The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “I called her only . . . my Fair Raven. You will see her in Valhalla.” Old Serrick dropped his head and turned away, moving with a labored gait toward the beckoning forest.

  Aaren stood, watching until he disappeared from sight, feeling hollow inside, uncertain in a way that was utterly foreign to her. For one brief moment, she longed to run into the forest with him, to wield her blade beside his against the familiar danger of fang and claw, instead of against the unknown threat of arm and blade. As quickly as that urge welled inside her, she named it—fear—and purged it with a sense of horror.

  She was a warrior, sired by a warrior, daughter of a Valkyr. It was only the shock of Serrick’s leaving that caused her to have such desperate and unworthy thoughts. She had not understood how alone she would feel without the old man beside her. He had not given her the name she asked for, but he had given her Fair Raven. It would have to be enough.

  Her gaze flew to the dark blur that even now was disappearing into the gloom of the forest and into the shade of memory.

  “I will remember you always, Father Serrick.” And each time it would be with a pain in her heart.

  Sometime later, she came to her senses in the blue-silver moonlight and looked around at the dark shapes of the huts and houses, feeling the flow of the night around her and the closing of the past behind her. With that sense of finality came an unexpected sense of beginning . . . the opening of new realms of experience.

  She was chosen—destined—by the unusual circumstances of her making, to live outside the normal course and flow of mortal life. She had heard the story of the enchantment for as long as she could remember. Now the time had come for her to fulfill her destiny among men. Her warrior’s pride and her confidence in her own strength and skill welled in the core of her. She had sisters to protect, a place to win in the society of warriors, a life to claim among the people of this village.

  Her gaze settled on the great hall across the clearing. The sights and smells of Borger’s hall were unlike anything she’d experienced. Her senses flooded once again with the smells of soured ale, grease and ashes, torch smoke, and the sharp, vinegary tang of male sweat.

  She thought of the men’s faces . . . the coarse features and hot, probing eyes set in rough, sun-leathered skin. She thought of their bodies, of the sinewy muscularity and latent menace of their sprawled frames. She was not accustomed to men: their great size, their powerful voices, the heat that radiated from them, the force of their manner. She had felt their eyes upon her like hands, probing, testing her. And she knew Serrick was right; they would come for her soon.

  Turning back to the women’s house, she lifted her cloth bundle and stepped into darkness, which bore the familiar and reassuring scent of women.

  ACROSS THE CLEARING, the great hall was awash in both ale and speculation. Borger huddled in his great chair, glaring at his contentious sons and warriors, who were gathered around him, drinking and arguing themselves into exhaustion.

  “I let so much blood on Gunnar’s field, the stream will run red till the twilight of the gods!” Young Garth Borgerson proclaimed, smacking his chest. It was an exaggeration, all knew, but in the clans of the Norsemen, a well-crafted boast inspired almost as much admiration as a deed itself. He stalked before his father’s high seat and braced his feet apart to steady himself. “I deserve a woman of my own . . . and I claim that little wench garbed in green. By Thor’s Right Arm—did you ever see such hair?” He paused and swayed, his eyes losing focus. “Like golden sunlight gathered ’round her face . . . so fair . . .”

  “Yea—give Garth her hair,” came a drunken rejoinder from Hakon Freeholder, “and give the rest of her to me!” The short, flat-faced warrior made a series of pelvic thrusts and laughter erupted all around.

  “Just one night with the blue-eyed nymphs, Jarl,” came another drink-roughened voice. “I’m not a greedy man . . . I’ll leave ’em well-stretched and eager for the rest of you!”

  “Yea, Jarl, give them the soft, pale ones!” Thorkel the Ever-ready shoved forward and jerked a thumb toward his chest. “And give me the big, fiery one . . . that battle-maiden. I’ll soon have her begging for a taste of my blade!”

  “Have you ever seen such a woman?” another howled. “Flanks and legs like a highbred mare, beggin’ to be ridden! And damn near big enough to ride double!”

  Borger felt their laughter buffeting him in great hot waves generated by competitive male pride and sexual heat. Never in his long, eventful life had he faced such a dilemma: what to do with three beautiful women, whose pleasures were forbidden to him personally, but whose fate had been placed squarely in his hands. Well, mostly in his hands. There was the little matter of an enchantment to deal with.

  An enchantment. He’d been lucky enough to escape such a thing until now. How the gods of Asgard did love to torment men . . . puzzle and trick and stir bad blood between them. But then, who was to say it wasn’t for men’s own good? If the gods didn’t interfere, how long would it take for men to pick up swords and fight and find glory in battle? All his life he’d been eager to fight and had shed blood on many shores. Until now, he’d believed the gods were pleased with his conduct.

  What had he done—or not done—that they should saddle him with such a vicious enchantment? Sending him that old man with that wide, floppy hat and those strange, deep-seeing eyes. Declaring that he was to forgo fleshly indulgence. Hadn’t he always given the gods their due—roared the Red Thor’s name at the peak of his pleasure? Why send him such a luscious morsel as that battle-maiden, Aaren, and forbid him to touch her?

  The image of the Sword-stealer’s eldest daughter was scored into his mind. A woman warrior . . . a great, strapping handful of female . . . a magnificent wench with the strength to turn a roll in the furs into a raging, glorious battle of raw power and lust. Heat seared Borger from head to toe, only to be doused a moment later and vented as useless steam. Frustrated, he quickly turned his mind to thoughts of breaking the enchantment.

  In his mind, he paired each of his battle-tempered warriors with the Valkyr’s daughter. He grimaced as each fell short of the mark. There was but one man in his hall and village who both bested Aaren Serricksdotter in height and outstripped her in mass of muscle and sinew. One lone man.

  It would be interesting to see them together . . . this fierce-eyed battle-maiden and his woman-hearted son, Jorund. She was a wench fashioned to fire men’s blood . . . to arouse a desire for conquest in even the most placid of male breasts.

  “By the Red Thor’s Hammer!” He came roaring to his feet, suddenly ablaze with determination. “It is time to test this enchantment and see what this battle-maid is made of!” A din of approval raced through the hall, and those men still capable of walking shoved to their feet.

  “I’ll soon have her teetering on the tip of my sword!”

  “Not if I take her first!”

  “I’ll have her on her knees with three cuts of my sword . . . then on her back for a few thrusts of my spear!”

  One after another, Borger’s men boasted of their prowess as they scrambled for their blades, each vowing they would be the one to defeat Old Serrick’s daughter. Borger halted in the midst of strapping on his weapon and confronted his half-drunken warriors.

  “I alone decide who fights the Sword-stealer’s daughter!” he bellowed, planting his fists on his hips. “Be it known that no man may raise a blade to her without my consent.” The grumbling and complaints were gradually snuffed by his hard-eyed stare and combative pose. Then he called for his son Garth.

  The young warrior bounded forward eagerly, his features glowing with the expectation that he would be given the first chance to fight the Valkyr’s daughter. But when Borger spoke, his face reddened with anger.

  “Go for Jorund . . . I would have him present.”

  “Jorund?” Garth exclaimed. “You send for him?”

  There was a ripple of disapproval through the men.

  “He won’t be any use,” came a snar
l from the pack.

  “There’s fighting to be done, not flesh-strumming,” came another.

  Borger cast a silencing glare around him, then thundered at Garth: “Go!”

  The volume spun the young warrior on his heels and set him stalking for the thrall house, where Jorund Borgerson was most likely to be found. Borger flashed a wicked grin as he stepped down into the midst of his men and waved them along with a brawny arm.

  “To the women’s house . . . and a test of a Valkyr’s daughter!”

  GARTH DUCKED THROUGH the door of the thrall house and stood searching the pallets and sleeping shelves hanging from the walls for a sign of his elder brother’s pale hair and massive frame. Finding none below, he climbed partway up the ladder to the straw-littered loft and spotted him amidst a tangle of female limbs and hair. Garth squinted, muttered a curse under his breath, then began to count. One, two, three . . . Hel’s gate, there were at least four women snuggled, pressed, and draped over various parts of his brother’s half-naked body. Four women, when most of the men of late had trouble luring one wench—even a thrall woman—into the furs for a bit of flesh-sport. Garth lunged up the short ladder to give his brother’s leg a prod.

  “Jorund! Wake up. Father wants you.” He huffed as the women stirred sensuously and nestled even closer to the warmth of their big human brazier. “Jorund!” Garth shouted, propping his foot on Jorund’s thickly muscled thigh and giving it a series of jarring thumps.

  Jorund struggled up through a jumble of female limbs to find his younger brother half standing on him. “Wh-what is it, Garth?” he demanded, bracing on his arms and brushing away the hands that sought to pull him back into the fleece.

  “Father’s calling for you,” Garth repeated. “An old man came to the hall and brought a woman warrior. I think he wants you to fight her.”

  Jorund rubbed his face and laughed in husky, sated tones. “Fight a woman? Why would I do that?”

  “She’s not just a woman, Brother,” Garth said tauntingly. “She’s a battle-maiden, daughter of a Valkyr . . . under an enchantment.” He crossed his arms and smirked at the way Jorund sat straighter and shrugged the sleep-shroud from his senses. The promise of a blood-stirring battle held no allure for Jorund, but he could never resist the promise of a tantalizing woman. “She’s taller than Father—damned near tall as you—and sleek as a Frankish mare. She’s got a face like a wood nymph”—he lowered his voice—“and eyes like a Persian tiger.” Garth wheeled and was halfway down the ladder before Jorund made it to his knees and called after him.

  “Wait—Garth! Near as tall as me?”

  “AAREN?” CAME A whisper in the darkness.

  “Yea, Miri?” Aaren turned on her straw pallet on the floor of the women’s house and made out the glow of her sisters’ flaxen hair and pale faces in the dimness. They were sitting up, huddled close together, and she pushed up to face them.

  “Did you see them? Did you feel their eyes?” Miri whispered, her face luminous with unnamed fears.

  “I never imagined there would be so many men,” Marta murmured, reaching for Aaren’s hand and clasping it tightly. Her eyes widened. “Will you have to fight them all?”

  “That depends on Old Red Beard,” Aaren answered. Then, seeing their fears, she slid over on her knees and gave them a hug of reassurance. “And on whether I can stand their smell long enough to let them get within skewering range.”

  When they looked up, alarmed, she was smiling and they sagged with relief. “They do smell strange,” Miri said, wrinkling her nose. “Are you sure we have to take one as a husband . . . sleep with him in his furs and . . . all the rest?”

  “You know what Serrick said,” Aaren said, her smile fading. “Marriage is a protection for a woman and her children. Either choose to mate with one, or suffer having to mate with them all. You saw their strength, felt the heat of their stares. They will all want you.”

  “Ughhh.” Miri shuddered and wrapped her arms about her waist. Marta stiffened and ran a hand over her waist and down her belly, where it splayed protectively at the top of her legs.

  “Until I have won a place in Borger’s hall and wrested some respect from Borger and his warriors, the threat of my blade is your only protection. You must promise me you will not be caught alone in the company of men . . . that you will be prudent and watchful,” Aaren insisted, drawing solemn nods from them.

  “Do you think you would really skewer a man, Aaren?” Marta whispered hoarsely.

  “I would if he were about to skewer me.” Aaren expelled a controlled breath. For the first time in her years of training and fighting, she truly faced the possibility of killing or being killed. Always before when she fought, she knew that Serrick would not deal her a deathblow. But these men of Old Red Beard’s had killed in battle and would think nothing of sending their blades biting into her bones. “I am a warrior, Marta.”

  They were silent again as the full significance of that fact settled on each of them in a new way. The honor and respect a warrior owned was bought with a blood-price and, despite so dear a cost, was as fleeting as breath-mist. Miri’s hands sought Aaren’s again, and Marta spoke in a constricted whisper.

  “What if . . . something happens to you?”

  “Nothing will happen to me.” She shook off their anxiety. “I have the victory-luck from Odin himself.” She freed one hand and stroked first Miri’s fair cheek, then Marta’s.

  The darkness and the way they looked at her allowed a memory to escape. A time when their heads were topped with downy white and their eyes had seemed big and blue as a robin’s eggs. She had been left to care for them while Serrick hunted, and whenever the screech of a hunting owl or the scream of a mountain cat frightened them in the night, they had climbed into her pallet and huddled against her for reassurance. Now they raised those same anxious expressions to her, believing in her, trusting her. Sternly, she banished that bittersweet memory.

  “Have I not always taken care of you? Just you wait. By the time I have won a number of blade-meetings, Borger’s men will be eager to take you to wife without a bride-gift. Why, you will have your choice among them.”

  “Some choice,” Marta whispered glumly, pulling her cloak up around her shoulders. “A tall, stringy, smelly one . . . or a short, hairy, smelly one.”

  Miri winced. “Skewer all the men you want, Aaren. We’re in no hurry.”

  Aaren gave a rueful laugh.

  “A pity I cannot start with Old Red Beard himself.”

  Moments later, noise intruded on the darkness: faint at first, a low rumble. Then the scuffling of feet became recognizable, blended with the unmistakable sound of human voices. Shafts of yellow torchlight pierced the cracks in the planking door of the women’s house. Aaren watched those fingers of light intensifying and sat up.

  Taking slow, even breaths, she thought of Fair Raven, and prayed to Odin that she would honor her mother’s name and code of valor in the coming fight. Then she conjured the image Serrick had given her to help her prepare for battle. In her mind, bright molten metal appeared in a shining pool above her head. As she stilled, it poured over her, sliding down her face, neck, and throat . . . over her shoulders, breasts, and arms . . . her back, thighs, and calves . . . steeling her nerves while encasing her in an impenetrable layer of shining metal.

  When they were close enough for her to make out the sound of the jarl’s booming voice above the others, she rose. The commotion outside and her movement awakened a number of the women sleeping on benches and shelves hung around the walls.

  “Aaren?” Marta started up, anxiety in her voice.

  “They’ve come for me, Marta. It’s time.” Aaren cast off her cloak and retrieved her sword from the pallet. As she reached for the latch of the door, Marta halted her with a touch.

  “Be careful,” she said solemnly.

  “I’ll do better than that.” Aaren grinned down at her sisters, her eyes glowing. “I’ll be victorious.” She flung open the door just as a drink-ho
arsened male voice from outside assaulted her ears.

  “Come out, Serrick’s daughter! Battle-maiden . . . daughter of a Valkyr! Come out and face your test!”

  The other women rubbed their eyes in disbelief when they beheld Aaren ducking out the door. They turned to Miri and Marta.

  “Who . . . what was that?” one asked.

  “That is the jarl’s voice. What’s happening?” said another as she crawled from her shelf, clasping a woolen cover to her.

  “She’s our sister,” Marta answered, spotting the window at the front of the house and hurrying to throw back the wooden shutters. “She’s a warrior and she’s about to fight.”

  A woman blade-fighting? The women stared at one another in dismay, then fled their pallets and scrambled to the window to see for themselves.

  Aaren emerged from the women’s house into a circle of yellow torchlight and a score of drink-coarsened faces. Planting her feet squarely, she set her fists on her hips and looked around that cordon of maleflesh, assessing them even as they did her. Stocky, stringy, burly, and gaunt . . . slit-eyed, long-nosed, pock-faced, and shaven . . . they did not seem a particularly fearsome lot . . . carousing and battle-scarred, with heads fogged by ale-mist and loins weighted with lust.

  “Serricksdotter!” Borger hailed her, stepping forward. “The old man named you a warrior. And a warrior must be ever ready to fight.” He strode closer, appraising her with a hot stare. “Will you now defend your honor and Odin’s enchantment?”

  “Yea, Red Beard. Now and always.” She raked his burly form with an equally brazen look and broke into a smile that was both fierce and beguiling. “I will fight your warriors, one after another. Until I am defeated. If I am defeated.”

  The old jarl stiffened. He was accustomed to such talk from warriors . . . but not from women. He stomped closer and shoved his face into hers, testing the steadiness of her nerve with his most threatening regard. But she faced him without quailing, letting strength of purpose rise into her eyes for him to see.