ever returned.
By the end, about three dozen women were rounded up. Some of them were from the old families, and others were peasants. It was hard to figure out why this particular group was selected while everyone else was let free.
Days we were given minimal food and water. Forced to stand at all times, and only able to sit and sleep when we were told. Each day felt like an entire moon cycle.
Must be hard to sleep on the dirt where you belong. Get used to it.
Quit your whimpering, this is your new life now.
You’ll make good wives for us.
Their comments fill me with disgust. The way they touch our faces, their hands covered in dirt and battle. How they constantly ogle us and whisper about us, as though we do not notice. We can do nothing. Except endure. I want so badly to put them in their place. Countless times, I imagine what a fair fight between us would be. How even these barbarians would have to admit my skill. If only they gave us the chance to fight for our freedom.
A horn blares.
It is not the sound of the brass trumpets that signals the victory of Gaia. It is the horn of our conquerors. Slowly, cries from the other women start to take over our little group as the realization of being captives washes over us. Reinforcements are not coming. There is no one left to save us. Our people have been spread thin with the constant raids by the Agoir barbarians, but I never imagined being a part of the destruction.
It is like the end of everything I have known.
I bite my lip. I refuse to cry, instead, I stare ahead and fight back my tears. What happened to my fellow warriors? What about the Jarl? What of my mentors and friends? What would happen to all of us?
The confirmation of our defeat is the first time our captives show us the slightest bit of mercy. None of them force the women to stop sobbing. Each of them looks so relaxed as their victory was assured.
Hours pass. The tears stop. They give us bread.
We are forced to eat directly from the ground since they refuse to untie our hands. I will only add it to my anger.
I do not know what remains of the city. All I can see is dark smoke in the distance. And eerie quiet. Not even the birds sing. As far as I know, we may be the only prisoners kept alive. I can only hope most were able to flee.
The warriors of Agoir are known to have such little mercy. They kill anything that poses a threat to them and harm the rest into submission. They live by the old ways, the ones that survive on raiding, rather than cultivation. A backward ideology for backward people.
It is hard to swallow as I think of the children lost and ripped away from their families. I know what that pain is like, my own family was murdered in a similar raid when I was an infant. It was thanks to Odin I was found, fed, and given purpose with the Holtians. Since I dedicated my life to learning how to protect. To make sure such a thing would never happen to me again.
And I failed.
The tears fall down my face. My midnight black hair falls around my sides. It had been unkempt for days at this point, messy and partially braided. The armor digs into my shoulders, as I fight through the utter anguish of defeat. The revelation of my situation hits me finally. I do not know what this means for me. For Gaia.
“Meal’s over, stand up,” calls a guard. I cannot bring myself to eat, yet I expect to be strong for others. I force myself up, hunger does not reach me despite not eating anything substantial for days.
The guards have gathered themselves, wearing their full regalia. I can tell they are preparing for the arrival of someone important. The slower women are pulled to their feet, and the guards try in a pathetic attempt to straighten our outfits, “Stop your yelpin’,” calls the same man, who I assume is in charge.
A unit of barbarians approaches us. They look well fed, strong. All of them adorned with furs of bears and wolves. I have never seen an Agoiran barbarian up close before. Their sizes are as formidable as the tales say, each of them larger than the average person. I do not know what the different symbols of beads and sigils mean that adorn each warrior, my guess is to distinguish some sort of rank in their order.
“Jarl Gunnar of Agoir, here are the women we rounded up,” said the head guard proudly with a puffed-up chest.
Rounded up, my ass. I refuse to even look at the Jarl.
Aside from me, the rest of the women were peasants, not fighters. The barbarians went into the homes of villagers and stole women out of their homes. They were stolen. Taken in one of the most primitive acts in war. There is no negotiation with the barbarians, that is what makes them so dangerous. I stare straight ahead. I do not even care who the Jarl is. He will not get the slightest amount of respect from me.
The group of men examines us. I hear the fearful cries of one woman and I instantly know that it is Poppy, the blacksmith’s daughter. A gruff man grabs her face.
“Hey, cut it out,” says a powerful voice. “I need to find her. Undamaged.”
The Jarl.
His voice shakes me to my core. It sounds so familiar.
I see him. I cannot breathe.
He stands out among the rest of the barbarians. He is taller than the tallest of the men in his command. I am in awe of his size, his formidable appearance, as though he descended from a giant. The men look up to him with admiration. The Jarl is rugged with broad shoulders and dark chestnut hair. Like the other barbarians, he had a well-kept beard. He looks older than me, at least by a decade. His shoulder-length hair is messy from battle.
He looks so familiar.
I want to speak to him. And I do not know why.
He searches the row of women one by one, looking for someone.
My heart pounds faster as he gets closer and closer. My breath feels like I might choke. I do not understand the visceral reaction that is happening in my body.
His gaze meets mine—bright grey eyes, like that of a wolf.
I cannot look away.
Something is pulling me towards him. I cannot allow it.
He is the one responsible for murdering my people. He is the one that was responsible for destroying my home. So why is my heart aching like this? Why do I feel like I might burst in an instant?
I shake my head, focusing on my hatred of him. Willing to remember everything he had done to me. He was so much larger than me, I have to crane my neck, but I refuse to back down as he met my gaze.
“Armor. I did not know the Holtians let women fight,” he says his voice low.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He pulls out his sword, the women around me curl away, frightened to witness my imminent death. He presses the blade against my torso, scraping it against my metal armor, “This armor is too fine to belong to an ordinary warrior,” he says. His hand brushes against the fresh scrape he made into the fine craftsmanship of my armor.
“Who are you?” he asks firmly.
I don’t say anything, just look at him, my gaze never faltering.
Strangely, he smiles, “I do not find as many captives as fearless as you,” he says.
His hand reaches to stroke a lock of hair that has fallen over my breastplate. He lifts it and smells it, “Like lavender. Even after all these days out in this filth,” he observes, as if that’s supposed to mean something, “Take off her armor,” he commands the barbarians.
My eyes grow wide as I fear what will come. Two men descend on either side of me, despite my training, there is no way I can set loose from a grip like this. They unlatch the sides so that the plating falls off. My breastplate. The side pieces. They pull off every piece until I’m left in a simple linen dress and trousers.
They drag me in front of the Jarl as I squirm under their grip, “You are nothing but barbarians! All of you!” I yell in protest. They turn me around so my back faces the Jarl.
He slices open the back of my dress, “You filthy brute!” I scream.
I feel his rough hand on my back. He pauses for a moment.
