Beloved Viking

by Ree Thornton

  Shield-maiden!

  Then he realized that Rúna wasn't just their comrade. The man had sought her approval—she was their leader! She must have seen many battles for the Isaksson warriors to afford her such respect. How had the gentle girl he'd known become a shield-maiden?

  His stomach churned at the thought of her surrounded by the blood and gore of war. No wonder she seemed different—war changed a person. The girl he'd known would be long gone. He lowered his cup to hide the stiff outline of his cock pushing against his breeches. Blessed Freya, that she was a fierce warrior impressed him and made him want her even more. How did one win over a battle-hardened shield-maiden?

  Suddenly, the gentle caress of the flute that had swirled around the lively room all eve disappeared.

  He froze at the distinctive thump of hands hitting a magic drum.

  Three young girls weaved through the tables, their distinctive blood red gowns of seers-in-training giving the illusion that they were floating. Their hands beat in flawless rhythm as they moved toward where Jarl Isaksson sat at the center of the hall.

  Seiðkonur!

  Panic tore at his insides as the clawing hands of the past wrapped around his throat and squeezed. He struggled for air, his every nerve ending aflame with the warning that preceded danger.

  A blast of icy air gusted through the open door, as though blown in by the frost giants of Jǫtunheimr.

  Jorvan shivered. It wasn't even winter yet. Was this one of Loki's tricks? His hand fell to the hilt of his sword as a hooded figure loomed in the doorway.

  The noisy din vanished as he watched the dark cloak fall to the floor, revealing the slender figure of a woman gripping the long carved magic staff of a seiðkonur. Sacred runic symbols covered the length of her arms, and the black kohl lines that a seer wore during ceremony crossed her pale face.

  Bile rose in his throat, accompanied by the overwhelming urge to flee.

  Stealthy darkness wrapped its fetid coils around his heart as the taste of the rancid brew the seiðkonur had fed him filled his mouth. He'd cursed the evil witch every time she'd forced the concoction that made him cooperate down his throat, but resistance was futile with his hands and feet bound to the sacred altar.

  Night after night, the vile witch had laughed at his distress as she'd rubbed the oils into his body and then performed the bloodletting ritual, seeking the favor of the gods in her quest to repopulate her dying clan with new children.

  His stomach heaved at the memory. He'd been fortunate that she'd wanted to keep him alive, though sometimes when the tortured screams of his men dying haunted him at night he had wished he were dead. He clenched his jaw and willed his heartbeat back to a smooth hollow thump.

  The evil witch was dead.

  He'd watched her die.

  The seiðkonur crossed the room, her long silver hair dancing like spellbinding flames, her beady gaze challenging the revellers until their hushed whispers fell to utter silence. As she passed by, she paused in front of each of the masked suitors, her eyes scanning them as though assessing their worth.

  His chest was so tight he couldn't breathe.

  It's not her. It's not her.

  Every muscle in his body was taut, prepared to pounce and cut down the murderous witch she had become in his mind.

  Did the seer know what had happened to him? Is that what she had seen in her visions? Will she whisper unfavorably in the Jarl's ear of his torment and weakness?

  The seiðkonur waved her hand and the drumming quieted to a dull drone, like a heart beating in the background.

  "Jarl Isaksson," she said as she stopped before him.

  Her soft voice snapped Jorvan back to reality. This was not the hoarse throaty tone of his tormentor.

  "Well met, Seda." Jarl Isaksson nodded in greeting. "Do you come to join the feast?"

  "Nei. The gods have spoken."

  Jorvan clenched his teeth. Many clans had a seiðkonur that offered prophecies, but Rúna's father had long had an unnatural trust of his seer. The fool did not know the depths of evil that could dwell in the hearts of those that claimed connection with the other worlds, those that would do anything to gain favor with the gods.

  Jarl Isaksson leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intent on the woman. "What say the gods? Have they spoken of my daughter's marriage?"

  Chapter Three

  Rúna

  Rúna rolled her eyes and waited for the seer to speak. Although Seda was much older than the Jarl, it seemed as though she defied time. Her father often visited Seda at her hut deep in the forest, but the woman and her visions had always made her wary. Though she knew Seda meant well, it sometimes felt as if the seer's piercing gray eyes were trying to steal her soul.

  "Já. The gods have gifted a prophecy." Seda stood tall, her body swaying back and forth gently. "The seed of thy loins shall wed one of brawn, wit, and heart."

  Rúna scoffed. There was no great revelation in her words. Seda only ever told the Jarl what he wanted to hear. Why did the gods not tell the seer something useful, such as who was stealing the combs and other items that had vanished this last moon? A shiver of foreboding crept up Rúna's spine as she watched her father caress his beard thoughtfully.

  "To claim her hand he shall overcome trials in a challenge of games."

  Rúna clenched her jaw. Now the seiðkonur went too far. She already had a plan, and it was a good one. She would meet with each of the suitors, ask them questions to get to know them, and then make her decision. The last thing she wanted was the seer interfering, or her father setting even more frustrating rules intended to favor one man over another. She hurried past the sunken stone hearth toward the raised Jarl's chair. She had to put a stop to this.

  "Father?"

  "Tst, Daughter." He nodded at the seer. "Aye, Seda. The gods are wise. My daughter is worthy of such a challenge for her hand."

  Rúna glared at Seda. How dare the seer offer her up like a prize? She was no meek woman, content to allow men to decide her fate. She was warrior, soon to be Jarl, and Seda had best learn that she would not offer the clan seer the same favor her father did.

  Seda held her gaze.

  "The gods have spoken, the suitors will be challenged," her father announced to the watchful crowd.

  "Nei, Father. You promised I would choose. Hide their faces as we agreed. Let me ask them questions to know them better." She had to convince him, there was too much at stake. She must choose who would help her lead clan Isaksson—this was too important to be decided by Viking games.

  Her father cast her a pitying look and shook his head. "The first of four trials shall begin at first light. Rúna, you may ask your questions and award the one with the most satisfying answers as victorious in that challenge."

  She bit down on her tongue to hide her disappointment at his betrayal. All these years he'd assured her that she would choose her husband, and then one word from the crazy seiðkonur and he broke his word. She pressed her lips into a hard line and prepared to fight back. She'd seen the despair caused by an unhappy marriage in Helga, her childhood playmate. The woman was barely a shadow of her former self after five summers married to a man that Seda had declared the gods had chosen for her.

  "I demand the right to compete. If I win I shall choose the man I wed," she said. She'd rather dwell with Loki's daughter in Hel than with a man not of her choosing.

  Her father growled at her and slammed his hand down on the table in front of him. "You are a thorn in my ass, daughter." He gave her a look she knew well, a warning to push no further lest his temper erupt.

  She lowered her gaze as she spoke. "A thorn with a sword equal to any man."

  He sat back in his chair, the tension easing from his shoulders at her respectful pose. "Já. You have fought honorably for our clan, Daughter. You may compete."

  Rúna nodded in satisfaction. She would learn about each of her suitors while she bested them, so that she could find the one who would make the best husband.

  H
er father rose from his chair and faced the table of masked men. "Well met, warriors. I have but one rule: lay hands on her before a wedding and you shall meet my sword."

  Rúna shook her head at her father's words. He sought to protect her from the desires of men, but she was no innocent.

  "Now you will greet my daughter and reveal your face."

  Good. She wanted to look upon them. She turned to face the suitors as they moved forward, their faces hidden behind animal masks that left just their eyes, lips, and jaws visible.

  Her heart jumped to her throat at the sight of the man she'd watched earlier.

  The soft golden fur and long muzzle of the wolf mask hid his face, but ice blue eyes surrounded by a ring as dark as the skin of a blueberry stared back at her—Eriksson eyes.

  The air around her seemed to thicken, making it difficult to draw breath.

  Her pulse began to flutter, but… Nei. She couldn't do this, not with Jorvan's brother. The very thought of it left her shaken. It was merely his resemblance to Jorvan that had brought these feelings to the surface once more. She pulled her gaze from that too familiar stare and turned to face the nearest man.

  "Welcome, Fox."

  He wobbled sightly from too much mead, his glassy emerald gaze surrounded by the white fur and delicate features of the winter fox.

  Rúna looked him up and down. The mask was all that was delicate about this mountain of a man with shoulders as wide as two men and legs like tree trunks.

  "Remove your mask," her father ordered.

  A large hand criss-crossed with battle scars pulled the mask from his face. "Well met, Rúna. I am Leif, brother of Jarl Siv Gustafsson."

  "Well met, Leif." She nodded at the man and tried to avoid looking at the large bump on his nose, certain that it was the result of a bad break.

  Beside him, brown feathers fanned outwards from the hooked nose of an eagle mask, crowned by three white-tipped feathers above a pair of gray eyes.

  "Hello, Eagle. I thank you for making the journey."

  This man barely reached the shoulder of the towering giant beside him.

  The eagle bowed his head. "W-w-well met," he stammered, before straightening his back and smiling at her.

  His soft hairless jaw told her he was not quite a man, yet there was a gentle strength to his demeanor. It was unusual to see the distinctive Sámi garb this far south, and even less so to see it worn with a Viking blade, belt, and axe. Could she mold him into a good leader?

  His hand shook as he pushed the mask up onto his forehead. "I am Dànel Kvitfjell, from the Sámi lands of the north."

  Rúna smiled at him gently. "Well met, Dànel."

  "Who is next?" her father asked impatiently.

  The man in the mask with small ears topped by distinctive white tufts stepped forward.

  "Welcome, Lynx." Had her father matched the masks to the men? The feline was a formidable hunter. Did the mask hide a man with those qualities?

  "My thanks, Rúna. Your invitation honors my family." His voice was smooth and strong—it reminded her of the gentle purr of the grain room cats.

  "As your presence honors mine."

  Dark brown eyes with flecks of amber that matched the lynx's mottled fur stared back at her with intelligence. She tilted her head to the side—here was a contender.

  "Take it off or we shall be here until dawn," her father said, his tone unusually gruff about the delay.

  The man removed the mask, revealing a head closely shaved on both sides, with a mass of brown hair down the middle that flopped over to the left and down his forehead.

  "Jàrri Karlsson of Tronðheim." He smiled, drawing her attention to his thin lips surrounded by deep red facial hair trimmed close to his face and angular jaw.

  She smiled back. His clan was powerful and he was not without appeal, an interesting prospect.

  Unable to avoid it any longer, Rúna turned to face the piercing Eriksson gaze. Her heart hammered in a rhythm that matched the low drone of the drums.

  "Well met, Wolf."

  "Rúna," he replied, his voice a low rumble.

  Her breath caught for a moment.

  He was leaning against the wall, partially hidden by the shadows, his arms crossed against his chest as his hungry gaze scanned her body.

  A shiver crept up her spine.

  The white shirt that he wore did little to hide the narrow waist that tapered outwards into broad shoulders covered in the long golden hair that fell from his head.

  She crossed her arms over her chest to resist the urge to reach out and brush it away. She could not allow this to go any further. Loki was toying with her, tricking her mind into recreating Jorvan in a desperate attempt to bring him back from the dead. She recalled what she knew of Jorvan's brothers. Arik and Halvor would still be children, and Ivvar and Rorik had flaming red hair. This must be Úlf, Erik, Valen, or Njal. Could she bring herself to spend her life with a man who reminded her of Jovan? Nei, she couldn't do it. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

  Casually, the wolf's eyes tracked her assessing gaze, then fell to her mouth and flared as she scraped her teeth across her bottom lip.

  Someone tossed a log on the fire, sending up sparks and casting light on the faded line of a scar that curved from beneath his trimmed beard upward across his right cheek and disappeared beneath the mask.

  Fenrisúlfr!

  Rúna shivered as Loki's wolf-son flashed in her mind. Her father had chosen well—the mask matched the man behind it.

  "Enough. Take it off," her father roared.

  She flinched. Why was he so out of sorts this eve? He should be pleased that she would soon be wed and his legacy secured.

  The wolf stepped from the shadows into the light, his hands covering his face as he reached for the mask.

  Her heart raced.

  His hard bulging muscles flexed as he lowered his arms.

  Rúna stared into the blue eyes and familiar face of a dead man.

  "Nei!"

  She stumbled backward.

  A strangled cry tore from her chest in one painful breath-stealing blow. "Jorvan?"

  "Well met, Rúna."

  Images flashed in her mind. Standing on the beach with the straps of her hastily packed bag cutting into her shoulder as he told her he'd never let a soft girl weigh him down. Frozen in shock, unable to reconcile the man she had surrendered her innocence to just a few hours earlier with the one sailing away. Then falling to her knees, breaking inside, as though the man she loved had struck her heart with his battleaxe.

  How...?

  "Nei," she gasped. "You're dead." She barely heard the dulled sound of her own voice breaking at the shock. Jorvan was dead. She'd mourned him, and then renewed her vow never to let a man control her heart or her fate again.

  "I live yet."

  Jorvan lived.

  As her shock subsided, she became aware that the silence of the room was deafening. Even the drums had ceased as all watched the spectacle unfold. Her temper flared to life and then built to a raging inferno. He had abandoned her with cruel harsh words and let her think he was dead.

  "All I see is the ghost of a dead man," she said, and threw him a look of utter contempt. Now he came as a suitor for her hand, as though the past was of no consequence?

  Jorvan remained silent, watching her warily.

  She turned to her father. "He was not invited. Send him away."

  Her father pursed his lips. "I cannot. He has done no wrong."

  How could he say that? Jorvan had not only betrayed her, but her whole village, leaving behind families caught between that impossible place of not knowing and mourning the men that had gone with him on that fateful day. Now, he had shocked and embarrassed her in front of her whole clan. He was still as cruel and thoughtless as the day he'd abandoned her.

  "You will regret returning to Luleavst, Wolf," she said, refusing to speak his name aloud. She spun around and stormed across the room. "How dare he come back here after what he did?" she hi
ssed beneath her breath. She lowered herself into a chair at the farthest table from the man that had left her broken-hearted. This was war. Jorvan had won the first assault, but she would win the battle.

  Chapter Four

  Rúna

  "Curse him to Hel for rising from the dead." Rúna stomped across the beach toward the crowd waiting for the next challenge to begin. She had wanted to drive her sword through the wolf last eve and a sleepless night had only increased her ire. He had disappeared, allowing years to pass with his friends and kin thinking him dead when he was very much alive. His selfish thoughtlessness was an unforgivable slight. Now he wanted her for a bride! How could he possibly think she'd have him after what he had done?

  "Valen." She nodded at the next Eriksson Jarl. She couldn't afford to insult the man she'd need as an ally when she ruled, even though she wanted to maim his brother beside him.

  "Rúna." Valen offered her a rare smile, though his eyes remained as sad and serious as ever.

  She forced herself not to recoil at the pity she saw in his gaze.

  "Good fortune, Brother," he said, and then hastily disappeared into the gathering crowd of spectators.

  "So, how was Hel, Wolf?" She let her voice drip with the venom she felt. She knew she should be relieved that he was well, but instead she was filled with a scorching fury as she'd never felt before.

  He cocked his head at her but remained silent.

  Rúna studied the man she'd once loved, prepared to wait as long as it took to get an answer.

  Gone was the lean youth of nineteen winters, replaced with a scarred and muscled warrior. His hair was longer, now a mass of messy golden curls that fell across his broad shoulders and bulging arms.

  "Lose your tongue, Wolf?" Why did he not respond? Her gaze drifted down over the unlaced ties on the front of his shirt to the sun-kissed skin of his wide chest that tapered down to the waist where his shirt tucked into his breeches.

  She bit her lip.

  If she ran her hands down his stomach, she knew she'd find hard toned muscle and then the deep angular ridges that led down to his manhood. She tore her gaze away, mortified by the familiar warmth of arousal flooding her body. The primal pull to join with him was strong, but he'd used her desire against her before. Ragnarök would befall them before she'd ever let that happen again.