Vanquishing the Viking (Curvy for Keeps Book 7)

by Annabelle Winters

  Carab holds his hand above his head and looks up. “I mean he grew taller. Tall just like he wished one year ago. His wish came true, Wolruff. So now he believes that all three wishes are destined to come true. He believes he will sit upon the Throne of England. He believes he will live forever. Perhaps that woman really was a mermaid, eh, Wolruff?”

  “Mermaid . . .” I mutter, mindlessly repeating Carab’s words as my vision blurs and my heart beats wild. The memory of that day one year ago is burned deep like a brand in my mind, and I stagger back as Carab’s words lights it up again. The King grew taller? Could it be true? And if so, what does it mean? Did Wendra speak the truth about the wishes? If she did, I do not believe she knew she spoke the truth.

  It cannot be true, I tell myself as I turn from Carab and stroke my beard. I think back to every word Wendra said to the King a year ago, and then a chill goes up my twisted spine.

  The wishes will only come true when I am set free, she’d said.

  The words had been spoken in jest, I’d thought. But what if they weren’t? What if Wendra really has been set free?

  And now my hearts sinks in a whirlpool of despair and the truth pulls me down.

  Because where is a mermaid most free?

  If not at the bottom of the sea . . .

  7

  CITY OF LONDON

  WENDRA

  “London is wetter than the bottom of the sea!” I say with a smile as the rain pours off the brim of my hat. Some gets down my collar, but I care not. Soon I’ll be dry in my home, warm near my fire, safe with my secrets.

  Not that anyone in this bustling, smoky city cares about another’s secrets. And not that my secrets are particularly interesting to anyone else. My life is not particularly interesting either, but I am alive and that is something. It is the only thing.

  I get to the narrow three-story building where I rent a room at the top of the stairs. There are mice in the walls and spiders on the ceiling, but they are my friends now and I love them like children. I speak to them earnestly, and sometimes I believe they answer me.

  I lift my dripping skirts off my muddy shoes as I climb up the wooden stairs. I am warmed by the time I enter my room, but I start the fire anyway. I like to look at the flames. Fire is the opposite of water, and I can no longer look at water without being taken back to that dark day when the goddess reminded me that my fate was not mine to command, that my destiny is to die alone and so any man who lingers in my path will be taken by the water, drowned in the deep, swallowed by the sea.

  “I see you,” I whisper to the white mouse who sticks his nose from his hole. His whiskers twitch and he pulls back out of sight. I sigh and sit back on my little wooden stool and rub my hands together to dry them. I sigh again when I feel how rough my palms have become. I spend my days cleaning floors and scrubbing walls for the other tenants in the building. In return the landlord lets me stay in this room. It has been a year since I was rescued by fisherfolk and brought back to England. A year since I came to London and found work and a place to stay. It should have felt like the start of a new life, but somehow it feels temporary, like it is just something to do until . . . until I do not know what. I cannot even admit what I await. Admitting it would prove my madness. Better to smile at the walls and talk to the mice. What say, Mouse? What am I waiting for? The Vikings to storm the city, sail up the river, the ghost of Wolruff standing at the helm of his longship, my name on his lips?

  I am about to cackle out a laugh but stop. “What is that?” I say, frowning at I hear shouts come through my narrow window. I rise and walk over as the shouts rise to a steady roar that reminds me of the ocean. I touch the thin scar on my neck and then squint through the glass. It is too fogged-up to see past, and I sigh and pull open the window.

  I recoil at the smell of fresh smoke, and when I poke my head out I gasp at the sight of flames rising from buildings alone the River Thames! The rain has stopped and the smoke billows black like tar, but even through the cloud I can make out something that feels like it is from a dream . . . perhaps from a fantasy, maybe from my madness.

  “Vikings,” I whisper, touching my scar and staring at the longships sailing in single file up the river. Long-haired men hurl flaming torches from the decks, send spears flying through the air like arrows as English soldiers scramble and scurry along the banks. “What . . . what in heaven’s name do they think they’re doing? Are they lost? Have they gone mad?”

  I watch in disbelief and even amusement, and then my eyes go wide when one of the longships veers towards the riverbank and comes alongside with soft precision that reminds me how skilled these men are with ships that seem far too large for such narrow waterways. I watch as Viking Raiders leap off the ship like pirates storming a galleon. The smoke hurts my eyes but I cannot look away. Something draws my gaze to that longship that appears to have broken formation and come alongside.

  I keep staring until my eyes burn, and through the smoke I make out a large man standing near the railing. He does not stand straight but leans to the left. From his right hand swings a battle-ax that looks bigger than the Tower of London. It is dark and smoky and I cannot see his face, but something about his shadow strikes a note of familiarity in me.

  “I’ve seen that shadow before,” I murmur as I touch my neck again and close my eyes as I’m taken back to when I saw Wolruff’s shadow before I ever saw his face. I swallow hard and shake my head, forcing myself to push away the hope that I know will only be dashed when I see his face, see that it is not him.

  “Because it cannot be him,” I mutter as my scar burns like a fresh cut. I can almost feel Wolruff’s rough hands on my throat when he cut me just right, his blade slicing true like it was guided by the goddess, wielded by fate. I swallow hard and shake my head again, and when I open my eyes the man is gone.

  I lean out the window and look for him, but more buildings are burning and soldiers are riding onto the scene and there is shouting and screaming and swearing and my heart drops and my soul sighs and I pull away and slam the window shut and sit down on my stool and stare into the flames. My hands tremble and my lips quiver, and I think about that old matchmaking ritual and I wonder if Wolruff and I would have drifted towards each other if we’d been placed upon the still waters together.

  Then I wonder if our lives are those waters and our choices are the waves, if perhaps I got it wrong a year ago, if maybe the goddess was sending a message different from the one I saw in the shipwreck, felt in the flames.

  Maybe the message isn’t to bow my head and accept my fate.

  Maybe it’s to stand tall and seize it instead.

  Maybe the misfortune wasn’t a warning but a test.

  A test that maybe . . .

  Just maybe . . .

  I have not yet failed.

  8

  WOLRUFF

  “King Nordwin may fail to take the city in the end,” I say through a wild smile as I leap off my ship and plant my heavy boots on solid ground. “But we will take some of the city with us. We are Vikings, and we will pillage and plunder and lay waste to London before sailing away with gold and girls just like we have always done. Onward, men!”

  My men roar with glee as they set fire to buildings and shatter windows and break down doors. They rush into storefronts and come out with fistfuls of coin and armfuls of furs. Some are draped with silks and jewels, others saddled with leather goods and finery. Some fight English soldiers with delight, others merrily roar gibberish at the locals just for fun. My orders were to follow Nordwin’s fleet to the heart of the City to sack the Tower and take the Palace, but I am not built to follow orders.

  Still, I did not plan to pull my longship ashore right here, I think as I swat three English soldiers away with the blunt shaft of my battle-ax. I kick another in the chest and grab one by the hair, dragging him like a doll as I stomp through the streets and join in the fun. Our att
ack came with stealth and surprise, and even though I know King Nordwin has neither the numbers nor the skill to defeat the English army in London, the audacity of sailing our ships from the North Sea right up the gullet of the Thames certainly has them rocking on their heels.

  “Hell, who knows,” I mutter as I knock two Englishmen’s heads together and watch their eyeballs turn upwards as they go down like sacks of dried cod. “Maybe the King’s wishes really will come true. After all, he did look taller when I sighted him.”

  I lose sight of my men as I turn down a small street and find myself suddenly alone. Again it occurs to me how strange it was to find my longship pulling out of formation even though the river’s current flows strong and straight. It reminds me of how it came to pass that one year ago I sailed my fleet of three longships into that small fishing village on the English coastline. The village was hidden upriver from the delta, and it was almost accidental that we found it. The wind changed suddenly and violently, filling my sails and turning my bow.

  Turning it toward her.

  I turn in the empty street, looking up and seeing stars even though the air is thick with smoke. The stars sparkle like they see me too, and I frown up at them and keep turning, my ax in my hand, my back straighter than it has been in a year. Every sailor learns that the stars drift like the seas, but if you know what to look for they will lead you home like the tides. Are the stars leading me somewhere? Or did I lose my way that night a year ago when I turned my back on destiny, shook my head at fate, walked away from Wendra?

  Somewhere down the street a window creaks open and then slams shut. It breaks me from my trance, and now I hear the shouts of my men as more English soldiers march in to join in the game. In the distance I hear the roar of battle, and I know Nordwin’s fleet has begun their siege on the Tower of London. With a sigh I glance up at the quiet buildings once again before readying myself to return to the world of men and mayhem.

  Footsteps sound to my left, and I whip around and raise my ax. It is one of my Vikings, and I watch as he races down the street with a flaming torch and tosses it wildly at one of the buildings. Then he is gone like a ghost, and I shake my head and wonder if I just imagined it.

  But I hear the crackle of fresh flame and smell the pungent black smoke. The building is stone and will not burn, but the front door of the building is dry wood and it goes up like tinder. I watch as the flames snake into the gaping hole and lick at the wooden staircase before climbing like it has a mind of its own. I glance up at the narrow building and rub my beard. It looks dark and deserted. The rest of the street looks deserted too, and I suspect people have fled towards the Tower, hoping for sanctuary behind the fortress walls and the English battlements.

  I lower my ax and also my gaze, but then another window opens—this one in the narrow building with the burning staircase. I look up and raise an eyebrow. The window stays open but I do not see anyone. Then a woman’s head sticks out and I blink and frown. Night has fallen and the flames cast dark shadows and she could be anyone or no-one or everyone. I glance at the burning staircase and back up at the woman. No other windows in the building are open. She is the only one who did not flee the building. Why did she stay?

  “Perhaps she has a death wish or maybe she can fly,” I grunt, forcing myself to look away. In a hundred raids I have taken thousands of warrior lives, but we Vikings do not slaughter the unarmed and defenseless. We take women as brides and mistresses and playthings and pets, but we do not kill the ones we leave behind. We love to burn like the demon-hordes we are reputed to be, but we make enough noise and commotion that people know to flee their homes when we sail our ships into their lives with burning torches in our hands and mischief in our eyes. Common sense tells me that over the years some of the innocent and defenseless have died in my raids, but I did not know it and did not see it and certainly did not command it. That makes a difference. It makes all the difference.

  And that means I cannot walk away from this woman with no face and no name and probably no damned sense. If I leave her to burn or leap to her death it is like I wielded the ax myself, cut her throat with my own dagger.

  Smoke pours from the openings along the gullet of the building. I hear the wood groan and sigh as the flames eat the stairs like a monster making a meal. Let us hope she can indeed fly, I think grimly. Because that is the only way down from her perch.

  In the distance the battle for London rages, but here it is still like a graveyard, quiet as death. Here it is just me and a nameless, faceless woman trapped in a tower, and my bearded face broadens in a smile as I sniff the smoky air. I glance up at the stars once again, and once again they shine through the smoke and sparkle like they speak to me. Are the gods giving me another chance? Are they testing me once again? I failed to save Wendra a year ago, and although I would have been happy to die, somehow I was washed ashore with a broken back and a shattered heart. If the gods spared me even after I failed, then perhaps I have not yet failed! Perhaps they test me again with a woman I do not know and do not love. Perhaps they want to see what kind of man I am.

  What kind of Viking.

  What kind of hero.

  And so I lick my lips and grip my ax, my eyes snapping into focus as I study the stone facade. Every Viking boy learns how to climb the tall masts of a longship as soon as he learns to walk, and even though I am no boy but heavy like a boulder, I still can get to the top of a mast as fast as the wiriest of my men.

  Or at least I could, I think as I feel the pull in my twisted back where the broken bones fused and made me look like a monster. Again I study the stone outer walls, and although the stone is smooth and the workmanship tight, there is always a path to be found, just like any sea can be conquered, any river can be navigated, any odds can be overcome. If there is no path up those walls, then I will make a path up those walls.

  And so I step to the walls and look up at the open window. Starlight blazes down on me like the gods are smiling. I think of that child’s tale where a trapped princess lets down her hair for the prince like a ladder, and I chuckle at the horror of any princess who sees a hefty prince the size of a bull about to put his full weight on her plaits.

  Wisps of smoke come from her window, and I drop the smile and raise my ax. I bring down the heavy axhead hard and straight, the Viking steel cutting through stone and lodging deep. I grunt and pull myself up, jamming my toes into the narrow ornamental border that gives me just enough leverage to dislodge my ax and strike another blow, build my bridge slow and steady, storm my tower with brute strength and Viking will, prove myself in an empty street, for a nameless woman, with no witnesses but the gods.

  “Though perhaps my Wendra watches from her heavenly perch amongst the angels and goddesses,” I whisper as I pass the first set of windows and use the ledge to rest a moment. My back twitches and throbs, and I feel the fused spine strain at the seams. But although I am twisted I am no longer broken, and I know I will get to the top of the tower.

  Getting down, however, I think with a grunt and a grin as sweat beads on my brow . . . now that could be a problem.

  9

  WENDRA

  “This could be a problem,” I say calmly as I stand at my open door and watch the flames march up the stairs like an uninvited dinner guest. I close the door and bite my lip before hurrying to the window and pushing it open.

  The night is cold and the air is smoky. In the distance I hear the cries of men and the clash of swords, but my street is silent and empty. The other tenants of the building fled when the Vikings landed, heeding the calls of the town-criers to head to the Tower of London. I heeded nothing but perhaps my heart.

  My heart that clearly yearns to stop beating.

  I lean out the window and look up and down the street. Earlier I noticed a man standing in the street, but he is gone now. The man was big and he carried an ax. I could not see his face, but he was large and leaned to one side like hi
s back was twisted. For a moment I’d almost allowed myself to believe in the unbelievable, but then I’d remembered that not even a child would believe a story where fate time and time again brings two people together to see what will happen.

  To see if anything will happen.

  “Is that why I stayed in the building when all others fled?” I wonder out loud as the smoke creeps in through the sides of the door. “Is this how I pass fate’s test? By testing the limits of faith? By believing that perhaps, just perhaps there is a chance that—”

  The sound of metal on stone distracts me, and when I look down I see something moving near the window ledge two levels down. The smoke from the stairs clouds the air black, and I cannot see clearly. I squint into the smoke, and then I gasp when the glint of steel winks back at me. It is an axhead, and I gasp again when I see that whoever wields it is climbing up the side of the building, building his own ladder in the hard stone, creating his own path up the wall like how a Viking sails his longship blindly upriver without knowing if he will be able to turn around and sail back out.

  I stare down as my heart beats like a rabbit, and when the man’s thick arms come into view and the ax strikes true beneath my window, I close my eyes tight and shake my head hard and tell myself that it can’t be him, that it won’t be him, that he’s dead and even if he were alive he could not be here. How could he be here?! Why would he be here?!

  I keep my eyes closed, and I feel the man’s shadow cast upwards against my window by the flames from below. Now his scent comes to me, and my lips tremble as I taste the salt of the ocean, smell the musk of whale-oil, inhale an aroma that has stayed with me for a year, perhaps longer, maybe even forever.

  “Wendra,” comes his voice through the distant shouts of battle and the nearby hiss of flame. I touch my lips and wonder if I speak aloud, think aloud, wish aloud. But it is not my voice, and when I look down I see the man’s head from above