Dark Viking

by Sandra Hill

  He’d changed from his earlier garments to battle gear . . . long-sleeved leather tunic over slim pants made of brushed hide tucked into tall boots. A thigh-length, short-sleeved suit of armor made of metal links was half fastened up the front. From a wide leather belt, there hung two scabbards, one holding a short sword on one side and a broadsword on the other. A metal helmet with nose guard rested in the crook of his elbow.

  Most impressive, though, were his almost too-pretty facial features with their compelling silver eyes framed by lush black eyelashes. It would be hard for most women to resist. Except that he was also morose and annoying. And menacing, as well, suited for battle, as he was.

  But back to the wet suit. “You’d need a bigger size. Way bigger.”

  “Likely story!”

  “And it would never fit over that . . . tin shirt.” She waved a hand at his armor.

  Looking down, he said, “Brynja.”

  “Huh?”

  “’Tis called a brynja, not a tin shirt.”

  “Whatever. Listen, I know that Navy SEALs are big on simulated terrorist exercises, and, whoo-boy, this one is certainly authentic. So, game over. I surrender.”

  “You surrender?” he inquired with sudden sexual interest, deliberately misreading her words. “How . . . intriguing! I have ne’er had sex with a fish afore.”

  “Just sheep?”

  “Insults like that gain naught, m’lady.”

  “Sorry. Anyhow, it’s been swell chatting with you and all that, but take me back to the commander.”

  “I am the commander.” And it was about time he exerted some authority, too. This woman . . . and, yea, she was a woman, all right. Not to his taste, of course, with that ridiculous boyling haircut, being taller than the average female, with more muscles than any woman should have, and a tongue that was way too sharp.

  She was rolling up the sleeves of the tunic when he made that statement. “Is this place on the Special Forces site in Coronado, or out on San Clemente Island? We’ve done survival training on the island, but I never saw anything like this. The detail is remarkable.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. And by the way, you speak the oddest form of English.”

  “Hah! You think I talk funny. You’re the one. What nationality are you, anyway? Oh, that’s right. You’re a blee-pin’ Viking. Ha-ha-ha!”

  “Blee-pin had best be a compliment.”

  “It is, it is.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, not convinced. “In any case, I speak Norse, which is very similar to Saxon English. Really, I have no trouble understanding the merchants in the Saxon market towns, but they use none of those odd words you do on occasion. Which leads to the most important issue betwixt us. Where in hell is my brother?”

  “Thorfinn?”

  “Of course Thorfinn.”

  “Last I saw him was this morning, on the beach at Coronado.”

  Steven gasped. “Last I saw him was in Baghdad two years ago. Is Coronado in the Arab lands?”

  She frowned her confusion. “Coronado is in the United States.”

  “Is the United States an undersea kingdom?”

  “Enough with the undersea, mermaid, merman, siren, sorceress, snake nonsense. I’m a human being, just like you.”

  “I doubt that. If you are indeed human and you have seen my brother, take me to him.”

  “I would if I knew where I was.”

  “I have told you, this is Norstead, my estate in the Norselands.”

  “Where exactly is the Norselands?”

  “Across the sea from Britain.”

  “Do you mean Norway? That’s impossible. I was in the United States earlier today, and that’s oceans away from here.”

  “Then it must be magic. Can you transform yourself into a mermaid at will?”

  “Oh, God, we’re back to the sea creature business.”

  “Take off my brother’s tunic.”

  “Huh? No way. Not unless you have some other clothes for me. I am not going to prance around bare naked in a room with some Viking warlord.”

  “Prance around? Warlord?” He almost grinned at her. Almost.

  “You’re as grumpy and dour as your brother.”

  “Not so! I am the lighthearted brother.”

  “And I have a bridge to sell you in the Sahara desert.”

  “Do not try to distract me. Take off that tunic, or I will.”

  “Why?”

  “I did not look closely enough when I first came in. I need to check if you have a tail.” And there are some other bits I want a better look at, too.

  “If you think I’m gonna let you check out my behind, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Argue, argue, argue! Must she gainsay me at every turn? Truly, this woman is as bad as Oslac’s dead wife. “What? Are you going to flip me over your head again? Have a caution, sea wench. I am wise to your ways now.”

  “Is that so? Well, this time I might aim a knee to your precious jewels.”

  It took him a moment to understand what she meant, then he winced. She would not dare! Well, mayhap she would if he let her, which he would not.

  “Or I could do a karate chop to your Adam’s apple.” She demonstrated with a hand motion to her own.

  “You would be the one flipped over my head if you ever attempted such. Better yet, you would be flipped onto your back, thighs spread, awaiting a good swiving.” Too late, he realized what mind image he’d inadvertently planted in his head. Where had such a ludicrous idea come from? Hah! He knew exactly where it came from. That momentary glimpse of her naked body when he’d entered the room.

  “You would rape me?” she asked, incredulously.

  “Never! I know more ways to bring a woman to peak than there are hairs on your body. When . . . if . . . I choose to tup you, it will be with you begging for my favors.”

  “Better men have tried.”

  He arched his brows at her, but then the door swung open. Oslac’s gaze swung to him, then to the woman, and back to him again, as surprised as he was to see that the sea wench was actually a person . . . for the moment, anyway . . . even if covered by Thorfinn’s tunic.

  “The boats are ready. The troops from Amberstead are on their way and will be here within the hour.”

  Steven nodded.

  “What will you do with her?”

  “I cannot leave her here in this room when we might be gone a sennight or more. With her skills, she could easily overpower one of the maids bringing fresh water and food.”

  Before he had a chance to discuss other alternatives, the woman . . . Ree-tah . . . remarked, “I notice you two yahoos are dressed for battle. What’s up?”

  He thought about ignoring her question. What was it to her, after all? Unless . . . nay, surely sending this sea woman was not a ploy of Brodir the Bold. Was she?

  Steven and Oslac’s eyes met as they shared the same inner question.

  Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Pirates have taken my sister Disa. We go to rescue her.”

  “Pirates? Oh, this is too much. Johnny Depp is going to join this dream adventure. What next? Mel Gibson in a kilt?”

  “Your chatter is beginning to annoy me,” Steven said.

  “Big whoop! Listen up, Mr. Macho Man, I’m in an elite military unit, with fighting skills. I could help.”

  Steven laughed. “You? A soldier? Females do not go to battle.”

  “This one does. I told you, I’m a female SEAL. Oh, I get it. You think I mean SEAL like an animal seal. Nope. SEALs are a Special Forces fighting group in my country.”

  “Like Jomsvikings or Varangians?” Oslac asked.

  “Um, I guess so.”

  “I could lop off her head for you,” Oslac offered.

  Steven knew that Oslac was only half serious, but the woman did not even flinch. Why was she not fearful of them?

  “So, can I come, too?”

  “Nay,” Steven said.

  “Just like that, no? No explanation
?”

  “I owe you no explanation.” He turned to Oslac. “I cannot chance her escaping until I learn more of Thorfinn’s whereabouts.”

  Oslac nodded.

  “The cage, then.”

  “She will create mischief, even in the cage,” Oslac warned.

  He shrugged. “There is no other choice.”

  “No way! You are not putting me in that cage again. Go away. Don’t touch me.” She swatted at him with her hands. She attempted to kick him in the genitals with the heel of her bare foot. She danced around in ridiculous defensive moves, hoping to evade him.

  She screamed when he tossed her over his shoulder and let her pound at his back, while Oslac led the way through the upper corridor down to the great hall, drawing the attention of one and all. When she continued to screech, nigh making his ears bleed, he smacked her on the rump. When that did not work, he slid a hand under the tunic and up her bare legs. Only then did she still when he cupped one of her buttocks in his big hand. No tail, he noted, by the by.

  “I am going to kill you, the first chance I get,” she hissed out.

  “I look forward to your trying.” With one last squeeze of her bottom, he put her in the cage and locked it. He almost felt sorry for her as she sat, back against the bars, knees drawn up to her chest, glaring at him . . . in silence now.

  Ah, well, he could handle only one problem at a time.

  As they walked off, Oslac said, “It is so much fun being around you, Steven. What will you do next?”

  Steven had no idea.

  Chapter 5

  Turns out it was all the witches’ fault . . .

  For the first hour, Rita sat in her cell, fuming. And she said a few bad words. Okay, a lot of bad words.

  During the second hour, she was still fuming . . . and swearing, so she took a nap. Not an easy task, considering the pounding headache she had from her giant goose egg. Two goose eggs, actually.

  Third hour, fuming and swearing and napping doing her no good, she tried yelling for help. Then she tried yelling for an aspirin. No response. Though she could hear voices in the distance, the heavy door of the weaponry room had been closed. Alarming thought: who would come into a weaponry room when all the soldiers were off to war, or wherever they had gone? Heck, she might be in here, forgotten, for days.

  During hours four and five, all of which were guesstimates, of course, not having a watch, her headache became one continuous throb of pain. She plotted ways that she would repay the despicable commander, who surely exceeded his orders in the treatment of prisoners . . . even fake prisoners.

  The problem was . . . one of the many problems, actually . . . that she kept vacillating between that scenario and this being a dream or some far-out SEAL simulated mission. None of those was proving very viable. But what else could it be? Maybe it was tied to Steven’s connection with Thorfinn. She would have to address that when he came back.

  If she wasn’t dead by then.

  “Okay,” she finally told herself, “the only person you can really depend on in life is yourself. I know that better than most. So, what am I going to do now?”

  Come up with a plan, that’s what, she decided.

  On her hands and knees, she examined each of the rough-hewn bars of the cage. Too bad she had no sharp object on her! Deciding she had to find the weak natural bend in the wood, she studied and studied until she found one that might suit. But she couldn’t do it barehanded or barefooted; so, she took off her tunic and examined the garment carefully. The seams were weakest at the shoulders. In quick time, she had both sleeves ripped off and put the sleeveless garment back on. Now her problem was getting leverage in such a small space. Making a quick sign of the cross, she wrapped one sleeve around her hand and let loose with a quick karate chop.

  The wood bar was still intact.

  But it was a little loose. Just a tiny bit.

  Over and over and over, Rita performed her karate chop, the kind that in some cases could split concrete blocks. She alternated between both hands and feet. She even considered using her head to butt it, but with the lumps she’d already scored today, that probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Finally, finally, finally, she was able to break through the one bar and split it in half. What to do now?

  Rita laughed with a sudden inspiration. She had two sticks to make a fire and plenty of tinder . . . straw. Voilà! It was almost laughably easy . . . but ingenious, if she did say so herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her commander back at Coronado. And the arrogant, full-of-himself commander here, too.

  Once she was fully free, holding the tunic sleeves over her face to shield her from the smoke made by the little fire in the cage, she did a little Snoopy dance of glee. Actually, she had hoped to just weaken the wood when she’d made it hot, but this worked just as well. Miraculously, her headache was gone.

  That was when she glanced up and saw that she had an audience. About a dozen men and women in homespun-type clothing in the Norse fashion . . . men in belted tunics over tights and women in long gowns covered by long, open-sided aprons. They appeared to be servants or household help of some type. They had been attracted by the smell of smoke, no doubt. They gawked at her as if she was a lunatic.

  It was probably the Snoopy dance.

  Or the fire. Of course they would be upset about fire in a wood building.

  “Oops!” When that didn’t draw any reaction, she said, “Hi! My name is Rita Sawyer. Can you help me put out this fire?”

  “ ’Tis the fish woman,” one man said incredulously.

  “Is she dangerous?” another asked.

  “How could she be?” still another spoke up. “She has no weapon.”

  “Mayhap she spits venom.”

  The group stepped back a few paces, beyond the range of her spit, she supposed.

  “Listen, people, I mean you no harm. I’m just a visitor here. I’ll be on my way now.”

  At first no one moved, but then an older woman smacked a boy on the shoulder. “Move yer arse, Haisl. And you, too, Moddan. Get buckets of water to put out the rest of that fire. Vindr, find a shovel and wheelbarrow to clean up the mess.”

  “Ain’t ye a prisoner here?” one man yelled out, pointing to the cage, which was pretty quickly becoming a pile of cinders.

  “Me? Nah! That was just a game to see how quickly I could escape.”

  A young girl, not more than twenty, dressed in the same ankle-length, open-sided apron over a long gown, stepped forward. “My name is Sigge. My aunts sent me ta be yer maid.”

  Several of the men snickered and made laughing remarks, which caused Sigge’s face to bloom with color, but she stepped forward, chin high.

  At first, Rita wanted to laugh, too. Her? With a maid? But then she decided she could use all the friends she could get in this strange scenario. With a smile, she asked, “Any idea where a girl could get a bath and clean clothing around here?”

  Sigge nodded eagerly, and the crowd parted a path for them as they walked through. In fact, she noticed some of them jump away from the girl as if they were afraid of her. Hmmm. She would have to check it out later. Once they reached the great hall, however, a woman, better dressed than the others, informed her icily, “They are mine.”

  “Who?”

  “Steven and Oslac.”

  “Good Lord! You’re married to both of them? I’ve heard that ancient Vikings often had more than one wife. But . . . eeeew!”

  “Of course I am not married to both of them. Or either of them, for that matter. I am Lady Thora, still in mourning for my husband Rolfgar, chief hirdsman at Norstead.” She blinked several crocodile tears in a manner that would do any Hollywood actress proud.

  “You have my sympathies.”

  Sigge giggled behind her hand, which gained her a sharp look from the uppity lady. “Best you get yourself back to the kitchen garden, witch girl.” The lady stared pointedly at the pentacle-shaped, raspberry birthmark . . . Or was it a tattoo? . . . on the side of Sigge’s neck, w
hich Rita had failed to notice before. “Do not think I have forgotten that spell you put on Alfr’s goat. The smelly creature follows me about like a lovesick lover.”

  Sigge blushed. “’Tis not my fault that the spell went astray. The goat and the master were both standing in the same spot when I cast the spell.”

  “Just do not do me any more witchy favors. And best you be careful,” Lady Thora warned Sigge. “Some say you are the devil’s spawn. If you sport hooves one full moon, your master will kill you on the spot.”

  Sigge gasped with outrage, and she sputtered to the lady, “I am not that kind of witch. I have no ties to the black arts. You, on the other hand . . . some say you would spread your thighs for Lucifer himself if he had a big enough manpart.” Sigge ducked when the lady attempted to slap her.

  Rita stepped between the two, managing to catch the slap intended for Sigge on her shoulder. “So, if you’re a grieving widow, what’s this about owning Steven and Oslac?”

  Lady Thora raised her chin haughtily. “I did not say that I own them.”

  “Oh? That’s what I thought you said. Didn’t you hear it that way, Sigge?”

  Sigge nodded vigorously.

  “Your impudence knows no bounds. Both of you. Why are you not still in your cage, by the by?” Her outrage was now directed at Rita.

  “Because it was a mistake, the cage door being shut on me. I was just testing the bars,” she lied, but then she quickly added, “Personally, I wouldn’t take Steven or Oslac if they were handed to me on a silver platter. They’re all yours, sweetie.”

  With a huff, the lady swanned off.

  Rita arched her brows at Sigge.

  “Thora will be wife to Jarl Steven or Karl Oslac when cows with crowns start jumping across the fjord. ’Tis just that the men will be men when boredom overrides good sense.”

  “There’s a lot of boredom here at Norstead, I take it.”

  “You have no idea, m’lady.”

  Rita recalled something Lady Thora had said, and she asked Sigge, “What did she mean by referring to you as witch girl?”

  Pink patches colored the girl’s cheeks. “My aunts are witches, and I am a witch in training, when I am not tending the herb gardens here at Norstead. I do not have the witchy arts perfected yet.” She let her words sink in, then added with disgust, “I cannot even raise a stick, let alone levitate myself.”