by Mia Marlowe
Fire from the Greek ship blazed toward them, stopping to dance along the chain at the waterline, forming a man-high wall of crackling flames behind them.
“Up oars,” Bjorn shouted. He and Jorand hoisted the sail and a fair wind filled the cloth. The Valkyrie lifted, buoyant and light, running before the wind like a fleet hind outpacing her hunters.
Even once the harbor chain was lowered and the fire extinguished, the pursuit was over. The ungainly Greek ships could never overtake the sleek Norse craft.
Rika collapsed in Bjorn’s arms, shuddering sobs of relief wracking her frame. He smoothed her hair with his hand and clutched her to him.
“Don’t cry, love,” he whispered. “We’re going home.”
Chapter 45
Al-Amin proved to be a poor sailor, but after the priest Dominic nursed him through a week of sickness, he tolerated the surging motion of the Valkyrie, if not with grace, at least without complaint. The trek up the Dnieper was even more arduous than the wild ride down, despite the fact that the Valkyrie’s shallow open hold rode empty of cargo. Bjorn, Jorand and Ornolf were constantly rowing, aided by Al-Amin and Dominic as their stamina improved. They fought against a current that was punishing at times and mildly annoying at others, but always dragging at them, trying to pull the Valkyrie south to the Black Sea.
Since Rika didn’t have the strength needed to row, Bjorn taught her to guide the ship by means of the steering oar so when one of the five men was allowed a break from rowing it was a true respite, not just a change of duty. No one spared much breath for conversation, so Rika was often left with her own dark thoughts.
She mourned the loss of Helge, feeling the lack of a feminine companion in the company of five men. And she often wept silently for Torvald, for that sad, broken man who’d made a terrible mistake, one that haunted him all his life. He’d atoned for it with his final sacrifice. She hoped his tortured soul was at peace.
She fretted over Ketil’s fate. Her brother had dreamed of being sent to the sacred grove, just as he’d dreamed of her trip to Miklagard. Now that she knew Gunnar had tried to kill Bjorn as a child and had succeeded in murdering his own father, she was sure her gentle brother was not safe. Rika counted the days till the summer solstice in agitated fury. They must reach Uppsala before the Blot, the nine-day feast honoring Odin, before the rites began and the slaughtered victims gathered on the spreading limbs of the grove next to the mighty temple.
There was never a time for her to be alone with Bjorn and they felt the lack of privacy keenly. A stolen kiss here and tender glances there were fast becoming not enough. Finally at the base of Aeifor, Bjorn called a halt to their progress.
“You all know how I love Rika. I would make her mine with honor before all men. If I don’t marry this woman right here and now, I’m going to burst,” he exclaimed once they made camp.
“I don’t know how you can rightly do that, nephew,” Ornolf said. “Our snares and fishing will feed us, but they’ll provide no wedding feast. We’ve no godi to chant the ceremony. There’s no way for the two of you to marry properly just now.”
“If I may,” Dominic said, a thin smile on his lips. “I can marry them. All that is required is that they convert and be baptized and they can be man and wife by the setting of the sun.”
“Agreed,” Bjorn said. “Your God has taken pretty good care of you so far, my friend. Rika, will you take the sign of the Christ in order to take me as well?”
She hugged him fiercely. Her Norse gods were distant and unreachable entities. She’d lost her trust in the court of Asgard long ago. What little she learned of the Arab’s Allah hadn’t moved her to faith. The bloody wrangling among the Christians of Miklagard left her distrustful, but the need to worship something still burned in her. She’d managed to assuage the urge with her weekly pilgrimage to the statue of Mars. She knew herself well enough to recognize that she needed to acknowledge a higher being.
She turned back to Dominic. The little priest was a good companion, brave in danger and uncomplaining in hardship. Bjorn credited the man with saving his sanity while they were imprisoned together. If a person were defined by whom or what he chose to worship, Dominic’s character spoke well for his God.
“I’ll agree to anything that makes me Bjorn’s wife, but I know very little of your Christ,” she admitted.
“Then consider this your introduction to Him.” The priest smiled. “If you are willing, you shall know Him better hereafter, I assure you.”
Ornolf scowled at Dominic, his glare tinged nonetheless with grudging respect. The priest had bent Bjorn to his will finally. It was something few Northmen had managed. “That’s a coercive way to spread your faith, isn’t it?”
Dominic spread his hands before him self-deprecatingly. “People of the North are so stubborn, I will take my converts however I can.”
Rika and Bjorn waded into the Dnieper with Dominic and listened without comprehension as the priest intoned the baptismal rite in Latin. The thunder of Aeifor’s fall pummeled their ears, but the roaring of the blood in her veins sounded even louder to Rika. After they were thoroughly doused both by the spray of the cataract and their baptism, Dominic led them in the marriage rite. When they climbed dripping out of the river, they were, happily and finally, husband and wife.
Chapter 46
Torchlight blazed over the settlement of Uppsala, casting wavering shadows against the mighty temple that housed the giant statues of Odin, Thor and the stiff -phallused Frey. The reek of putrefaction in the air told Rika that the sacred grove already hung heavy with the bodies of slain victims. The Blot had begun.
Over the course of nine days, nine male offerings of different beasts were ritually killed each night, their throats cut and the blood drained from their carcasses, collected for darker uses by the godi later. The blood of the sacrifices was necessary for the working of seid craft, the secret and often sinister magic of the Norse priesthood. Then the bodies were hung to rot from limbs of the ponderous oaks next to the temple, their slow decay thought to purify that sacred place.
Rika couldn’t bear to look. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and sent a brief prayer skyward to her new God that they weren’t too late, that she wouldn’t find her brother’s body swaying in the breeze.
“We’re in time,” Bjorn said beside her. “No men yet. But this is the night. If Ketil is destined to go to the trees, we have only until the moon reaches its highest point.”
Rika sagged against him in a confused tangle of both relief and panic, then she straightened suddenly. “Look! There’s Surt.” Rika stretched out her arm to point at the Sognaman thrall across the crowded compound.
They sprinted to Surt and found that Ketil was indeed the offering from Sogna, one of the nine slated for the Blot, as they had feared. Surt led them to a special hut where the future victims were kept under strict guard. The nine were fed and housed as befitted those destined to meet the All-Father very shortly. Any earthly wants, from rich food and drink, games and music to visits from an accomplished whore, were granted them as they waited for death.
“Sister!” Ketil’s broad face broke into a beatific grin. “I knew you’d come. Dreamed it,” he slurred. Ketil hiccupped softly as Surt refilled his horn with sweet mead.
“Oh, Ketil.” Rika bit her lower lip. He’d never had a head for drink, but she supposed that Surt felt it was a mercy to send him to his doom slobbering drunk. She knelt beside her brother and kissed his cheek. A tear slid down her own.
“Told you not to cry.” Ketil smoothed the tear away with his fingertips. “Knew I’d see you again ... at the place with the big trees.” His face crumpled in anguish. Evidently, Surt’s brew wasn’t potent enough to erase his predicament from even Ketil’s simple mind.
Bjorn stooped to lay a hand on Ketil’s shoulder. “Courage, brother,” he said. “You will not go to the trees this night. My oath on it.” Bjorn’s grim expression left no doubt he’d do whatever was necessary to keep this vow. Then he straightened. “S
tay if you wish,” he whispered to Rika. “I’m for the Lawspeaker.”
“Then I’ll come with you,” she said.
“I’ll stay with your brother, if I may,” Dominic offered. “Giving comfort in time of distress is my business.”
“Looking for another convert, priest?” Ornolf crossed his arms over his chest.
“Wherever I can find one,” Dominic said unabashedly.
Rika hugged Ketil briefly. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised. “We will leave this place together, brother.” One way or another, it would be true. Either she and Bjorn would see Ketil freed, or they would all die this night and leave the bonds of Midgard forever.
Flanked by Jorand, Ornolf and a totally bewildered Al-Amin, Bjorn and Rika strode across the compound to the Jarl of Uppsala’s longhouse. The raucous sounds of feasting and drinking spilled out into the warm night.
Bjorn burst through the door and scanned the long room through the haze of smoke from the fires. He spotted Gunnar, whispering into a serving girl’s ear and then laughing, with Astryd glowering beside him. Ornolf pointed to another man, seated beside Halfdan of Raumarike and some of the other jarls. It was Domari, the Lawspeaker.
“The Law demands justice!” Bjorn bellowed above the din. “Hail, Domari, keeper of the Law.”
One by one the knots of conversation hushed around them.
“I seek your wisdom and know you will hear my cause.” Bjorn strode forward, confidently mouthing the time-honored request for the Lawspeaker’s intervention.
“Who are you, and what is your complaint?” Domari stood ram-rod straight. Despite his sixty winters, he was a powerfully built man with a shock of silver hair brushing his shoulders.
Bjorn waited until the hall was quiet. “I am Bjorn the Black of Sognefjord, and murder has brought me here.” He turned slowly to glare at Gunnar. “I charge my brother, Gunnar Haraldsson, with the murder of our father, Harald of Sogna, one-time jarl of that fair land.”
“Oath-breaker!” The word exploded from Gunnar’s lips as he leapt to his feet, pointing an accusatory finger at Bjorn. “This man has sworn fealty to me, yet he dares slander me before this company on our holiest of nights!”
“Is this true?” Domari asked.
“Ja, I am Gunnar’s man,” Bjorn admitted. “But hear my evidence against the Jarl of Sogna first, and I shall answer for my oath-breaking hereafter.”
“He admits it!” Gunnar roared. “Why should the Lawspeaker trouble himself with the words of an oath-breaker?”
“Sit, son of Harald,” Domari ordered, narrowing his eyes at Gunnar. “Your father was my friend and the Law seeks the truth. Let us see if there is any here that needs concern us. Speak, Bjorn the Black.”
Bjorn did a slow turn, meeting as many of the eyes that were riveted on him as he could. He wished for Rika’s gift, for her facility with words and the ability to send images to her listeners, but the bald facts plainly told would have to suffice. In spare strokes, he related the story of his fight with Fenris the Walker and the big man’s dying confession.
“A fanciful tale,” Gunnar interrupted. “My brother has been bewitched by that woman.” He glared at Rika. “She styles herself a skald. No doubt she has concocted this fantasy.”
“I am Jorand of Sogna, son of Orn. I was witness to this fight.” Jorand stepped forward. “It happened just as Bjorn the Black said. Fenris confessed as he lay dying and named the man who gave him a silver armband as the one who struck Harald of Sogna the fatal blow. I do not think a man will step idly into the next world with a lie on his lips.”
“Bjorn the Black is Jorand’s captain,” Gunnar said. “A man will say anything for his captain’s sake.”
“It is true that he is my captain and I will add to that. Bjorn the Black is also my friend.” Jorand’s voice filled the hall. “But I am not oath-bound to him. My words are my own, and upon my honor, my testimony is true.”
“This armband of which you speak, do you have it with you?” the Lawspeaker asked.
“We do,” Bjorn said. Watching the blood rush from his brother’s face made Bjorn’s gut churn with a thrill, an anticipation of victory. He clamped the feeling down. He was sure his brother was not finished yet. Ornolf presented the armband for Domari to examine.
“I am Ornolf TrueAx,” he said. “I gave this armband to my nephew, Gunnar Haraldsson, on his wedding day. Entwined serpents are the device Gunnar had chosen for himself. You’ll find there is an inscription on the inside.” He fingered the runes and then left the band in Domari’s hand as he turned to eye Gunnar. “I was sad to see it again in Miklagard and to hear that it had purchased the death of my brother.”
“A man can lose an armband,” Gunnar protested to Domari. “Besides, surely you see that this is just a case of jealousy. Second sons must stick together. Isn’t that right, Uncle?” Emboldened by the Lawspeaker’s silence, Gunnar strode forward. “All they have is the word of an oath-breaker, the lies of his admitted friend, and a long-lost piece of finery, which I will claim again as mine. The rest is no better than a tale to frighten children on a winter’s night.”
Domari frowned down at the armband. “Is this all?”
“No.” Bjorn drew out the Galata sword and held it up in the flickering light. “This is the sword of Fenris the Walker. As you can all see, it’s a fine blade, but it has a flaw.” He ran a finger along the flat, careful to avoid the razor-sharp edge. “The sword of my father, Harald of Sogna, left a nick too deep to grind out. This blade left a similar nick in my father’s steel as well.” He narrowed his eyes at Gunnar. “Come, brother. Draw our father’s sword and let us see if the faults are a match.”
“Only to send you to Hel, little brother,” Gunnar roared. He whipped out his sword and slashed it down on Bjorn in a deadly arc. Bjorn met the blow with the Galata.
At a signal from the Lawspeaker, men leaped to grab both Bjorn and Gunnar’s arms and immobilize them.
“Let no blood be shed in this house,” Domari said. “The Jarl of Sogna has chosen trial by combat. So be it. Prepare for the holmgang and let the challenge begin before another torch burns itself out.”
Chapter 47
“I want you to leave now,” Bjorn said to Rika as he hefted the light wooden shield. Two others lay at his feet for use when the first was shattered by a blow. “Take Jorand and steal Ketil away during the confusion. Then all of you make for someplace safe.”
“And where would that be?” Rika asked, as she eyed Gunnar across the holmhring. The jarl had a good thirty pounds on Bjorn. “There is no place in all Midgard for me without you. Either we all leave together or none of us do.”
The holmhring was nearly finished. A large cloak had been pegged to the earth with three concentric squares etched into the dirt around it. Ropes were strung from hazel poles at each of the four corners of the outer square, enclosing a fighting area only twelve feet across on each side. Bjorn and his brother pulled their tunics over their heads. No mail or hardened leather was allowed. According to the rules of the holmgang, once the three shields of soft linden wood were destroyed, a man’s only defense was his sword.
“Besides, you need Jorand as your second,” she said.
Bjorn frowned. “You are a thoroughly disobedient wife.”
“And likely to stay that way.”
“Rika, please—”
She pressed her fingertips against his mouth. “No, love. I can’t desert you. Don’t ask it of me.” An ache centered in her chest. Bjorn was still well under his fighting weight, and she knew he was exhausted from the breakneck pace they’d set trying to make it to Uppsala in time. Gunnar was sleek and rested, the firm muscles in his chest and arms standing out in stark definition under his smooth skin. Despite everything, Rika forced a smile. “You can take that pea-balled troll any time.”
Bjorn bent to her, his lips lingering over hers. When he pulled back, his soul shone in his eyes, radiating love for her.
“You warned me,” he said. “We’ve
lived quite a love story, haven’t we? A maidensong holds as many dangers as pleasures, you said.”
“So I did.” She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “But I didn’t know at the time that the pleasures would be well worth the risk.”
He chuckled. “Ah, Rika, they are indeed. I do love you, girl.” Bjorn ran a hand over her crown.
“And I you.”
“In the winters to come, remember me,” he whispered into her ear.
“In the winters to come, we will tell our maidensong to our children and our children’s children,” she said evenly. “They’ll never believe it’s not a skald’s tale. You must win, Bjorn. I’ll not forgive you if you don’t get me with child.”
Bjorn nodded, his crooked smile deepening the dimple in his cheek. Then his dark eyes hardened and he turned back toward the holmhring to face his mortal enemy. His brother.
“This combat is enjoined to determine the guilt or innocence of Gunnar Haraldsson in the matter of the murder of his father, Harald of Sogna.” Domari’s deep tone rang into the night sky.
The moon had risen over the treetops, but Rika wouldn’t let herself think about Ketil’s fate when the silver disc reached its zenith. She focused on Bjorn and prayed. If Dominic was right, if this new God did indeed love them, she prayed He would show that love right now.
“The right of the first blow belongs to the Jarl of Sogna,” the Lawspeaker said. “Let the holmgang begin and let no man interfere.”
Bjorn and Gunnar both struck their shields with the flat of their swords and stepped onto the cloak. Bjorn flexed his knees, preparing to meet his brother’s attack.
Gunnar raised his arm and, grunting with effort, crashed his sword down on Bjorn. The shield absorbed most of the blow, but it cracked down the middle. Only the leather strap around Bjorn’s forearm stopped it from falling to ground in pieces. He tossed it aside and Jorand lofted a second shield to him.
