To Valhalla

By Hay van den Munckhof

The young Frode is trained by the one-armed warrior Knut to succeed his father Agnar as Viking leader. Agnar is a brave man with a big heart and a great sense of humor. Frode seems to be just like him in every way. But Frode's mother is very different. She is strict and cruel. That's why the twelve-year-old Hisse, a young slave from Frisia, is terrified of her. When Agnar dies after a battle in the land of the Franks, Hisse is chosen to follow him to Valhalla on a burning Viking ship. However, Frode is very fond of Hisse and devises a life-threatening plan to save her from that cruel death...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hay van den Munckhof
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224816187

Book preview

A strange discovery

Torleif raises his sword and takes a step forward. I wait calmly. The first to move will be the first to be struck, says old Knut, and I believe him.

Next to me, Vidar and Sigurd are hacking at each other. Those two are ten, four years younger than Torleif and I. The children are practicing with blunt wooden swords. We are old enough for real swords, but when Knut is not around, we have to wrap them with leather strips.

Vidar screams in pain as Sigurd hits him on the arm. I glance in that direction for a moment. Torleif thinks I'm not paying attention and lunges, but his sword only hits air.

You're dead, Torleif, I say. The tip of my sword rests against his chest, right where his heart beats.

That was a dirty trick, grumbles Torleif, but he does what we're supposed to do when we're defeated by Knut. He drops his sword.

That's enough for today, he says. I'm going home. Tomorrow I'll defeat you, Frode.

I lower my sword. We'll see, Torleif.

This time I don't take the shortest way home, but the path along the edge of the forest. The wind is favorable, and besides my sword, I also have my bow with me. Who knows, maybe I'll come across a deer or a grouse and won't return home empty-handed.

To my left, behind a few blackberry bushes, I hear a strange sound. I immediately nock an arrow and creep closer.

Then I hear someone speaking aloud. I lower my bow and continue.

Hisse, our youngest slave, is kneeling in front of a pile of stones with a rough wooden cross behind it. She speaks the language of Eida, her Frisian mother who died last year. I don't understand a word of it.

Hisse, what are you doing here?

As if bitten by a snake, Hisse jumps up.

Don't react so strange, Hisse, I say. You don't have to be afraid of me. You know that.

When we were still children, I often played with Hisse. I