The Awakening of Noren

“Noren, Noren!”

Feeling her body slipping beyond her control, Noren struggled to pry her eyes open a sliver, only to find a fuzzy mass dominating her entire field of vision.

“Open your mouth.”

A wooden spoon was thrust into her mouth, its contents bitter as her taste buds registered the liquid before the wet refuse was poured into her stomach.

Noren, caught between slumber and wakefulness, finished the unknown liquid, its bitter tang spreading through her mouth and sharpening her senses slightly.

Her body felt utterly amiss—her head throbbed, her throat ached, and her muscles were heavy with fatigue—’Could this be COVID?’

‘The Middle Ages,’ she mused, ‘I’m finally logging off from this wretched place.’ She hadn’t yet decided where to go next. ‘Heaven sounds good, Valhalla isn’t bad either, but Terra is out of the question.’ ‘Never mind, I’ll buy tickets for all of them later.’

Absurd thoughts swirled through her mind, blurring the lines between reality and dream in her dazed state.

“Sleep, Noren,” her father’s words halted the clamor within her mind.

The moment her limbs were snugly wrapped, drowsiness washed over her like a tide. Her father stroked her head, murmuring something in a Northern tongue near her ear—’Urd’? ‘Dís’? Before she could fully discern the words, darkness swept down her spine, pulling her into dreams like a beauty pressing her cheek intimately against her neck.

****

“Ah!”

Noren abruptly tore herself from the soft embrace of sleep, her eyes wide, a fine sheen of sweat coating her forehead.

“Hoo…”

Taking a long, deep breath, Noren realized she was lying in a dimly lit room where charcoal embers glowed in the fireplace, and a man was adding something to a hanging iron pot.

“You’re awake?”

Her younger brother, Frey, didn’t turn his head, continuing to fuss over the Northern stew, stirring it with a wooden spoon.

“How long have I been sick?”

“Three days. Tomorrow is Bathing Day.”

“Father?”

“Forging.”

Noren rose from the bed and stretched her limbs; the previous aches and fatigue now felt like mere illusions. It appeared the saying ‘sickness arrives like a mountain, leaves like unraveling silk’ wasn’t prevalent in the enlightened Middle Ages.

She rummaged through her bed for a hair tie, gathered her hair into a simple ponytail, then hooked her foot into a long leather boot, slipping it on before preparing to change her clothes.

“I want to hunt too,” Frey suddenly declared. “I can help you.”

Noren didn’t respond. Instead, she walked over to him, seized his wrist, and with a forceful twist, pinned him to the ground.

Frey grimaced in pain, while Noren stifled a long yawn, feeling only boredom.

She then entered her own room, changing into a set of fine linen undergarments, a dark grey long-sleeved, short-hemmed linen tunic, thick linen trousers, a brown coarse-cloth overdress, a pair of wool socks, and a tanned leather belt cinched at her waist.

‘She seemed quite well-dressed, but don’t get the wrong idea, it wasn’t stolen.’

Tucking her trouser legs into her boots and wrapping them with bindings, Noren fixated on the bubbling, spitting stew in the pot. She snatched the bowl and spoon from her brother’s hand and, heedless of the scalding porridge, began to devour it ravenously.

By the time she was about seventy percent full, she looked back into the pot, only to find a thin layer of soup paste covering the bottom of the deep iron pot, with just a few scattered vegetable leaves remaining.

Ignoring her brother’s curses, Noren pushed open the door—

The cool breeze of the spring morning, carrying the scents of soil, leaves, and grass, swept in, lifting the hem of her skirt. The dawn’s first light, bright enough to make one squint, enveloped the young woman’s face. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she felt the sunlight warm her palm, a warmth that flowed from her fingertips to her heart, all signs proclaiming that her illness had finally vanished.

****

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

A series of intermittent clangs emanated from within the smithy, where a burly man wielded a hammer, battering a length of iron on the anvil, his face obscured by a bushy beard.

The man, named Svein, was a Norseman who had long settled in these Slavic lands.

His profession was clinical medicine, specializing in neurosurgery. His exquisite skill in trepanation had caught the eye of a lord, who then directly bestowed upon him a village amidst a pile of Magyar corpses.

‘Yes, this was it.’

‘If memory serves, this year is precisely 1066, when Duke William of Normandy in the north is holding a contest—a once-in-a-lifetime, win-win competition where the loser gets to embrace the beautiful Valkyries, and the winner ascends the throne.’

Svein swiftly drew out and hammered one end of the iron bar to a fine point, then used the junction of the bar’s thickness to strike fiercely against an iron wedge. Once bent, he reheated it in the charcoal fire until it glowed red, then fitted it into a perforated iron handle and snapped it off. Before the residual heat faded, he inserted the separated iron nail into an anvil hole, forged a nail head, and quenched it in water. With a casual tap against the anvil, the nail sprang free, and he handed it to Noren, who stood by his side.

“How many is that?”

The man spoke with a thick nasal tone, a sound so deep that even an old ox or a tiger might turn its head to listen.

“Twelve, old man.”

Noren’s voice was clear and cool, melodious as a bird’s song, though in a few years, its timbre might ripen into something more mature.

“That’s enough.”

Svein tore off his apron, tossing it onto a nearby stool, and disappeared into the smithy’s inner room.

The entire smithy was divided into three sections: an inner room for storing weapons, farm tools, and various materials; a semi-open-air forging area; and a backyard where a clay furnace was built.

Soon, the blacksmith emerged, carrying a sword—one Noren didn’t recall ever seeing before.

Its hilt fittings were plain, with only one or two guard rings, an iron-capped scabbard tip, and a three-lobed pommel.

Svein offered the sword, and Noren took it with both hands, one gripping the hilt, the other supporting the scabbard. An eager emotion emanated from the blade, as if welcoming its master.

Noren’s nose twitched, overwhelmed by the pungent scent of money.

In the Middle Ages, a high-quality war sword commanded a significant price. For the blacksmith to forge this blade for her, Noren had provided half a pound of pure silver as payment. It was a pity that silver coins had been heavily debased recently, and the blacksmith refused to accept ‘black coins’ (TL Note: Slang for counterfeit or debased currency). Consequently, she had been forced to melt down all the coins she had stolen.

The Norse-styled pommel gleamed with a metallic luster. Noren tightened her grip on the hilt and, with a *shing*, drew the blade.

A cold gleam flashed—

A broad-faced, fullered, double-edged war sword.

Unlike Svein’s sword, which bore the inscription “+VLBERH+T”, this blade’s fuller was devoid of any markings. Its body was longer, extending slightly beyond Noren’s arm, and its iron crossguard was intricately carved with intertwining waves and serpents biting their own tails. The hilt was wrapped in tight coils of leather strapping.

Noren’s fingers traced lightly over the blade, a cool sensation emanating from the tip.

She gave it a couple of experimental swings; both its weight distribution and balance were excellent. Svein was truly a master blacksmith.

Noren stared at the sword. Suddenly, a golden-haired beauty intruded upon her vision—a beauty with a smile playing on her lips, a small mole adorning the corner of her eye, thin lips, slender, straight brows, and a pair of captivating eyes. Such a striking person she had never seen in this life, and rarely in her previous one. ‘Hmm, both dashing and alluring,’ she mused. ‘If only that person weren’t me.’

An electric current, sharp and stinging, coursed from the sword to the nerve endings in her fingertips. Noren flinched, dropping the sword as if burned, but the blacksmith caught it firmly.

Svein sheathed the sword, his large beard obscuring any expression of joy or anger. He then handed the sword back to the dazed Noren and spoke:

“Perhaps your illness hasn’t completely left you, Noren. You need rest.”

As his beard bobbed up and down, Noren snapped out of her stupor, took the sword, fastened it to her belt, and silently departed.