Her viking warrior, p.14
Her Viking Warrior, page 14
Bjorn offered his hand to help her up. She stubbornly refused it. Blowing hair out of her face, she jammed the axe head into the ground and pushed herself up with a vexed “Thank you” to Thorvald.
Bjorn jogged back fifteen paces, calling to his friend on the hill, “I’ll wager my next turn at the night watch, she can’t take me down.”
“Today? Or ever?”
Bjorn’s grin was cocky. “Let’s go easy on her and start with today.”
“I’ll take that wager.” Thorvald’s ham-thick arms crossed his chest. The jarl’s thralls gathered around him too. Those men ducked sheepishly, hiding their chortles behind dirt-smeared hands.
Now she had spectators. Wonderful. Glaring at Bjorn, she wiped her forehead and bent her knees for the attack. “Wagering against me? I thought you were supposed to teach me the art of war.”
“I am.”
She gripped and regripped her axe. “I will take you down.”
“I’d like to see you do that, lady.” His voice was honey-smooth.
Bjorn was toying with her. She snorted, pushing up on the balls of her feet, eyeing him over the rim of her shield. This was maddening. Invigorating. Bjorn positioned his shield and beckoned her with his axe. Gulping air, she charged him. Her feet flew over the grass. Wind sped past her ears. She raised her axe three paces from him. Two paces a cry ripped from her throat. One pace... She swung with all her might, slicing air.
Bjorn sidestepped her a split second before she struck.
Her footfalls banged the earth, punching and vigorous until she slowed down. Her body jarred, her mind reeling, a frustrated growl burst from her. This should be easier. It’s bodies smashing into bodies.
Lungs billowing, she spun around. Bjorn was already the necessary distance. Waiting.
“Temper your focus,” he said. “Pick a spot and go after it. You’re aiming wildly and hitting nothing.”
“How can you know that?” she shot back.
“It’s obvious,” he laughed. “You’re a woman.”
Rage shook her, a fire banking hard and fast. The warrior goaded her. His eyes glinted with challenge, the master testing the learner. She tried to temper herself. There was purpose to Bjorn’s words. She’d hear worse on the battlefield—swarms of boastful men who’d show no mercy. The enemy would work like a wolf pack, selecting the weak and taking them down first. They’d smell her inexperience. She had to be precise. In for the kill. Teeth to teeth with your enemy, Bjorn had said in Rouen.
Despite herself, she had to ask, “How would you have me think? Like a man?” There was no mistaking the sneer in her voice.
“I would have you think like a warrior.”
Anger pumped her blood and wrecked her senses. When she inhaled, cool air nipped her throat. She craved water, but she’d not stop this soon for a drink. One corner of her mind acknowledged the truth of Bjorn’s lesson; the rest of her couldn’t. Facing him, she hefted her shield and met his stance.
“You know what I’d aim for? Your mouth.”
His teeth were beastly white within his beard. “You always were quick to anger when you didn’t master a skill right away.” Head shaking, he added, “It will cost you.”
That was the problem fighting a childhood friend. He knew her weaknesses. She knew his.
“Are you going to keep talking? Or start fighting? You always crowed too much for my taste.”
Her taunt was a mistake.
Bjorn’s eyes flashed. “Your wish is my command.”
A chill ran down her spine.
This time he advanced on her, a slow circling prowl. Feral-eyed. Predatory. His size was suddenly...massive. Frightening. Her heart knocked fast against her ribs. Something told her Bjorn held back his true warrior-self. If this was practice, how brutal was he in battle?
She took a half-step sideways, a flat metallic taste coating her tongue.
“Good. Don’t show fear,” Bjorn said, but she couldn’t hear the rest of his instruction for the blood thundering in her ears.
A man had circled her like this last harvest season. Her mouth was parched now as it was then. She was cold and afraid. Chilly sweat trickled between braids webbing her temples. Limbs quaking, she would not give in to weakness. This was Bjorn teaching her to fight.
She blinked fast. He rushed her. Hulking Viking male. Growling. Eating up the ground between them.
The same as another man last Mabon season.
Fear spiked her blood. She screeched in terror and swung blindly. Numbness pricked her scalp. Her axe was in hand. It sliced low and met hard wood with a force that pitched her back, and the weapon flew out of her sweaty grip. Stunned, she searched the grass.
Hesitation was her first mistake. Letting a man have sway over her mind was the second.
Momentum was on Bjorn’s side. With a swipe of his foot, he tripped her. But she was quick, crying out in anger. Fierce instinct made her reach to claw his face. Her hand hooked his vest’s neckline instead. She tumbled, taking Bjorn with her.
“Oooofffff!” Air blasted from her lungs. Her head knocked the ground and her shield slapped the earth with her arm strapped in. She blinked at stars spangling her vision and tried to move screaming limbs still sore from days of rowing.
Bjorn landed on her, his heaviness pinning her to the ground. The warrior’s helmet rolled into a patch of dirt. Catching her breath, she looked up at blue eyes flecked with white. Surprise reflected in them. Interest too. Blond hair skimmed Bjorn’s cheeks, and his mouth was inches from hers. His cropped beard was close enough to show every shade of gold.
“Smart move. You took me down.” His breath warmed her cheek. “I thought it’d take days of practice.”
Mocking replies piled up in her brain yet all she could say was, “It was an accident.”
Bjorn braced a hand beside her head. His thumb caressed the shell of her ear, sending a sweet shiver across her skin. “Doesn’t matter. Your survival instinct saved you. Now we need to hone it.”
She was flushed and furious at being defeated. “I know about survival,” she said between pants of breath. “Better than you’ll ever understand, living free as you have.”
“What’s this?” He jerked back.
Did he think she would be grateful?
She’d lost again. A cornered animal, she bared her teeth. She could feel her lips peel back in a snarl, a woman ready to bite, kick, and fight for her life. Fear. Anger. Strength. They fueled her. Air huffed fast from her lungs. She’d win. By all the gods, she’d find a way to win.
Brows slashed, Bjorn searched her face. The taunts he gave were meant to bring out a vicious fighter, a training game for him. For her, games had ended years ago. He claimed her grabbing him was progress. To her, it was failure. She was still flat on her back with a man on top of her. The last time that had happened...
No, she’d leave that in the past.
She turned her head, seeing hundreds of feet, those of her people skirmishing in grass. Faint mist swirled through the meadow, the warlike and wrathful disir testing her and testing Vellefold.
“Get off me.”
Bjorn pushed away. Her bitter tone had to sting. She rolled aside, hair in her face, grass on her lips. Scrambling up, she swiped her sleeve across her mouth. She was tall, tense, and full of vigor. Her ear still tingled. His touches had to stop. They left her fog-brained, diluting her purpose. Bjorn would leave again, this time of his own will. The hallowed Forgotten Son was a weapon to set Vellefold on a new course. Nothing else.
She dragged sweaty fingers down her trousers before snatching her axe off the ground. Hefting it, she reacquainted herself with its weight. Bruises were forming on her body. At least these were gained by her will. Fighting was gritty business. She had a nasty scar to prove it, but Bjorn would never see the jagged line stretching down her inner thigh.
Thorvald laughed above them. “Looks like I won. You take my next watch.”
Bjorn picked up his blue shield, a mute nod his answer. A gouge ran through a yellow wolf on his shield, the mark of her axe. At least, Bjorn would think twice before lobbing his Because you’re a woman jabs.
She slipped on her shield, double folding the loose leather strap in her hand. “I’m ready.”
The man she’d once called friend stared at her, a storm on his brow. Wet grass stuck to her backside, but she didn’t brush it off. More headlong falls would come. She was in this fight. To the death if need be.
Her warrior teacher’s mouth slashed a grim line. That didn’t bother her. The shadow in his eyes did.
Chapter Twelve
She walked downhill, cold kissing her cheeks. Air soughed strangely as if gods and giants gathered around Vellefold. She scanned the cliffs, a shiver snaking her spine. They watched and waited, closer this time. When would her first oath be done? She itched to shake her fist at the gods and demand fairness. It’d do no good. There was a season for love and war, a season for blood and magic. In their eyes, life’s cloth deserved judgment and celebration, however harsh and beautiful it might be.
Aegir’s daughters shushed tiny waves in the fjord, their laughter echoing like women dancing at a feast. Really, it was a breeze skirling through trees. Clutching her mantle, she’d keep telling herself that, but one truth was certain.
Change was coming.
The settlement burst with it. Wind whispered it. The Norns knew it, weaving destinies as they did with nimble fingers while watching over the children of men. Eternal threads were tricky. Futures were never fully set. The Norns—Urdr, Verdandi, Skuld—scrawled every newborn’s story on Yggsdrasil. They also allowed unfettered will. A brave woman could choose a new path.
She had, and she’d written hers in blood.
The large birch basket she carried was the beginning of an end—her oath done. Taking it to Valgerd’s home unnoticed was another matter. For days, the Forgotten Sons had been everywhere, setting twilight torches, fixing her people’s homes, clearing jumbled pit houses from the field where the market once thrived. All heartwarming acts.
“How did a rough band of Vikings become so helpful?” she said under her breath.
Chewing on that, she turned onto Vellefold’s main road to the pounding of hammers. Thorvald and his twin brother shouted to each other as they repaired a roof. By the harbor, Erik worked on her father’s ship, putting his back into scraping a bark spade across a newly felled tree. As she passed the runestone marker, familiar broad shoulders covered in black came into view. Bjorn was with Jorund in the burnt frame of a longhouse that had once been Jorund’s home.
The warrior’s profile was strong against charred timber and his voice a soothing rumble, tethering her steps.
“Control your axe. Don’t let it control you.” A big paw nudged Jorund’s hand. “Hold it here.”
The older boy nodded fast. “That feels better.”
“Strike this way—” Bjorn guided Jorund in a downward strike “—and go for the legs. Keep your shield close. Then, hit your enemy with your axe going up. Practice both moves on a tree tomorrow. When you’re ready, I’ll show you how this—” Bjorn’s knuckles knocked the iron shield boss “—can be a weapon.”
“I’d like that.” Jorund mimicked the downward swipe, his brow wrinkling at the upward move. “But that’s the blunt end.”
Bjorn inched back. “It’ll work. A blade on one side, a hammer on the other. They do equal damage.”
Jorund practiced up and down strikes, testing the warrior’s logic. Laundry fluttered beside Ilsa. She was tempted to duck behind a wide, square cloth and spy on them before going on her way, but Bjorn’s back tensed under his mantle. He turned slowly. Wintry blue eyes met her, mildly amused. She was stuck. One look from the rugged giant did that.
“I prefer a hammer,” he said, staring at her. “It’s hard and to the point, whereas an axe is like a woman. Her sharp side bites, drawing blood. When she pulls away, she’s a blunt but uncertain weapon.”
The day was cool, but her blood ran hotter for being near the hrisungr. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say her flesh was in league with him while he waited patiently for her rebellious mind to follow. Bjorn’s veiled invitations to join him in bed—the first given in Rouen and the second when they landed in Vellefold—crossed her mind often. If he asked a third time, she wouldn’t say no.
His breath billowed clouds like a dragon-man of lore. “Ilsa.”
“Bjorn.”
Jorund’s scowl bounced between her and Bjorn. “We’re done today, aren’t we,” he grumbled, more statement of fact than question.
“We are.”
Sighing his disappointment, the boy fastened his axe to this thigh. “Then, I’ll be off to the jarl’s hall.” Jorund collected a bow and quiver stuffed with half-made arrows off the ground, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll practice tomorrow just as you told me.” His expression sullen at lessons cut short, Jorund bowed respectfully to Ilsa. “I’ll see you at the feast, lady.” He clambered over fallen timber and jogged uphill, slinging the quiver over his shoulder.
She watched Jorund’s departing back, butterflies camping in her stomach. The delicate winged creatures battered and twirled inside her. Excitement trilled just under her skin. She was alone with Bjorn. Truly alone. Not a pet cat, a braying goat, or passing folk could be found. No more than a frosty breeze and empty road separated them. This hadn’t happened...since childhood.
“I fear for Vellefold’s trees,” she said.
Bjorn’s laugh was gentle. “The boy will leave his mark.”
Her gaze slanted to him. “Like you left your mark on my grove.”
“The runes.” Reverent words slipped past his lips. He could be speaking of hallowed ground—or hallowed times.
Why did that hurt? Did Bjorn long for their innocent, carefree days?
“My carvings and your axe bites are still visible. That is unchanged.” She swallowed the awkwardness of dipping into their tender past. A massive Viking, timeworn and rugged, he turned female heads. “But, your jibes about women have.”
“What do you mean?”
“You needle me with your jests. About a woman owning a ship. You do the same on the practice field.” Frowning, she motioned to the place he stood. “Just now with Jorund. Why? You were never like that as a boy.”
His chin dipped. “Could be the southern climes have roasted my brain. Women there are treated differently. It was easy to forget the North breeds strong women.” His eyes burned with peculiar light. “Like you.”
Lightness spread to her chest, her throat, her face. Respect and admiration shined in Bjorn’s eyes. If he stayed, they could work together, the same as when they were children. He could be jarl and she his hird. It was on the tip of her tongue to say as much, but the dragon needed gentling to roost in the home that banished him. More than Bjorn’s pride was bruised at the rejection. His heart hurt too.
The intensity of Bjorn’s stare overwhelmed her. She had to avert her eyes. “You know Jorund talks of sailing to Lund to go a viking with the first chieftain who’ll take him. Losing his father hurt him greatly. It is generous of you to spend time with him.”
Footsteps crunched soil crisp from frost. “I would gladly spend time with you. Tonight.”
Alarms were loud in her head. Her head turned quickly, and she found Bjorn’s leisured gaze traveling over her messy braid, pausing where it swelled over her breast. His lips parted as if he would kiss her. Her mouth? Her breast? Wild, unbidden images ricocheted in her mind.
His attention touched her.
Unhurried.
Smoldering.
As if his hands and mouth were on her skin.
When Bjorn took in her narrow leather belt, she glanced down. The knotted end of her belt hung at the juncture of her thighs.
Tender places tingled under wool skirts. The dragon was hungry.
She wanted to groan. Bjorn slept alone every night. Was he waiting for her?
Friendly to Frida and other women, he was all business—the same with her after their first day on the training field. Always prodding her to do better, giving instructions, sharing small tricks as if she were one of the men. She’d begun to think she’d miscalculated his spates of interest. Until now. Her nipples poked wool, thankfully hidden by fur fastened under her chin.
Of course, this night of all the nights she regained Bjorn’s lusty attention. The gods were testing her resolve.
She flicked her braid over her shoulder. “What could the hallowed warrior do at night that he hasn’t already done with me in the light of day?”
His smile was mannish and predatory. “Does Vellefold’s surly hird seek a demonstration?”
She rolled her eyes and hitched her basket higher on her hip. She was old enough to know she’d opened that door. Men thought first with the vessel between their legs. Bjorn was no different.
“It’s your own fault that you haven’t found comfort among Vellefold’s eager widows.”
“Only one widow interests me.”
That pierced the shell around her heart. Her fingernails dug into the basket’s birch weave. How was this possible? Her braid was unraveling, she wore her ugliest tunic, and dirt grimed her hands, yet Bjorn’s stare could start a fire. The man she’d once called friend was direct, thumbs hooked in his waistband, long fingers tan against black wool trousers. A breeze knocked the blond hair growing longer around his neck...an enticing man, the kind most women welcomed into their hearts and their beds.
Why couldn’t the exiled son have returned ten Mabon seasons ago?
Because the gods had other plans, and she had hers.
Seagulls wheeling overhead pierced the air. The birds dove after food scraps, then flew to the safety of their nests high on the northern cliff by the Eiken River, where she was sure the gods watched her. Food and shelter were the winged beasts’ main concerns. The security of her people, to see them fed and housed, was hers.
