The top three archers would advance to the next contest.
Once identified, a smaller target was hung on the wall. Again, the competitors did their best, but only two advanced to the final challenge.
Olvir had always admired Rolf the most. Though the man did his sire’s bidding, as Olvir matured, the soldier often had kind words for him. Unlike the other warriors who taunted him as much as his father did. In fact, his sire encouraged them, hoping one day his son would prove everyone wrong. But Olvir knew that moment would never come.
The jarl stood and clapped his hands for Rolf and Knut. “Tis no surprise. Congratulations. Now for the final test.” He gazed at Olvir, seated a couple chairs down. “Are you ready?”
Olvir dropped the piece of bread he was about to eat on his platter. “What will you have me do?”
“Bring in the squash!” Otkel said.
A thrall entered the great hall carrying the wintertime vegetable.
“Now give it to my son,” his father ordered. “He will hold it while Rolf and Knut take a shot at it.”
Olvir absolutely refused to do something so haphazard. One slip of a hand and he’d die. “Father…” He sucked down the last of his wine and stood. “I cannot do this.”
The jarl grinned. “You can’t do a lot of things, my son. And I’ve accepted your limitations, haven’t I? Accommodated you? Tolerated your inferiority for years. I will not be denied, Olvir, so don’t give me a reason to force you into submission. Now take the squash and go stand in front of the target. If I were capable of walking a straight line, I’d do it myself.”
The remaining captains seated at the high table snickered.
“If you prefer it, Father, I will gladly walk you across the room.”
Otkel cocked his head. “What do you fear? There is always blood at the end of these competitions we’re all so fond of.”
Olvir scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to wrap his mind around the twisted ways of his father. As long as someone else shouldered the risk, the jarl welcomed any form of entertainment. “Goodnight.” He walked around the table and stepped off the dais, headed for his chamber.
Jarl Otkel slammed his fist on the table and shot up. “Tymon,” he addressed a soldier sitting nearby. “Stop my son.”
He immediately rose and glared at Olvir. “Listen to your sire, Boy. Don’t force my hand.”
Tymon gave him good counsel, but Olvir wasn’t interested in the easiest solution. By God, he didn’t wish to stay here another minute. He would gather what coinage he’d managed to save and leave the Trondelag forever, seeking passage on a ship bound for Northumbria. “Lay hands on a prince of Norway and you’ll pay a heavy price.” The empty threat slipped from his mouth before Olvir had a chance to really think before he spoke.
The hall went eerily silent then.
“A prince of Norway?” his father repeated incredulously. “You dare claim a title you’ve never earned or cared to defend?” Otkel staggered off the stage and walked toward his son. “Every man wearing a sword in this hallowed hall is more a prince than you’ll ever be, ungrateful dog. Take up the position I’ve ordered you to.”
Resolute, Olvir shook his head. “No.”
The jarl’s face twisted in anger as he spread his fingers wide and covered Olvir’s face with his big hand, then gave him a violent shove.
Olvir stumbled back, his heart racing in fear. But he didn’t fall down or cry out. Not this time. He’d never give his sire the satisfaction of seeing him run away again. Never. Even though his father was superior in size and strength, Olvir had gained confidence in his natural talents while serving Prince Ivarr in Northumbria. A brilliant mind could defeat the greatest of warriors.
“I will give you one chance to reconsider your choice,” the jarl said.
“There is no need.”
“Very well.” Though twice his son’s age, the jarl moved lethally quick and grabbed a fistful of his son’s tunic and dragged him across the hall, to where the small target hung on the wall. “You will stand here and hold the vegetable high so my men can shoot at it. Do you understand?”
Olvir bucked against his father’s brute strength, trying to twist free. It did no good. The jarl gave him a brain-rattling jolt.
“Obey me, Olvir.” Otkel looked at the waiting thrall. “Bring it here. Now.”
The jarl handed the squash to his son. “Hold it willingly or I will have the smithy bore a hole through it and hang it around your neck from a rope. Then we’ll see what your chances of survival truly are.”
Olvir’s gaze darted nervously about the chamber, wondering who found this sort of torture entertaining. But from what he could see, no one looked especially comfortable. Not even the captains at the high table. Cowards all, really. None challenged his father. Not even Rolf. Knowing he had no choice, Olvir finally gave up.
“As you wish, Sir.”
Otkel let go and smiled triumphantly. “Good boy. Choose whatever stance you wish, as long as the target is accessible to my men.”
Olvir tested the weight of the squash as his father started to walk away. “Wait, Father.”
“What now?”
“What if I wish to join in the game?”
The jarl rubbed his chin. “You wish to take up the bow?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Is this not the moment you’ve been waiting for?”
“Perhaps.” His father considered it for a long moment. “If I give you this opportunity, what do I get in return?”
“Pride.”
Otkel laughed. “A good answer. Very well. Rolf, give the boy a bow and let him take a couple practice shots at the small target before the final round of competition.”
Olvir handed the vegetable to the thrall and waited for the captain to bring a weapon to him. Jarl Otkel returned to his throne and mead, looking more contented than he ever had.
Rolf approached with a somber expression on his face. “I am sorry for this.”
“Tis not your fault.”
“Not directly,” the captain said. “But if I’d intervened long ago, maybe things would be different between you and your father.”
“A dozen sons wouldn’t make my sire happy,” Olvir said. “Nothing does. Not my mother, me, or even wealth and power.”
“Aye.”
“There is no need to stay close, Rolf, I am practiced enough on the bow. Even my soft hands were expected to practice occasionally while I was away.”
The captain nodded and stepped aside as Olvir walked the distance to where the other men had stood to shoot. He then inspected the weapon. Made soundly, he positioned the bow properly, testing the string. Pleased with how it felt, he nocked an arrow and took aim at the small target, then released it. The arrow hit the center ring. Olvir did it again without pause.
The silence was broken by applause. But Olvir ignored the false praise and nocked another arrow. He’d taken the first two shots to impress his father, to demonstrate how wrong he’d been about his only son. Though Olvir preferred the duties of a scribe, he also recognized the importance of being able to defend himself and his home. Something he’d kept hidden, preferring to earn the respect of his people through what he loved to do most. He’d failed at it miserably.
Now he had no choice but to join in his father’s madness.
Taking aim at the target again, he waited for his father to say something, anything.
“It seems my son has a streak of luck.”
Without thinking, he whipped around, and released the arrow in the direction of his father. After it pierced him through the left eye socket, pinning his head to the back of his throne, for the first time in his twenty-three seasons, Olvir finally felt like the kind of man his father would admire.
Chapter Nineteen
Runa dismounted and joined the temple guards in the clearing where Prince Axel’s camp had been. Nothing looked the same. Most of the tents had been dismantled. Bags were scattered everywhere, their cont
ents littered the wet ground. The carefully constructed rock fire pits were broken up, appearing as if someone had tried to erase the evidence of who had been here before.
“There isn’t a living creature about,” one of the captains said somberly, shivering. “I am truly sorry for your loss, milady. Judging by the quick work of whoever attacked you, it isn’t safe to stay here.”
Runa wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye. The memory of the threat and violence Jarl Skrymir presented had raised a fear inside her she’d never known. But standing here in the aftermath, seeing the destruction firsthand, conjured deep sorrow. No one appeared to have survived. As that realization started to sink in, another soldier called out.
“Over here, Captain Harald.”
Runa started to follow him, but he stopped her. “Let me secure the area first.”
“There’s no need to shield me from blood and death. I’ve seen enough already.” She scanned the field, finding bloodstains half-washed away by the rain. “I have as much right to see whatever it is your man has found.”
“Aye,” the captain agreed. “But will it serve any purpose? Make the outcome better? Cling to your hope and innocence as long as you can.”
She appreciated his kind sentiment. “You have daughters?”
“Two.”
“I understand your protectiveness, Sir. But I am the sister of Jarl Roald, a man who deals harshly with criminals. I’ve witnessed executions and numerous fights. Let us walk together.”
He sucked in a breath and hesitantly took her arm. “The ground is rocky and uneven, let me help you.”
His man waited across the clearing. No one needed to direct Runa where to look. Two dozen bodies were carefully stacked underneath protective layers of canvas. Confused by it, she blinked in disbelief. A cold-hearted murderer with a conscious? Skrymir surely hadn’t wasted time gathering the dead. But someone had. “Captain—”
“You didn’t exaggerate, lady. I am sorry if the high priest doubted your story.”
“I expected no less,” she said. “But now that we’ve confirmed everything, I am not sure we should leave yet. These men must be honored immediately, to keep their souls from getting trapped between worlds.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence. “I am here to serve you.”
“Ask your man to uncover the bodies. I wish to identify the men I knew.”
Harald directed several of his soldiers to do as she bid. An hour later, the victims had been laid out on the ground. With grief in her heart, Runa walked slowly down three rows of bodies, pausing next to each one in respect. Giving thanks for their willingness to fight for and protect her. To die for Prince Axel.
She found her brother’s men in the last row: Dain, Gudmund, and Isolf. It pained her to bid farewell to men she’d grown up around. She knelt beside Dain and caressed his brow. His eyes were closed, his cheeks pale and cold to the touch. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d still be in the Trondelag drinking your fill of mead.”
Captain Harald stood on the other side of Dain. “Don’t blame yourself, Lady. If these men were anything like the one’s I lead, there’s nothing else they’d rather do,” he spoke in a fatherly tone.
She gazed up at him. “If you knew all the details, Captain, you might change your mind.”
“Then offer a blood sacrifice to the gods on their behalf. No amount of crying and regret will bring them back. Don’t mourn their deaths, celebrate their bravery.”
It sounded right, but Runa was in no mood for merriment. Even to commemorate the slain. However, the idea of a blood sacrifice appealed to her. “Will you send a couple of your guards to hunt a stag?”
“At this time of day?” Harald peeked at the sun. “We’d have a better chance with rabbits or birds.”
“No,” she said adamantly. “Small creatures will not do.”
“Twould be better to wait until evening or early morning.”
Runa looked in the direction of the tethered horses. “If not a stag or wild boar, we will offer one of our horses.”
“B-but…” Harald stumbled over his words. “We have none to spare.”
She stood. “Whichever man is willing to donate his mount will be compensated three times the value of his horse.” It felt good taking charge of the situation. Though it might take some work, Runa would convince the captain to agree to her demands.
“Very well. I will relay your offer to my men.”
Hours later as the sun started to set, Runa stood in silence as she watched several soldiers with lit torches set fire to the five funeral pyres that had been constructed. The flames licked higher and higher, fueled by lamp oil found in one of the remaining tents. Beyond the pyres, the horse had already been killed, its blood poured over the burning bodies.
“Have you any words to offer, Lady Runa? Memories to share? Prayers to whisper?” Harald joined her.
“No. Tis better for me to hold my tongue.”
“What wrong could a young woman have committed that she would blame herself for this slaughter?”
“No need to speak in generalities, Captain. I accept full responsibility.”
“All right.” He studied her. “What did you do?”
“I deceived my brother, Prince Axel, and all of these men by asking to visit the prince’s home before I decided to marry him or not.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“It was a way to avoid immediate marriage. I never intended to accept Axel’s proposal. In doing so, I inadvertently opened these men up to Skrymir’s attack.”
“I see.” Harald scratched his head and stared in the direction of the pyres. “Do you think you’re the first girl to do such a thing? To covet freedom? To fight for a way to keep from marrying a man you don’t know or want?”
“Tis nothing to trouble yourself about. I will carry this guilt with me forever, regardless of what you say to comfort me.”
“But it is my concern.” He gazed at her again. “I am a man of a different sort—forward thinking is the best way to describe it. And seeing as I will never sire sons, the gods gifted me with two daughters I refuse to raise as helpless creatures dependent on men alone for sustenance.”
If only her brother possessed a fraction of this man’s beliefs. “Thank you for your kindness.”
Harald gestured toward the pyres. “If bones could talk, what do you think those men would say?”
For a while she said nothing, avoiding the thought. Somehow, Harald’s sympathy and interest in her welfare made it impossible to ignore his question long term. That, and the fact he waited patiently next to her. “Perhaps they’d ask for mead. Or a chance to find Jarl Skrymir.”
The captain chuckled. “All men love mead,” he agreed. “As for Skrymir, I’m sure if given a choice between defending you or turning you over to the bastard to save themselves, they’d all choose to die again. The outside world has unfairly judged Norsemen out of fear. Though we seek death in glorious battle, we never abandon honor. Women must be protected from the evils in this world.”
“But unnecessary death…”
“The gods decide the time of a man’s death. If not this way, then another.”
Could she accept this explanation? If so, she might find inner peace again someday. But for now, a violent storm of regret and guilt raged inside her. “Will we search for Captain Thorolf and Prince Axel’s bodies in the morning?”
Harald’s grim face suggested otherwise. “Aye, we can sweep the surrounding forest, but I am not sure we will find anything. Hungry beasts are everywhere.”
Runa sank to the ground then, tears sliding down her cheeks. The idea of a bear dragging Thorolf’s body off made her sick—made her want to curl into a little ball and die. “Every effort must be made to recover them.”
“Aye.”
“Now, please…” She dried her eyes on her sleeve. “Leave me to mourn the loss of these men alone.”
Harald bowed and walked away.
She stared at the dancing flames, wondering what she would do if she were given the chance to see Captain Thorolf a last time. What would she say to him? Do with him? “I’d say I love you,” she whispered. “Again and again so you’d never forget it. Then I’d stare at you endlessly, because I’ve never met a more beautiful man. Nor a more honorable one. Now I must learn to live without you, Thorolf. Odin help me, I won’t let your death be in vain.”
More than ever, Runa wanted to serve in the temple, where her maidenhood would be safeguarded from the world of common men. Where she’d live out her life remembering the past and hoping to prove herself worthy of Allfather’s favor.
Chapter Twenty
Thorolf and his new guards surrounded the clearing where his camp had been in the middle of the night. Several fires burned in the clearing, a handful of soldiers kept watch, but not enough to win a fight if Thorolf ordered an attack.
“Captain Birger,” he motioned for the eldest of the soldiers to join him. “The high priest said Lady Runa and the regiment escorting her might come here. Before we launch an offensive, go and see if you recognize any of the soldiers in the camp. Raise your left hand if you do, the right if you don’t.”
“Aye,” the captain said.
“If your right hand, be prepared for the assault.”
Fifteen of the twenty-five guards were positioned on the far side of the clearing, waiting for the signal to move—a raven call made three times. The remaining ten were with Thorolf. Not taking his eyes off Birger, the man walked casually to the central campfire and gripped the forearm of one of the watchmen.
Thorolf took a relieved breath, knowing the captain, indeed, knew the man. Then Birger raised his left hand.
“Stand down,” Thorolf ordered. “One of you go and inform the others. There will be no bloodshed tonight.”
The hardest part should be over. But in all reality, it wasn’t. Not for him. Because somewhere in the midst of the handful of tents set up, Lady Runa awaited him. Or mourned him. Whichever didn’t matter. They must speak at once. And after fearing for her life over the last day and night, he wasn’t sure he could ever let her marry another man, even if it was Prince Axel. He walked across the clearing to where Birger waited.
Passion's Fury (Viking's Fury Book 3) Page 9
