Valkyrie (Kate O'Hearn) - By Kate O'Hearn Page 0,6

sisters going through it. But now that it was her turn, her fear returned.

Odin lowered the sword until the tip was resting halfway down her gown, just above her knees. He reached forward and pierced the fine fabric with the sharp tip. Then, as Freya stood perfectly still, he used the sword to cut away the lower length of the gown all the way around her body.

When he finished, the jagged edge of fabric rested against her thighs as the lower half of her beautiful gown lay on the floor in ruins. Looking down at herself, she knew this signalled the end of the life she had known. She was turning fourteen. It meant she was no longer a child, or a girl or even a young woman. She was now . . .

Valkyrie.

CHAPTER TWO

The rest of the ceremony proceeded in a kind of blur. Freya was given gifts and her first taste of mead – the strong drink of Valhalla. It was what all the fallen warriors drank and most nights left them unconscious on the floor of the Great Hall.

Freya couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Mead was bitter and left an awful taste in her mouth which no amount of water could wash away. She much preferred the fruit drinks that she was used to.

When the formal celebration ended, Freya waited outside Valhalla to prepare to join her sisters on her first reap. Everyone else retired to their homes or back to the battlefield to join in the fighting of the slain warriors. Freya watched them taking up their arms and cheer as they entered the fight. She sighed heavily. Would she ever understand it all?

Lost in thought, Freya didn’t hear her mother approach until the clopping of horses’ hooves was almost upon her. She turned to see her mother standing with a stunning, winged chestnut mare.

Every Valkyrie had a horse to ride to the battlefields. These special Reaping Mares were used to transport the valiant dead over the Rainbow Bridge to Asgard and Valhalla. This was the only part of the First Day Ceremony that Freya had been excited about. She loved the Reaping Mares and spent a lot of time in the stables, brushing their rich manes and grooming their feathers.

‘Freya,’ her mother started as she handed over the leather reins to the mare, ‘this is Sylt. She is to be your Reaping Mare.’

Freya’s heart thudded with excitement as she approached the tall mare. ‘She’s beautiful. Is she really mine?’

Her mother nodded. ‘I chose her especially for you. Look at the feathers under her wings.’

Freya stroked the smooth neck of the mare and approached one of the heavy chestnut wings folded neatly on her back. Lifting it, she was shocked to find black feathers instead of brown.

‘Black?’

Her mother smiled. ‘Sylt is as unique to Asgard as you are, my child. Treat her well and she will serve you for all time.’

‘Sylt,’ Freya repeated. ‘Hello, Sylt, we are going to be the best of friends.’

The mare’s rich brown eyes followed Freya as she moved back to her head. As she stroked her head, Sylt nickered softly.

‘Thank you, Mother. She really is beautiful.’

‘Hey, what about me?’ Orus complained as he flapped his wings and nipped her ear.

Freya couldn’t help but smile. ‘Orus, are you jealous?’

‘Of that great big thing?’ he blustered. ‘Of course not! But I didn’t spend all morning trying to look nice for your ceremony, just to be ignored because of this beast.’

Freya reached up and pulled Orus off her shoulder. She gave the raven a hug that nearly squeezed the life out of him before kissing the top of his feathered head. ‘Orus, you know you will always be my first love. All I was saying is that Sylt is beautiful. And she is, isn’t she?’

‘She is just a horse, Freya,’ he said indignantly as he wiggled free of her grip. Getting back to her shoulder, he ruffled his feathers into place again. ‘There are hundreds of them in the stables.’

‘Yes there are. But Sylt is unique and that makes her even more beautiful. And now she’s all ours.’

‘Oh, joy,’ the raven complained.

Freya’s oldest sister, Gwyn, approached. She was putting her sword back in its sheath and adjusting her gauntlets. ‘Honestly, Freya, why you put up with that ill-tempered bird is beyond me. You should have chosen a better companion, like my own bird, Gondul.’ Gwyn raised her arm in the air and a black raven soared down and landed neatly on