The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  Serrick’s face creased with a gap-toothed smile as he took the horn and downed it in the fashion of a true warrior: all in one breath. Then he shoved the empty horn back at the thrall who had served him.

  “Now about this debt I have come to pay,” Serrick said. “Twenty years of tribute, Jarl. And though I have no silver, you will be well paid.” He turned and walked back through the hall to fetch Aaren’s sisters. Aaren lowered her head as she trailed them through the press of revelers and stopped in the shadow of one of the great pillars that stood on either side of the high seat.

  All craned their necks to watch as Serrick ushered little Miri and Marta before the high seat and pulled the hoods from their heads. Sounds of astonishment rippled through the gathering.

  Aaren’s little sisters were twins . . . young and flaxen-haired and fair as summer. When Father Serrick dragged their cloaks from them, there were gasps of delight at the sight of their willowy curves and slender white arms. They were robed in linen tunics with fine pleated sleeves and soft woolen kirtles fastened by handsome carved brooches. Their garments were expertly stitched and bound with red woven braid that bore testimony to their skill with the loom, dye-pot, and needle. But it was their faces that drew the eyes of every man in the hall. Such fresh and comely faces: delicate ovals of pale cream inset with eyes as blue as summer sky and lips the color of ripe berries.

  Borger thrust to his feet and slammed his drinking horn to the floor.

  “What is this, old man? A trick of some kind?”

  “No trick, Red Beard. It is your payment. Made in womanflesh.” Old Serrick’s tone bore a hint of pleasure that caused Borger to tear his gaze from the twin vision and look at him. Serrick smiled. “These are my daughters . . . maidens, untried by men. I bring them in payment of my tribute. They will be yours, to do with as you please.” He paused, then added with a canny smile: “Upon two conditions.”

  Borger swallowed hard, sending a hot eye over the lush swell of the maidens’ breasts and the promising curves of their hips. His face flamed as his frame went taut with lustful anticipation. He could only manage one half-growled word.

  “Mine?”

  “Yea, Red Beard . . . if you accept the terms.” Serrick watched the old jarl closely as he laid forth his conditions. “Though given in payment, they are to be freewomen. Will you agree?”

  Borger nodded, swallowing hard. His gaze was hungry; his mouth was watering as he surveyed the lines of their nubile young bodies.

  “And you, Red Beard, will not take them to your own furs . . . nor ever pierce them with the spear of your flesh. Do you agree?”

  That stopped Borger short. He sputtered and glowered while raucous excitement broke out in the hall. If Borger himself could not mate them, his men realized, the maids would be available for his sons and warriors! Around him a drunken howl went up, demanding he agree.

  Borger hitched about and lumbered back to his chair, throwing himself into it with a scowl while his men crowded closer, shouting at him. He glared and muttered and fumed, knowing that in the end he would have to consent to the old man’s terms. His sons needed women, and from the fierce looks and words they were hurling at him, there was a good possibility they would slit his throat if he refused. He finally bashed his haranguers aside and rose, glowering at Serrick.

  “These be your daughters, you say? What proof have you?”

  All quieted and strained closer to hear.

  “No proof but their loyalty to me . . . and the story of their making. They were sired upon a Valkyr, whose swan plumage I stole as she bathed in a mountain pool. I compelled her to stay with me a while and she gave birth and set them upon my knee.”

  Mutters raced through the hall at that. It was widely known that Odin’s warrior-maidens, Valkyrs, assumed the guise of swans in the sky and that they sometimes cast off their plumage and returned to human form as they bathed in isolated pools. A mortal man who stole that plumage while a Valkyr bathed could compel her to mate with him.

  Borger stared at Serrick, comparing the Serrick of old with the crafty new creature before him. The warrior he had known years ago had stolen the legendary jeweled sword of Ibn Hassadan—the very sword they had used to barter their freedom from the sea-raiders of Alexandria. A man who could steal such a sword could probably steal a Valkyr’s plumes, as well. But the most convincing proof of the old man’s brazen tale was standing before them with flaxen hair, and faces and curves worthy of an immortal mother.

  “They are mine to give, Red Beard. Never fear,” Serrick assured him. Both maids nodded, verifying his story and casting respectful looks at him.

  “Then . . . I agree, old man,” Borger snarled, unleashing a tumult of reaction in the hall. He stepped down from the dais of the high seat, staring hungrily at the heavenly pair. “I accept your two daughters in payment of—”

  “Three,” Serrick declared.

  “Three?” Borger frowned. “But I see only—” He jerked his head up as he caught sight of Serrick holding out a hand behind him.

  Aaren took a deep breath and strode forward, pushing her way through the throng to her father’s and sisters’ sides. Borger exchanged looks of consternation with his men . . . which became stares of astonishment as she halted before him.

  “My third daughter,” Serrick announced. “My eldest. Aaren, by name. Sired on a rare raven-haired Valkyr some years before the others.” He had to stretch to reach the hood that cloaked her head.

  As the covering slid, Borger Volungson instinctively held his breath. He was stunned to behold a mass of dark, burnished hair, held in place by a leather headband of the sort worn by most of the men in Borger’s hall. Within that swirl of flame-kissed hair was a sleek, sun-polished face, the likes of which had never been seen in Borger’s village. Prominent cheekbones and a high forehead framed unusual features set in perfect balance: a long straight nose with gently flared nostrils, thickly lashed eyes the color of Baltic amber, and a broad, sensually carved mouth the color of red sea coral. It was a stunning and undeniably womanly face, but what was most remarkable about it was the sense of power and light, the force of spirit within that countenance. It was indeed a face that could have been birthed by a rare raven Valkyr. Or sired by a god.

  Borger felt fingers of dread teasing the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. The bewitching creature stood slightly taller than him . . . taller than most of the men in his hall.

  “This is your daughter, old man?”

  “She is mine.” Serrick chuckled and reached for the ties of her cloak. When he dragged away her heavy mantle, Borger sucked a breath unexpectedly and choked on his own juices. Gasps and murmurs of amazement rattled throughout the hall, then all fell deathly silent.

  Over her linen tunic Aaren Serricksdotter wore a molded leather breastplate that was fitted with shocking faithfulness to her womanly attributes, and she wore a warrior’s breeches, leggings, and wristbands. It took a moment for their eyes to overcome the shock of her raiment and realize that the frame beneath those garments was just as amazing. She had long, shapely legs; broad, smooth shoulders that framed high, full breasts; and arms that were both sleek and muscular. Above her left shoulder rose the polished horn and silver handle of a sword, and on her tapered hands were calluses that spoke of her use of it.

  Around the hall, eyes burned and mouths drooped.

  Aaren Serricksdotter was a warrior . . . a battle-maiden . . . the very essence of a Valkyr in human form.

  “My three daughters, Red Beard.” Serrick swept his offering with a trembling hand. “Do you accept my payment?”

  “Yea, Old Sword-stealer,” Borger said thickly, unable to tear his gaze from the battle-maiden’s provocative breastplate and what obviously lay beneath it. His conflicting passions shocked his voice to a whisper. “I accept.”

  “Then by your own word you have made them yours.” Serrick heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away. But after two steps he stopped and turned back to find Borger’s eyes still b
ulging and his mouth still agape.

  “Oh . . . and did I forget me to say . . . they’re under an enchantment?”

  A wasp nest stuffed into his breeches couldn’t have had more of an impact on Borger than those fateful words.

  “En-chantment?” he roared, ripping his gaze from Serrick’s daughters to spear the wily warrior with it. “Hel’s gate, old man! What have you saddled me with?”

  “Nothing too terrible.” Serrick’s withered mouth drew up into a crafty smile. “The enchantment was laid upon them by the goddess Freya herself, at Odin’s command. That I captured and compelled one of his Valkyrs to warm my furs, the Allfather might have understood, for a warrior should have rightful spoils of conquest. But to capture and plant my seed in two . . . Odin was angered mightily that a mere mortal owned such cunning craft. He demanded reparation.”

  “And?” Borger jolted forward, his fists clenched and his neck veins at full swell. The battle-maiden stepped deftly in front of her father, stopping the jarl short. He had to tilt his head slightly to meet her fierce golden stare, and the sight of her looming slightly above him sent a draft of cold caution through him.

  “By Freya’s decree,” Serrick continued, “none of Serrick Sword-stealer’s daughters can be mounted and bred until the eldest, the warrior-maiden Aaren, is vanquished in honest blade-battle by one lone man. Until that time, Red Beard, they are given into your hands to enrich your hall with their beauty and their labors. And to enrich you with the bride-price they will bring . . . if the warrior-maiden is ever defeated.”

  Borger stood eye-to-eye with Old Serrick’s Aaren, confounded by her size and the unblinking way she confronted him. In all his wide-wandering life, in all of the uncommon adventures of his many voyages, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a female like this one. Daughter of a Valkyr. A battle-maiden. An enchanted warrior.

  Enchantments were serious and worrisome things. The gods of Asgard used them to test humankind and woe befell those found wanting. Poor harvests, lost battles, swamped ships, plagues of illness . . . the possible penalties for defying an enchantment were too many to contemplate. Not even Borger Red Beard would tempt the Fates and Furies so.

  “Do the women still sleep in the same women’s house?” Serrick asked. Borger seemed incapable of answering, so some of his sons nodded mutely in his stead. “Come,” he ordered his daughters, “I will show you the way.”

  The younger ones followed Serrick out, and finally the warrior-maiden disengaged from the jarl’s burning stare and stooped to pick up their discarded cloaks. Every eye in the hall fastened on the graceful flexing of her long, tapered legs, on the bend of her sleek shoulders, and on the fine curve of her buttocks beneath her snugly stretched breeches. As she turned to follow her father and sisters, all eyes warmed on the sway of her bottom and the flow of her thick, burnished hair down her back. Every tongue was cloven to the roof of every mouth for a long moment after she was gone.

  Borger was the first to recover and he could manage but one word.

  “Ale!”

  TWO

  BORGER’S HALL and houses lay in a circle around a wide clearing, bounded by fields on one side, forest on two others, and the great lake, Vänern, on the fourth. Newer huts and houses had been built just outside that main clearing and along the path down to the lake. But the women’s house still sat, as it always had, directly across the common ground from the long hall.

  Serrick led his daughters across the moon-drenched clearing to the door and paused outside.

  “The older women and all unmarried freewomen live here,” he said in a voice that betrayed the strain of so much talking. “They will show you what needs to be done . . . most of them work in Borger’s hall and fields. When you go in, find an empty place on the floor and make your pallets quietly. You have your things?” When his younger daughters lifted the bundles in their hands and nodded, Serrick sighed. “Miri. Marta.”

  In the moonlight their eyes glistened and their chins quivered. He placed his gnarled hands on their cheeks and stroked tenderly. “Gentle ones, you must be strong. You have learned well the ways of women, for having so poor a teacher. You will have many children about your hearth someday. You must tell them of Serrick, your father. And of your mother, Fair Leone of the Swans. My heart will be proud when I join Leone in Odin’s great Valhalla and tell her that her daughters are fair and good and wise.”

  “Father—” Marta started to speak, but his fingers on her lips stopped her. Still, he could not stop her from throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely. Miri did the same, tears rolling down her cheeks. After a long moment, he set them back and whispered, “Go.” They opened the door and slipped inside.

  “Come, let us speak, Daughter.” He caught Aaren by the arm and pulled her into the moon-shadow of a nearby tree. Removing his wide hat, he looked up into her face. “I have felt the foul goddess Hel’s cold, dark finger beckoning me,” he said in a dry whisper. “I am not long for mortal realms. That is why I have brought you here . . . why I have given you to Old Red Beard.”

  Aaren had known for some time that he would bring them here . . . and why. She nodded, searching the old man’s countenance in the dim light. His eyes bulged strangely, and as the night breeze tugged open the neck of his cloak, she glimpsed the large, wattling growth on his neck.

  Only two summers ago, he had been a hale and vigorous man. Then last harvest she had seen the lump, and over the months she had watched it grow . . . seen it drawing strength and substance from him while he grew steadily more feeble and wasted. His face was now gaunt, his eyes protruded, and his flesh hung on his bones. Pain was etched in his features and evident in his every movement.

  “It is up to you now, to see the enchantment through in all honor.” His gnarled hands fastened fiercely on her wrists. “You are strong and clever, my daughter. You must be valiant, as well, for they will test you. But know, Aaren, that you have victory-luck ordained by Odin himself. A warrior can have no finer gift. Be true in your heart, be true to your honor, and you will triumph.” He released one of her wrists to clasp the upper part of her right arm. It flexed under his touch, becoming hard, smooth, like finely polished birch, and he stroked it with a gentleness she had not experienced from him in a long time.

  “Your arm must win for you a seat and a place of honor in Red Beard’s hall . . . and must win for your sisters the right to good and honorable marriages. They have no silver, no possessions, no rank in Borger’s hall, and their beauty will make them prey to the lusts of men. Your sword-skill must be their protection, even as it earns you honor among warriors.” He paused and wagged his head. “Old Borger has given his word and he is one to guard it, for the sake of his fame. But beware. He is a lusty old goat, brawling and quarrelsome. He will seek to make some use of you for his own ends.”

  Aaren nodded, her throat constricting, her fists clenched. These were final words. Hard words. Parting words.

  “I will be strong.”

  The huskiness in her voice caused him to look up at her again. Grief surged in her at the pain in his face, and she fought a stinging sensation in her eyes. She glanced down at the sword that only that morning had reappeared at his side. She knew it meant he was going to the wolves, to die with a blade in his hand. Serrick feared nothing on earth except to die quietly on a bed of straw and forfeit Valhalla.

  “They will come for you soon and you must be prepared,” he said, clasping both her wrists once more in the strength-blessing of one warrior to another. His eyes shone with a terrible light. “May Odin fight on your right and Thor on your left. And may I greet you in Valhalla one day.”

  Aaren ached to put her arms around the old man, as her sisters had done, but forced herself to return his tight grip on her wrists instead. When he released her, he donned his hat and with lagging steps turned toward the edge of the village.

  “Father!” Aaren jolted two steps after him. He halted, then turned to look at her with the pain of parting visible in his f
ace. “Tell me . . . my mother’s name.”

  For a long moment, Old Serrick stared at his daughter. In all the years since Aaren’s birth, he had not once spoken that name to her. It was too painful, even for a warrior. But now she asked, and there would never be another chance to tell her. He gazed at her, so tall and strong and proud, a true warrior. But there was still the woman-softness hidden away inside her . . . and she faced a hard path. Would it weaken her to know it? Would she feel more a woman and less a warrior to be connected by the magic of a name to the bold, spirited creature who had given her birth?

  “I have told you . . . she had dark hair and fair skin . . . was tall and strong, like you. She was a valiant Valkyr who had carried many a fallen warrior into Valhalla. And yet, one of her greatest pleasures was holding the woman-child she had set upon my knee.”

  “She did not leave you of her own will,” Aaren prompted, finding both comfort and disappointment in the familiarity of those words.

  “Nej. Living so long as a mortal, she came to love it. But Odin sent other Valkyrs to reclaim her one summer. And Freya had Idun cast a spell of forgetting over her so that she would not pine for her mortal life.”

  He had told her all of this before. It was never enough.

  “But her name . . .” Aaren’s eyes burned as if stung by nettles. “My sisters have Leone,” she whispered. “Will you not give me a mother, too?”

  Swaying branches overhead cast wavering shadows over the old warrior so that he seemed to shimmer, as if already losing substance and connection with the mortal world. In that long silence Aaren felt him withdrawing, and experienced a new and devastating loneliness. He had always been there, as father, master, guide. But from now on, there would be just her, alone, against all odds. And she asked to have the name of the woman under whose heart she had lain . . . a name to connect her with another being, with all beings, in the way of birth and life.