This was a story I wrote for a magazine that was never published. It had two basic axis one had to be in a historical concept based in northern Britain and islands north of Scotland and also be about Samhain the autumn festival of dark magic that is between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice, with fantasy elements.
You can find more backstory for the characters in wiki links below
Mongfind stood in the front door of the cold meadhall of her lord and master watching the dark sea rising and falling. The northern wind of the Orkneys shook her clothes and caught her dark hair. Her stair was hard and proud and her posture high and only the iron collar declared her as a thrall.
Five years ago her current master, a Northman lord, Rogvald had invaded their lands, killed her father, defeated her people and enslaved her among others. Her only joy was that her brother, then only a boy of thirteen had killed Rognvald’s son with his obsidian-reinforced club. It has been five years since she was a slave and lover to this Northman. Although she had accepted him in her bed and bowed her head, she was still untamed and sought revenge against the man who had massacred her Pictish clan.
It was during the last summer that she had finally found a way to gain her wish for revenge. She had met an old woman, a Pictish, and a slave as herself, who had taught her magic. They went in secret when they could in dark and silent places. They kept away from the others, even the slaves because they could trust no one. She had learned about the spirit world and the worlds between. She had learned about the moon’s voyage and the power of the night. She had learned of the special days of the seasons of the tides and spirit winds. With grim anticipation and determination, she waited her first night of Samhain to test her acquired knowledge and powers…
Finally, autumn was on its way and winter was near although this far north the cold had claimed the land. Coblaith asked her trainee to gather wood for the night. They needed a bonfire. The night wind was howling and the two women struggled to light the fire. The wet wood refused to burn and time was running out, two slaves could not be alone in the wilderness for long.
Finally, a lonely dry faggot caught the spark and soon the large pile of woods was blazing. Mongfind removed her clothes and stood naked in front of the growing bonfire. Her youthful body reflected the fire and blazed as if it had a flame of its own. Then the two women chanted together summoning their spirits from the otherworld and trying to pry open a small opening for them to enter.
Midnight had come and still, the two women, one old and ugly one young and beautiful, chanted together breaking the borders of the spirit world. Suddenly a chasm opened and Mongfind’s spirit was shacked into the void. The girl had instructions of what was going to happen but still, the experience broke her concentration. She found herself falling in a whirlwind of colours and feelings. She heard herself laughing and crying all emotions turning into one, while the psychic maelstrom turned from the deepest magenta to the purest ivory.
Dazed and disoriented she found herself flying with high speed over the stormy sea. Immediately her training came to her and she stirred her mind to bound south.
Flying was an exhilarating sensation but in the night, it was more frightening than beautiful. The sea was full of unknown creatures’ shadows, but she kept her eyes south concentrating on her task.
She was going to find her brother…
Mael-Bigte lay on the dry sand in a cave. His rugged band of Pictish warriors slept nearby and besides the lone guard outside the cave, none was awake. Although tired something kept him awake. A feeling in the back of his head warned him that something was going to happen. Raised in a superstitious society and born in the wild nature the young chieftain trusted his instincts. He waited and remembered his life. Pictish life was never easy but with the arrival of the Northmen, they had lost almost everything. His father and half of his clan had died in battle five years ago. For five long, hard years, they had been hunted by the cruel Northmen, their herds stolen, their homes burned, and their women taken slaves. The small warband with few survivors now had to hide in the moors and the hills. They tried to scrap a living and escape the Northmen with their swords of steel and their armour of mail rings covering their bodies. Fighting against them had not been easy and even a lone Northman was a match for the bravest Pictish warrior. Facing their shield wall was near impossible though, for the naked warriors with their weapons of wood and stone.
The small fire that burned at the end of the cave under a small crevice for the smoke burst alight as if someone had thrown in it the magical potion of fermented grain. Mael-Bigte, his neck hairs rising out of superstitious fear, came out of his reveries and crept near the fire his left hand on the amulet of jade that was a gift from his late mother, but his right hand on the hilt of his bronze dagger – a coveted possession taken from a dead Northman…
Mongfind had found her younger brother easier than he expected. His spirit shone with a bright light in a darkness of small lights around him. The trip over the North Sea had taken mere minutes and when she found the land, she turned east to the region that once belonged to the clan Moray. She searched ravines and forests, hills and valleys and finally in a lonely cave over the bay she had found him. The young witch gazed from the flames. Her brother was young no longer but a man grown. His rugged features chiselled by unhappiness, war and survival gave him a grim and wild look. His lithe body, muscled and tough was covered in tattoos of his clan and stature. His warriors lay asleep nearby but they were too few, too undernourished, too underarmed. She rose in the flames and she saw her brother biting the amulet with the ox’s head that was their clan’s totem.
“Brother, it is me, Mongfind, I have ridden the spirit paths, this night of Samhain, to reach you and plan our revenge…”
Rognvald was standing on the coast of Orkney under his meadhall front roof watching at the troops returning from Scotland. His slave and concubine Mongfind was standing unbowed behind him, her hair unbound flying over her face caught by the sea breeze of the early summer.
The Northmen warriors run their longboat on the sand and their leader a tall, young man leapt on the beach and stood in front of his leader.
“Brother and lord, we have returned!” his voice was proud and loud but his countenance betrayed him.
“You have been bitten again, brother” Rognvald’s voice was full of contempt and suppressed disgust. He had lost a son in the battles of Scotland and his king had given him an earldom as weregild. The crown of Norway had made him stay in these accursed lands of poor stones and stubborn Pictish and he should have been happy! In the beginning, it was nice and he had ravished the lands of Orkneys, Shetland, and north Scotland gaining an easy living for him and his warriors. The last spring something changed.
A demonous Pictish warlord, that rumors said he had killed his son, was always in places, where his defences were low, and his need greater. He had lost his gathered taxes waiting to be shipped to Orkney where he was based for winter. His ships had been burned in a deep and hidden bay that lay waiting for spring. His warriors were slaughtered in their sleep, their arms, and armour stolen.
Now he faced a Pictish force that had been gathered under one Mael-Bigte, a youth of no more than eighteen summers, and his yarls failed to bring him to the knee. Even his brother, Sigurd, a proven veteran had returned bitten and now he tried to cover his failure with bravado but Rognvald could see through the fake.
“Brother, walk with me,” the earl said and his brother seeing his eyes flash with suppressed anger followed immediately without telling anything. The female slave followed a few feet behind her hands touching her belly which shown the early signs of pregnancy.
“How many men did we lose, how many ships, how many provisions have you brought back, and how many taxes did we collect?” The earl’s voice was trembling with suppressed anger and Sigurd was glad his brother had come unarmed to this meeting. Sigurd was a big man and his valour in battle was proven many times over many years of raiding and campaigning, but his brother could best him when the rage of the Northmen was upon him.
The complete failure his last trip had been, made him reluctant to answer.
The two men moved on the beach, the silent slave following a few steps behind, without talking. Seagulls flew over them and the beach was empty of people save the three of them. The rest of the village was on top of the hill overlooking the small bay.
Morning had passed as the two warlords paced on the wet sands. Suddenly, Rognvald turned his face red and his eyes swollen, the rage had taken him.
“SPEAK!!!” he cried and Sigurd took a step back involuntarily, the slave stood still.
“We had lost ten ships and a hundred men. I returned with only these two ships with twenty men I could save, Rognvald, that man is a devil, he knew where we would go and what we would do. My men tell that he has witchcraft on his side and he sacrifices the dead to the spirits of the Pictish land to offer him help. What can I do against such a man?” Sigurd’s voice trembled from a mix of rage and shame for the failure and defeat.
The earl breathed heavily, his vision still clouded and his hands trembling. Forcing himself to control his anger, he slowly relaxed.
“I do not know what you will do, but I know what I will do, I am leaving tomorrow. This earldom is yours I am returning to Norway!” Rognvald announced his intention and then turned back without waiting for an answer.
Sigurd stood speechless as he watched his brother returning, his slave trailing him. He was the second Earl of Orkneys, Shetland, and North Scotland…
“Mael-Bigte, brother” the familiar voice and shape whispered through the fire. The young Pictish warlord stood by the fire. It was the Lughnasa night and many huge bonfires were spread across the hills. His people were celebrating with stolen goods from the Northmen, for once victorious and proud.
Mongfind, as she had done many times in the past after that fateful night of Samhain, was communicating with him uncovering their enemies’ designs. It has been only a few months but it seemed like a lifetime. With her sister’s spying on their enemies and his cunning planning along with the bravery of his men, they had dealt death and destruction to the Northmen. He knew from before where they would camp, what they would do, and how many they would be. In the early spring, he had attacked the first ships and burned them in the night, killing the sailors with their ships. During the raids, he had looted the enemies’ bodies and their camps and his men had iron on their bodies and their hands.
Although the Pictish, traditionally, fought naked now they donned armour and had shields and weapons. If they were uncomfortable, they were also glad they could fight better and gain victory.
Battle after battle they had led a victorious spring and now they had a victorious summer. However, the news his sister brought him now were dire. The old earl had abandoned his position and had given it to his brother who now planned a huge campaign to crush the Pictish rebels.
Mael-Bigte welcomed the new challenge. He wanted to drive to the sea the Northmen and restore the kingdom his father and ancestors had created, but the Northmen destroyed.
Soon his sister left the fire but the Pictish warlord stood long contemplating the news and planning his war moves. His men and folk rejoiced in the celebrations, but Mael-Bigte remained by the fire until dawn came and only ashes remained…
Sigurd’s forces had suffered yet another defeat. His men were demoralized, with few provisions and no loot after almost two months of fighting. The second earl of Orkneys, Shetland, and north Scotland began to consider his brother’s decision as wisdom not abandonment after all!
He had brought mercenaries from Iceland, and Scandinavia paying them from his own coffers. He hoped to become rich from the taxes yet he was hard-pressed to find provisions for his men.
He had inherited, among many other things his brother left him, his slave heavy now in labour. He had entrusted him if a male child was born, to be sent to Norway to Rognvald’s estates when mother and child would be ready.
Sigurd had a dislike for the beautiful slave, not only because she was Pictish and kept herself as a queen, but because she sensed something abnormal or paranormal to her. So, she had brought her along with his forces to keep an eye on her…
Mongfind was lying in her furs. Her belly was large now and she had difficulty in moving and standing. Nonetheless, she had never abandoned her brother, especially now that the events they have planned were going well. The Northmen were losing. Long gone were the celebrations and songs by the fires. Now the nights were filled with the groans of the wounded and the crumblings of the hungry mercenaries. Her “new” lord was always on edge. The Pictish warriors had beaten his forces from the landing grounds to the foggy and wet hills of their lands. Her brother was a hero now having united many clans and inspired a vindictive charge that shook the Northmen. However, the night before something had changed.
Sigurd had become suspicious of her walks with her old maid and had confined her at the tent they shared. Furthermore, the second earl had summoned a warlock, an old man of arcane powers to find the cause of his failure. For the first time, Mongfind was uneasy…
Mael-Bigte was standing on a tall rock inspecting his troops. Iron shields, helmets, spear tips, sword blades, and axes shone on the pale autumn sun. His numerous warband numbered many hundred trusted and battle-worthy men. Their womenfolk and children were secure in the high grounds deep into the ravines of the hills with provisions, livestock, and warm clothes ready to face the winter.
“This winter will be so different from the last one,” the young warlord thought. “Last year we had crumps to eat and many died from the cold and hunger. Now we are united, armed with large stocks and are ready to defeat our enemies and send them back to their cold place.”
He had won twenty-one battles from spring to autumn and he had gathered a hill of skulls and loot to last many lifetimes. He was sure only one battle was left to decide the final victor. His sister was now back in their land and when he had defeated the northmen and destroyed them, he would free her. Mael-Bigte was bitter about the bastard she was carrying in her belly. Mongfind was a princess, not a slave to be treated thus. He raised his old club reinforced with obsidian shards and saluted his men, a deafening yell washed over him like warm summer rain, the young Pictish warlord smiled…
Sigurd had listened to the old man; he claimed to be a runemaster, an oracle, a theurge, that he could see the future and help him against malevolent spirits that haunted his steps. The earl was not sure of his claims but his plan was a solid one. He had gathered his men and ships and moved along the coast burning and killing never facing the Pictish warriors in a battle neither moving more than an hour away from their ships. He had also let rumours fly that the leader of the Pictish used magic to win and he did not dare face him in personal battle…
Mongfind lay still. She was near labour; her child was moving and kicking. She has not talked to her brother from the day the “Warlock” had arrived as she was never left alone or could move away from her tent. The small fire she was allowed was made from coals and not wood and she could not use it for spiritual communication. She sweated in her heavy woollen robe despite the cold and damp. She had heard the rumours and knew that her brother would fall for the bait the cunning earl had set for him. Tears of anger trailed down her cheeks.
Her faithful servant and teacher laid a cold towel on her brow.
“Do not worry, princess, there is still hope. When the Northmen move, we will light a bonfire. It is Samhain again and the spirits are restless.” Her voice was low and hoarse an old woman’s voice but she also held the wisdom and patience of the old. Mongfind relaxed and closed her eyes. She felt too, the nearness of the otherworld. The mid-autumn was the time when the spirit world and the world of the mortals touched. It had been only a year that she had taken the trip to the spirit world and now it seemed as natural to her as walking down the road.
“Yes, we have time,” she whispered.
The old man known as the “Warlock” followed the young slave-prince and the old crone. He had sensed her powers and urged Sigurd to kill her or give her to him to deal with, but the proud earl was thinking only of battle. Now he went to unfurl the trap he had helped to set. Alfor, as was his name of old before he abandoned any sense of family, blood and king and dedicated to the otherworld, knew that the woman could still be trouble, so he followed her to ensure his master would not fail or that the two witches would not help the Pictish rebel. He had set watch in their tent and walked there to see if anything was all right. The camp was empty as most of the men had moved back to their ships and only the men Sigurd had gathered to him for the final battle had stayed ashore. The old guard lay asleep in the mud. The warlock sensed magic, spirits of the smoke had suffocated the poor man. He followed the easy tracks in the mud; they led to the hill above the camp and were about an hour old. He moved as fast as his old bones could support him and soon he was breathing hard. Fortunately, the ascend was over and he tried to catch his breath. His old heart bit hard and it took him some time to be able to continue. The path led on to a small forest. A bonfire was visible behind the thin foliage. The warlock tried to run but his old feet failed to carry him so he slowed down. When he was near the trees, a small rain had started falling and the cold and mists grew more severe and dense. The bonfire set in the little clearing reached over the top of the trees. The old man watched mesmerized as the slave-princes removed her garments and danced naked in the cold forest. Her swollen body was attractive and emanated fertility gleaming white in the light of the roaring fire.
The warlock understood what the two women were doing. He learned, finally, the secret of the communication between the two siblings and how the Pictish were aware of their enemies’ moves. He had to stop the witch before he warned her brother. He had no time for finesse and arcane means; he drew his silver long knife and moved silently through the trees. His trembling, by the cold, feet erred and he stepped over a branch breaking it. The crunch brought to her senses the old woman, as the young was caught in her trance, she saw the warlock moving with a knife in his hands. She stepped forward shielding with her frail body her mistress. The warlock stabbed the old woman in the chest, who did not falter but gathering in her hands a flaming branch hit him in the head. Both of them fell dead in the muddy ground…
Mael-Bigte had gathered forty men as the challenge stated. The fact that his sister has not communicated with him and the sting to his honour had unnerved him. Some of his older, companions, friends to his father, had counselled him to ignore the Northmen jest, but he could not. So, he marched with forty of his best men to meet the earl and end the war. They moved in the ravine leading to the bay of Dornocht Firth with quick and eager steps. This would be their twenty-second victory in a year!
Sigurd saw the Pictish warband move to the designated place. He was amazed by their gullibility and could not believe his luck that brought to him the “warlock.” It was true, no other in his camp liked him, but his plans were good and his counsel solid while his latest idea would give him victory…
Mael-Bigte set his men in the small valley near the bay but his enemies have not arrived yet. Then he SAW horsemen coming from the land. A quick count made them about forty and the Pictish warlord relaxed because he was afraid the Northmen would try to cheat them. Then he saw that from the horses’ backs two pairs of legs hang instead of one and he knew he had been deceived. His sister had warned him of the cruelty of Northmen and the cunningness of Sigurd, but he had listened only to his wounded pride.
He watched as the Northmen dismounted laughing and yelling boasting challenges to each other. They were happy they had tricked their enemies and certain for their victory.
Mael-Bigte saw his own men darkening mood as they realized that they could not escape, nor survive this confrontation. However, the Pictish warriors are bred with death from the moment they are named adults and death holds no power over their souls. They readied their weapons and formed ranks…
Mongfind had searched all night through the spirit winds to find her brother but he was constantly on the move. It was dawn when she saw the battle from afar. Many northmen encircling the brave Pictish warriors and killing them. Her brother was in the front fighting and killing but his men fell one by one by enemies that were greater in number but not in bravery or skill. Finally left alone, all the rest dead in a heap, with many Northmen dead around him, her brother died by sword, spear, and axe. Three Northmen yarls surrounded him, he stood weaponless his weapon broken or buried in his enemies’ bodies and waited for the end.
When he died, Sigurd cut his head with his long axe and held it high to his warriors. His warband had suffered great losses and only a score of men, out of four, would return. Still, they yelled loud enough, that gulls and other sea birds rose from their nests frightened. The war was over and the region of Murray and north Scotland would be under their claim once more.
The witch feeling her powers ebbing and the baby inside her ready to come to the cruel world knew that time was running out.
She flew lower to the ground and watched as Sigurd, hang her brother’s skull in his horse’s saddle while riding to return to the ships.
His brother’s eyes held still a look of rage and wrath that death had not quenched. His sister called to his spirit that lingered still near its head unsatisfied by the defeat and restless by the wrong he had suffered. His mouth was open in a cry that was heard only in the NetherRealm’s. Mongfind noticed his buckteeth, an object of childish pranks during their youth and innocence. Her mind whirled and she gave her dead brother’s head powers. The eyes shone as if a spark of life came to them and the mouth stirred as it clung to the saddle by the long hair. As Sigurd was riding the buckteeth turned black with malicious poison, coming from the wronged soul and the horse swayed on the unruly path the head moved along. In a larger movement of the horse the head bit Sigurd’s naked leg and remained stuck in his thigh. The Northman cried out in surprise and although hurt he laughed hitting the skull and removing it from his thigh.
“The bastard is still fighting,” he yelled and his men laughed. Sigurd laugher as well, although he watched as the small wound turned very fast a blackish purple and hurt abnormally…
Mongfind lay in her furs with her baby-boy in her arms. He was precious to her. The labour was hard, nearly claiming both mother and son in the woods under the cold rain after a night of witchcraft, but they had both survived. They were the last members of her family, all of them dead by the Northmen.
“Torf-Einar”, the young mother called at her son. She would call him thus. Torf because of the brown hair he had already spurted and Einar as was her father’s name which meant Valor in Pictish translated in the Northmen tongue.
She lay back half-asleep as she heard the yells of pain coming from her “master’s” tent. The second earl had an infection on his leg that had spread and none of his physicians could do anything about it. Maybe his “warlock” could save him but he was missing, mysteriously. Rumours sent that the mighty Sigurd would not make it to the night…
A tall brown-haired youth was ready to board a ship from Orkneys to Norway. He was dressed as a warrior and his garments and weapons were those of a lord. His mother, a beautiful middle-aged lady, stood on the docks waving her son goodbye.
“Torf-Einar, my son, give your father my regards,” the youth did not catch the irony on her tone, but she was content of her jest. Her son was ready to receive his father’s titles as earl of Orkney and Shetland. Sigurd, Rognvald’s brother, had died without heirs and the earldom had returned to the first earl who was unwilling to claim his title. The earldom had been ruled by regents and representatives for many years. Most of Einar’s half-brothers were dead or unwilling to claim lordship of these untamed lands…
Land of Oyr 