Viking For Hire (Vikings Saga Volume 1)

by Grafford, Jo

  “Nay, but it no longer plagues me. I suspect ’twas all the magic flowing through me this morning. It somehow circumvented the effects of the curse on me alone. We still need to remove it from you, though.”

  Eirik snagged her waist and drew her close. “Truly, Branwyn? You are free to think and feel as you please around me?”

  “Truly,” she said with a chuckle and twirled away from him, holding up her hands and laughing with delight.

  He followed after her and pulled her flush against him. “Good, because I’ve been struggling to keep my own hands off you since the moment we met.”

  She gripped his upper arms, her breath growing uneven.

  “What do you feel now, lass?” He tipped her chin up to gaze down into her eyes.

  “My heart might very well beat itself from my chest,” she whispered, “and ’tis difficult to breathe.”

  “How odd.” Passion thickened his voice. “I seem to be suffering the same symptoms. Does anything else plague you?”

  “A terrible weakness,” she whispered shakily. “If you let me go, I am not entirely certain I shall be able to stand.”

  He buried his face in her neck. “Then I shall never let you go. Ah, Branwyn,” he muttered, “’Tis been such misery to want you the way I do, not knowing if one whit of your affection for me was pure and natural.”

  “When the curse left me,” she admitted, “I considered keeping the secret to myself, for the way you stir me is every bit as powerful as before...except now ’tis real.” She turned her head and sought his lips.

  His hand crept up to cup her nape as he slanted his mouth over hers. When she moaned, he thrust his tongue into her mouth and tangled it with hers.

  She plunged both hands into his hair, fisting the silken strands.

  “Jarl Eirik! Branwyn?” The shocked voice jolted her back to the forest. Branwyn reluctantly broke the kiss and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Sven.” She blushed and tried to disengage herself from Eirik’s embrace, but he held her fast. “What is it, my friend?”

  “This is madness. Him. You.” He raised and lowered his arms in frustration. “You know ’tis best to stay apart until you are back in full control of your senses. Until you are free to choose...” His voice dwindled as she stepped away from Eirik on her own accord.

  “Wait. How did you—”

  “I do not know, Sven,” she answered ruefully. “Only that the curse no longer has a hold on me. The sooner we break its hold on Eirik as well, the better for us all along with any other women he encounters. Did you collect the mistletoe?”

  “Aye, my lady.” His face was ashen as he presented a basket of it to her with a bow. “We happened upon a peasant girl who led us straight to the herb.”

  Branwyn reached for it eagerly but cried out in shock at the lightning that shot through her fingertips when their hands bumped. “Nay!” She dropped the basket. “’Tis not possible.” Lunging for Sven, she grabbed two handfuls of his tunic and pulled herself against him. “What else happened to you whilst you searched the forests? Tell me everything down to the smallest detail before I—” She stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his, but he turned his face just in time. Her lips grazed his jaw instead.

  Eirik yanked her out of Sven’s arms and wedged himself between the two of them. He drew back an arm to strike his friend but hesitated at Branwyn’s scream of horror.

  “Please stop,” she begged. “Something is wrong here. Terribly wrong. Whatever is happening, ’tis not Sven’s fault. I am the one who attacked him. Just like— Oh, Eirik! The peasant girl. Tell us, Sven. Is she the only female you encountered?”

  At his gulp and fierce nod of affirmation, Branwyn whirled to Eirik, “Don’t you see? ’Tis her. The sorceress. She must have followed you and your men. Where is she now, Sven?”

  Sven rubbed a weary hand across his face. “Back at the clearing. She appeared half starved, so I offered her a bowl of soup in exchange for the mistletoe. ’Twas the least I could do.”

  Mercy! The sorceress was likely sitting next to the fire before the very cauldron Branwyn needed to mix the potion to reverse the spell.

  “The peasant seemed a little...” Sven drew a circle in the air around his temple. “What with the way she was muttering to herself and waving her stick.”

  “Her wand, you mean,” Branwyn groaned. “What to do? Let me think.” She plopped down on a fallen log as her knees gave out. “I’ve an idea. ’Tis risky, but we’ve no better option. No telling the amount of mischief she is stirring right now amidst your men.”

  Eirik drew his sword. “I’m of the mind to relieve her shoulders of her troublesome noggin’ and be done with it.”

  Branwyn shook her head. “’Tis not so simple. More than likely she’d have you squawking on the ground in the form of a chicken before you could step within ten feet of her. Hear me well. I have a plan.” She motioned the men nearer and dropped her voice.

  Sven nodded at her words and took off at a sprint for the longship, which was moored at the water’s edge. He was careful to skirt the clearing.

  With a grimace, Eirik stripped off his tunic and trousers and handed them to her. “Now ‘tis your turn to undress, my lady.”

  “Turn around, you oaf.” Giggling and keeping her own eyes carefully averted from his state of undress, Branwyn removed a flask of water from her pocket, then stepped from her pinafore and dress. She tossed the garments over his shoulder. Shivering in naught but her shift, she quickly donned his tunic and trousers. Next, she slipped the silver cross from around her neck and dropped it into the flask of water, consecrating it as holy water. Finally, she unpinned the braid coiled at her neck and re-pinned it atop her head. “Now, give me your hat, jarl.”

  She clucked in feigned distress when he turned to face her. Her garments were far too small to fit his frame. Thus, he’d simply wrapped the dress about his chest like a blanket and tossed the pinafore on top. Not even from a distance would he pass for a maid. Without asking his permission, she raised her wand and muttered a quick glamour spell.

  ‘Twas uncanny how much he resembled her when she finished the spell. “Do not be alarmed,” she said at his aghast expression when he held out his much smaller hands to examine them. “’Twill not last long. I promise, and my garments will fit better in the meantime. The success of our quest depends upon this.”

  Branwyn resisted the urge to laugh again when he reluctantly handed over his hat. Jamming it on her head, she tucked a small sprig of the mistletoe into her trouser pocket and hid her wand within the folds of Eirik’s enormous tunic. “There. A small amount will do just as well as any. Pray follow at a distance and distract the sorceress by igniting a fire when I give the signal.”

  Instead of answering, Eirik slid the hat further back on her head for better access and kissed her roughly. “Are you certain you would not rather have me circle behind the wench and send a blade straight through her black heart?”

  Branwyn sighed against his mouth. She would never tire of his kisses. The fact that he resembled her at the moment did nothing to dull their potency. “Alas, her death will not undo all the damage she’s inflicted on you and your men. Nay, Eirik. This battle cannot be won with a sword. We have no choice but to face the creature and outwit her at her own game.”

  “I feared you would say that.” He pulled the hat down low on her forehead. “May the gods be with you, my love. I will not be far from you either.”

  Branwyn’s insides melted at the endearment. ’Twas the first time he’d admitted his love aloud. She could only pray it would not be his last.

  THE BREAKING

  BRANWYN paused at the edge of the woods before entering the clearing and performed another glamour spell, this time on herself. From the vantage point of her sudden greater height plus the new way she filled out Eirik’s clothing, she knew it had worked. She would appear and sound exactly like him for approximately a half hour. She dared not make the glamour last longer, because she wished to res
erve the biggest portion of her powers for the reversal of the curse.

  Sven was returning from the ship just as she stepped into the clearing. Though she expected the sorceress would be up to untold amounts of mischief, Branwyn stumbled and nearly fell at the sight that met her. A dozen or more wolves prowled restlessly around the clearing, whining and pawing at the ground. Above their heads, a cluster of blackbirds crowded the limb of a dead tree and squawked at the lone girl sitting next to the fire. One of them was larger than the others. He cocked his head ominously at her. That was when she noted his eye patch. Alf? Branwyn shuddered, perceiving at once what had happened to the crew, for none of the Vikings besides Sven were in sight.

  “Eirik,” the peasant girl rose as Branwyn approached. The dirty linen rags she wore melted away and were replaced by a gown of shimmering violet silk. Her hair shook itself free of the twigs and other debris embedded in it and transformed into a sleek dark shade of chestnut that wound its way into an intricate set of swirls atop her head. A handful of loose strands curled and looped their way around her neck and chin. Her washed out complexion deepened to a coppery hue. Diamonds winked at her ears and throat.

  Branwyn choked back a startled exclamation. ’Twas the same creature who’d appeared to them at sea as the leader of the mermaids. Instead of a silvery tail, this time she glided forward on willowy legs encased in silver slippers.

  Horrified, Branwyn twisted her mouth into what she hoped was one of Eirik’s best glares. “What have you done with my men?”

  “You jarls are all the same,” she simpered. “Storming your way around the world and issuing commands. Sometimes, a maid longs for nothing more than a simple greeting. You should try it sometime.” She reached out two slender arms as if expecting Eirik to embrace her.

  Branwyn drew her sword, albeit a bit clumsily, and pressed the tip of it to the sorceress’s heart.

  “How tedious of you,” the woman said in disgust. With a flick of one elegant hand glittering with rings, the useless blade went flying across the clearing to embed itself in the base of an ancient tree. “’Twill go far better for you this day to play the role of gentleman. Come now, Eirik. What would it hurt to toss a lady a compliment now and then? Mayhap even address me by name? ’Tis Mista, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Branwyn curled her lip. “How could I forget?” she snarled. “What with the way you branded me with your sorcery and followed me around the world spilling your poison at every turn. If this is all over my refusal to bed you, you’ve taken the role of scorned woman to such new heights that Freya herself must weep for you.”

  At the mention of Freya, the goddess of love, Mista’s eyes splintered into twin pools of piercing white light. “Do not mention that hag’s name in my presence, else I will kill you now and seek out your brother instead. As a successful statesman, he has proven himself far superior to you in negotiating contracts. I begin to regret that I did not commence my negotiations with him instead of yourself.”

  More mystified that ever, Branwyn shot Mista a mocking smile. “Indeed, you waste your time on me as I’ve said all along. Why is it that you bother with me at all?”

  She snorted in an unladylike manner. “As if you do not already know.”

  “You speak in riddles, witch,” Branwyn said bluntly. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched anxiously as Sven dumped the contents of a lumpy brown sack into the cauldron. She hoped it contained personal effects from every one of the crewmen as she had directed. Anything would do — a strand of hair, a nail clipping, a comb or an piece of clothing. Sven pushed the items deep into the pot with his ladle. Then he abandoned the potion to spread the precious salt she’d requested in a circle around the fire to consecrate the ground.

  “Riddles!” Mista scoffed. “As if you have not heard how the goddesses swoon and sigh from the heavens at the sight of you and your pet mongrel over there. What is his name again? Oh yes. Sven.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “I could not resist afflicting him with the same sickness as you. No need for either of you to enjoy the luxury of sailing the world, pleasuring yourself with mead and women, whilst you refuse to cooperate with me.”

  Branwyn took a step back and then another towards the fire as Mista waltzed closer, hips swaying within the sleek confines of the gossamer fabric. Only when Branwyn felt the crunch of salt beneath her shoes did she let out the breath she’d been holding. ’Twas time to begin the incantation. She turned her body sideways so that Mista could not see her remove the mistletoe from her pocket. A fine, nearly transparent blue mist rose from the simmering cauldron when she tossed the herb into the mix.

  She turned back to Mista to find her standing a mere few inches away, her face cold with rage. “Since both you and Sven have refused to take me home as mate, I’ll make this simple.” She paused and raked a set of long, silver-tipped nails down Branwyn’s chest.

  “I tire of your games, witch.” Branwyn snapped. “State your business, and be gone from me.”

  “Very well.” Furious, Mista dug her nails deeper into Eirik’s tunic. They felt like five tiny knives puncturing her skin. Branwyn sucked in a pained breath and waited for the sorceress to continue.

  “Tell me, jarl. Where do you hide the key to New Dorset? Tell me at once, and I will restore all of your foolish men to you — none of which proved helpful in my search. Oh, and I might let your precious little healer live. It appears you’ve grown fond of the child. Where is she anyway?”

  “Why do you want the key to my city?” Branwyn raised her arms over her head and stretched as if to dispel a cramp. ’Twas her signal to Eirik to start his fire. It had the unfortunate side effect of drawing the sorceress’s nails deeper into her chest.

  “’Tis a godly matter and none of your concern.” Mista’s eyes flickered with interest to the smoke rising from the tree line. She withdrew her hand from Eirik’s chest and rested it on her hip. “It appears your pesky healer is trying to stir up some more magic of her own, eh?”

  “Do not think to change the subject,” Branwyn stormed, “Everyone and everything in New Dorset is my bloody business. How dare you claim this matter is not my concern?”

  Mista stamped a foot. “Do not raise your voice at me, you brainless oaf. Your city of demigods lies just before the gates of Valhalla. Why else do you think I want in?”

  At Branwyn’s shocked expression, Mista gave another ringing laugh. “Indeed, I keep forgetting you and your half-brothers have no idea who your real father is.” She snorted in derision. “As if William the Conquerer would have ever earned such a title without a wee bit of assistance from higher up. Or you, for that matter. Do you really think you would have discovered New Dorset on your own? Ah, the pride of mortals.” She shook her head and glanced again at the tree line. “Enough chatter. I’d best go stop that tiresome witch of yours before she attempts to meddle in my affairs again.”

  Demigods? Branwyn smothered a hysterical laugh at the incredible revelation. That would certainly explain why Eirik and Sven were a good head taller than the average Englishmen and handsomer than the devil himself. “Wait,” she called. “Mayhap I will reconsider your offer after all.”

  Eirik’s fiery distraction was more for his benefit than hers. She neither wished him to come running, sword drawn, to her rescue nor for Mista to discover the ruse and take her anger out on him.

  Mista froze and turned. “Do not tell me you’ve actually fallen for that pitiful mortal?” Her gaze narrowed on Branwyn’s. “By the gods, you have.” Her lip curled. “Well, do not expect any mercy from me. She has caused enough trouble for one day. Pray forget my offer. ’Tis already expired.”

  “Has it?” Branwyn asked softly as she removed the flask of holy water from her pocket.

  “Aye,” Mista snarled. “I’ve a new plan. I shall drag the witch here by her hair and torture her in your presence until you reveal the location of the key. No more deals, you feeble-minded Viking. Your indomitable pride shall be your downfall.”

  “You speak
of mortal pride as if ’tis something to be pitied,” Branwyn said coolly, as she uncapped the flask, “but ’tis not nearly so pathetic and foolish as the pride of demons.” She flung the contents of the flask directly into Mista’s eyes, and not a moment too soon for Eirik’s clothes were already growing looser on her frame.

  The sorceress’s face contorted in pain as she stumbled back, screaming and clawing at her face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Eirik?” she choked. She scrambled around on the ground on all fours and lunged blindly for Branwyn’s ankles. When her fingers encountered the salt, she sprang back in disbelief. “No-o-o-o!” Her anguished cry rent the air, for demons cannot cross into a consecrated circle.

  Branwyn raised her wand over the contents of the cauldron and began the incantation. “Power of fire and wind and sea. I call upon your mighty three. Take back the curse upon my liege. From all his men; set each one free. May the blackness return for eternity, to she who sent it heartlessly. So mote it be. So mote it be.” Fire shot from the elder wood wand and consumed Mista’s violet gown, high-heeled slippers, and gems. Her image faded and shifted into a myriad of shapes — first a beautiful young Viking maid, then a mermaid, followed by a blackbird and wolf. With a final violent twitch, she flopped to her side on the ground in the form of a peasant girl. Then her outline shivered and faded altogether. She was gone.

  The wolves stopped their pacing and transformed into Vikings crawling around on their hands and knees. The blackbirds fluttered down from the tree and landed on their feet as men.

  Branwyn pocketed her wand and ran to Sven who stood just outside the circle of salt, mouth agape. “We did it,” she said exultantly. Grabbing his hands, she spun him in a jig. “The spell worked.”

  He stopped her dance of victory and held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “The last time you grabbed me...” His face reddened.

  She rolled her eyes, stepped away to demonstrate her freedom from the curse, then stumbled over Eirik’s excessively long trousers and pitched forward into Sven’s arms. “I could not have done it without your help,” she babbled. “Not without the salt and mistletoe or the hair samples and personal effects from each of the men. ’Twas the only way to ensure Mista’s curses would be removed in their entirety from us all.”