The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  Aaren watched their escape with a frown. Her left hand tightened on the cradle of her sword. But this was a different kind of battle than she had fought before, this struggle for respect and acceptance, and she knew it could not be won by force or skill of blade.

  Marta winced as she glimpsed the frustration in her elder sister’s dark expression, and she laid a hand on Aaren’s arm. “They’re frightened of you, Aaren. They’ve never seen a warrior-maid before. And talk of the enchantment and of your fighting is all over the village.”

  “And now . . .” Miri gave Marta an inquiring look. When she nodded, Miri swallowed hard and continued. “You’re to fight Jorund Borgerson, the jarl’s son. And the women are all quite fond of him.”

  “Fond?” Marta rolled her eyes and made a clucking sound. “A pale way to put it. Their tongues wag like lambs’ tails whenever his name is mentioned. After you left us this morning, they had much to say about him. They spoke most freely and—daughters of mischief!—the things they said!” She pulled Aaren to a seat on a bench, then leaned close, and her voice dropped to an awed whisper. “His hair is soft as milkweed silk, they say. His chest is hard as a shield boss . . . his back is strong as a stallion’s . . . and he heats furs at night like a slow-burning brazier.”

  Miri squeezed down beside them on the bench, her voice full of hushed excitement. “They say he knows ways to make a woman writhe and moan . . . and that when he comes to a woman’s furs, he strips the clothes from her body and . . .” She crossed her arms and shivered.

  “And?” Aaren demanded, alarm rising in her as she felt her imagination seizing that bit of tongue-fodder.

  “And he . . . does things . . . with his mouth,” Marta supplied.

  Heat stormed Aaren as a sudden, intense vision of Jorund’s mouth flared in her mind: broad and sensual . . . bounded by firm, sleek borders . . . lips grandly bowed and expressive as they drew back to reveal straight, even teeth.

  “He bites women? Small wonder they writhe and moan,” she snapped, disturbed by the way their words tickled her ears and made them itch for more.

  “But it must not hurt,” Marta said earnestly, “for he’s done it to most of them and they all like it a great deal. He is their favorite among the men.”

  Miri nodded. “And they all have pet names for him. They call him Heart-balm and Gentle-rider, Slow-hand and Honey-hunter, Silk-hair and Flesh-skald . . . but most of all, they call him Breath-stealer . . . because of the way he snatches the breath from their lips.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “And they say his hands can summon lightning inside a woman’s body.”

  Aaren snorted in disbelief. “What sort of creature could do such things . . . make lightning inside a mortal frame and steal another’s breath? It is grist for their jaw-grindings—no more than that.”

  But her face flushed hot, for she sensed there was more to the women’s claims than met the ear. Despite the numerous skills and the knowledge Serrick had imparted to the three of them, she realized that they still had a great deal to learn about living in a society of men and women. She rose too fast and swayed, feeling thrown off balance by her own thoughts. Miri and Marta sprang up beside her.

  “In future, do not listen to such talk. It is the scrape of idle tongues; no more than that.” Aaren tugged at the round neck of her tunic as if it were binding her, then slid her fingers under her leather wristbands to loosen them, too. “The men have another name for this Jorund Borgerson, remember,” she said testily. “Woman-heart. He is no warrior if women must defend him. It is a man’s task to defend . . . to protect his people, his possessions, and his honor. All men are warriors, deep in their hearts. If he is no warrior, then he is not truly a man.”

  “Will you still fight him, Aaren?” Marta asked, clasping her arm.

  “I have to fight him and defeat him. Red Beard has decreed it,” she said irritably. “And the wagging of women’s tongues cannot change that.”

  A drip of melting fat from the meat sent a flame shooting up from the coals, igniting the great side of pork on one of the spits. Marta ran to put it out, and Miri hurried to help. When they turned back, Aaren was brushing dust from her breeches and trying unsuccessfully to drag her fingers through her wildly tangled hair. When she felt their critical gaze roaming her, she looked up.

  “Aaren, your poor hair,” Miri said, shaking her head.

  “You look like a wild thing,” Marta declared. “No wonder everyone is terror-struck at the sight of you.” She took a sniff, then wrinkled her nose. “You need a good bath and a sound combing. Come with me . . .” She took Aaren’s wrist with an authoritative manner and started for the door.

  “What—do you think to bathe me like some helpless babe?” She tried to wrest her hand free. “Why, I was bathing your ragged little bottoms—”

  “A very long time ago,” Marta declared, tugging stubbornly on her arm.

  “I am perfectly able to bathe myself,” she insisted, jerking free.

  “At the very least, you’ll need help with your hair . . . it’s a cowbird’s nest,” Marta insisted.

  Aaren stared at her, then transferred her gaze to Miri, whose eyes were narrowed in agreement. Her jaw went slack. A cowbird’s nest . . . she used to call their hair such, when they got it snarled and tatted and she had to spend time untangling it. She stared at them and was struck forcibly by the womanliness of their appearance and the determined set of their faces. They weren’t children anymore; they were young women, who insisted on taking care of her just as she had cared for them. A sudden, powerful wave of loss swept over her, mingled with longing for days gone by . . . for old ways and certainties. Her eyes burned, and to hold the humiliation of an eye-flood at bay, she tossed her head and laughed stridently.

  “Oh no! Not you, Marta Mauler . . . nor you, Miri Mangler. You’ll not get within arm’s reach of my hair. Too well I remember how you squealed and muttered vows of revenge while I rescued your poor locks. I’ll manage well enough on my own!” And with that she darted out the door and headed for the women’s house.

  JORUND ARCHED HIS broad back, bracing on the handle of his scythe. He looked about the barley field, from the green-gold sea of grain stalks to the rounded backs and bright kerchiefs of the harvesters bending in a row before him. There was a huge crop this harvest; the fields were groaning, laden with grain. But without more workers, much of it would lay in ruins before it was gathered in. He looked up at the sky, where puffy white clouds drifted like billowed sails across a sea of azure blue, and he prayed the good weather would hold yet a while, so that the harvest could be finished and the village would be spared the ravages of winter-hunger.

  Helga’s boy came hurtling from the path and across the field, aimed straight for Jorund. He had run so far and so long that he couldn’t seem to stop. Jorund dropped the scythe and caught him, whirling him around with a laugh.

  “Whoa, Fleet-footed! What brings you in such a hurry?” He set the boy on his feet and stooped to brush back his tousled hair and peer into his dirt-streaked face.

  “You said”—the lad panted—“you wanted to know . . . where the battle-maid could be found.”

  Jorund seized his shoulders in a gentle, coaxing grip. “Where?”

  “In the village! She asked for . . . the bathing house.”

  Jorund’s face broke into a broad smile as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “You did well, Little Brother.” The boy beamed under the praise, but his eyes nearly popped from his head when Jorund added with a knowing wink: “I’ll see you have a honey-cake for this.”

  FIVE

  THE BATHING house was a low stone structure built into the side of a rocky hill overlooking the great lake, some distance from most of the huts, a site chosen because of a spring that flowed from a rock ledge there. When Aaren arrived, with a length of linen, a comb, and a fresh tunic in her hands, she spotted smoke already pouring from the hole in the roof and smiled, thinking that she wouldn’t have to build a fire.

  An old thrall m
an holding a bundle of birch twigs sat on an upturned log beside the door. His age-faded eyes widened as she approached, and he heaved to his feet and opened the door to stick his head inside. His words were muffled by the wooden door and the spiral of steam that escaped, but it was clear that he was announcing her presence to whoever was inside.

  Shortly, the door slammed back and a man Aaren recognized as one of the jarl’s warriors emerged: red-flushed, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a surly look. He stomped in hairy, bandy-legged splendor to the side of the hut, where a number of wooden pegs held tunics and breeches. Behind him, several more men materialized from the steam—each as naked as birthing day—and paused to pour buckets of cold water over themselves before exiting.

  Aaren stiffened, sending her hand beneath the linen and spare tunic she held to the dagger at her waist. But they cast no more than bleary, resentful looks her way as they forced breeches and tunics over dripping bodies and snatched up belts, daggers, and buskins. The message was clear as they and their old thrall strode off down the path to the village: They would not suffer her company, not even in bathing . . . which according to Serrick was by custom both communal and congenial. In bathing, grievances were set aside, differences of place and personal importance were temporarily suspended . . . for it was in nakedness and the ritual of cleansing that all men were recognized as brother warriors, as members of some greater whole.

  Borger’s men, fresh from sweating the ale-poisons from their bodies, denied her even that respect. She stared after their grumbling, swaggering forms. She could probably outfight any of them, but they had just declared by their shunning that it would take more than fighting to make them accept her as an equal into their midst. Her skin burned with humiliation. What would it take to make them accept her as a warrior?

  Shaking off that pride-blow, she ducked inside the house. She found herself in a surprisingly spacious, stone-walled chamber, lined with benches and raised wooden shelves placed high on the walls. A small pool on the far end was the source of a stream flowing through a stone channel across the floor, and in the center, by the stream, was an upraised stone hearth. Fire still burned under the heat rocks, but she added a small log from a stack just outside the door, to augment it, and dipped a bucket of the cold water and set it on the bench nearest the door. Then she began to loosen the ties at the sides of her breastplate.

  Soon her wood-stiffened leather armor lay on a bench along the wall, like the parted halves of a tortoise shell. She sighed and stretched, freed for the first time in days from her armor and from the constant tension of confronting hostile and curious faces. She rubbed the soft linen of her tunic over her ribs, then propped one foot after the other on the bench to remove her boots and leggings. Closing her eyes, she savored the feel of her bare toes against the damp stone floor and the swirl of warm, moist air against her bared skin.

  As she collected her garments to carry them out to the pegs, there was a scraping sound behind her and the doorway suddenly darkened. She whirled into a crouch, flinging the garments aside, her body braced for danger. And danger it was, she realized, as she beheld Jorund Borgerson silhouetted against the bright daylight. Woman-biter . . . Breath-stealer . . . Lightning-maker . . .

  “You have quick responses, Battle-maiden.” His deep voice vibrated with the same frequency as her fluttering pulse, establishing a disturbing resonance between them.

  “A warrior must be swift,” she declared, dismayed by the way he seemed to push the air from the chamber as he ducked inside and straightened. He stood with his hands propped on his waist, his shoulders jutting forward, looking like a great golden eagle ready to swoop. His gaze roamed her with deliberate appraisal, making her fiercely aware that her dagger lay somewhere beneath the pile of garments she’d just dropped.

  “And the way you use your feet as you fight . . . most unusual,” he said.

  “Most effective,” she countered, straightening and curling her tingling fingers into fists at her sides.

  “That it is.” His gaze dropped to her bare legs. “Who taught you to use your long legs so . . . effectively?” When she stiffened, the corner of his wide mouth twitched into a half smile that was perversely both fascinating and annoying.

  “Serrick taught me.” She lifted her chin.

  “Ummm. Lucky Serrick.” He crossed his thickly banded arms over his chest and laid a finger against his lips in thought. “They are such wonderful legs. Long . . . powerful . . . sleek . . . shapely.” He dipped his head from side to side, admiring her naked limbs. “I’ve never seen such legs.” Dragging his gaze up her thighs, he fastened it on the front of her tunic, which had been molded to her body by her breastplate and still retained much of that revealing shape. Something bright flared briefly in his darkening eyes and his voice became low, rhythmic, pulsing.

  “Nor have I seen such arms. Such smooth, slender arms.”

  She peeled her arms from under her breasts and shoved them behind her, out of his sight, realizing an instant later that her defiance had only stretched the linen taut over her breasts and left the rest of her body unshielded from his brazen scrutiny. She stiffened and lurched back a few steps.

  “You did not come here to praise my arms and legs,” she charged, losing the second half of her thought in the realization that he’d done just that . . . praised her parts.

  “No, I did not, Serrick’s daughter,” he said in a deep purr that caused a strange melting sensation in her middle. “You are called Aaren, are you not?” He repeated it like an incantation: “Aaren . . . Aaren . . .”

  The chest-deep fullness of his voice held her fixed to the spot as he edged closer. Her heart hammered in her breast and she suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. Breath-stealer, they called him. Was he enchanted, too, this Jorund Borgerson? For how else could a man steal another’s breath, as he seemed to be taking hers?

  “I could teach you other ways to use your legs, Aaren Serricksdotter,” he said, looming nearer, spinning words like spider silk around her, entrapping her senses. “And I could show your arms a sweeter duty.”

  Her breathlessness and the strange, fluid heat swirling through her lower body sent her into a mild panic. What was happening to her? She stared at his mouth and then dropped her eyes to his long, muscular hands, suddenly swarmed by the things the women had said about him. Silk-haired. Stallion-backed. Brazier-hot. He could conjure lightning in a woman’s frame. . . .

  “You have never known such duty, have you?” His golden face bronzed and his blue eyes shimmered with the tantalizing heat. “Never wrapped those long, powerful legs about a man’s body,” he continued, swaying closer. “Never held a man within those sleek, beautiful arms. Never cradled a man between those soft breasts.”

  His powerful presence and openly sensual manner combined to cloak the shocking nature of his words and momentarily circumvent her distrust. She had never encountered such talk before. Legs wrapping . . . arms holding . . . breasts cradling. She was sinking into a deepening thrall . . . until her bare heel sank unexpectedly over the edge of the stream channel. She fell back, but caught her balance with her other foot—plunging it straight into the frigid water.

  Cold-shock raced up her leg. The steam swirling through her senses was dispelled by a blast of icy reason and the sense of his words burst on her mind. He was taunting and belittling her, talking to her of— He was treating her like one of the village women!

  “What are you doing here?” She forced out through a tight throat as she splashed through the water and bristled back into a fists-on-hips stance on the other side. “Have you come to challenge me? Here? Now?”

  He chuckled quietly, his eyes glistening, watching her as an eagle watches its prey. “I carry but one blade with me, Battle-maiden. And it is made for pleasure, not for fighting.” He spread his arms and let his gaze dip suggestively down his front. She managed to keep her eyes from following his, but the price of that control was a confusing surge of red heat in her face. There was no mist
aking his meaning.

  “If you are not prepared to fight, why are you here, Borgerson?” she demanded with all the arrogance she could muster.

  “Perhaps I came for a bath,” he said smoothly. “I have been with the harvesters and it is hard, dusty work.” He lifted the wool tunic from his chest and fanned it . . . just enough to dislodge a dusty scent from the weave.

  The smell stormed her defenses . . . a blend of sun-dried grain, dust from the cut stalks, and sweat—male sweat, pungent, musklike, with a tart hint of sweetness. Harvest . . . he smelled like a long-awaited harvest. For one long moment she stood speechless, scrambling to maintain her balance against both him and the remembrance he’d stirred in her.

  “Or perhaps you came to spy out your opponent,” she declared irritably, feeling a trickle of moisture running down her spine, and moving backward.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, following her.

  “Or perhaps you’ve come to beg for mercy,” she taunted, annoyed by his candor.

  “Or perhaps I came to offer it to you, Battle-maiden.” A bead of sweat slid from his temple, tracing the square lines of his jaw, dragging her wayward gaze with it.

  “Mercy? To me?” Her face flamed and her hands clenched at her sides. “Mercy is for those who cannot fight. I need no mercy. I need you to pick up a blade and fight me . . . and the sooner the better.”

  A small, infuriating smile spread over his damp face. “We need not fight at all, Serricksdotter. We are not enemies.” His eyes slid over her. “I feel no hatred or malice toward you. Nor, if you be truthful, do you toward me. There is no cause for us to hurl an iron-storm at each other’s heads.”

  “But there is, Borgerson,” she countered. “The Allfather’s enchantment makes all men my enemies . . . until I am defeated.”

  “Enchantment?” He chuckled. “You are no more enchanted than I am, Serricksdotter.” Her gasp of outrage only seemed to fuel his amusement. He laughed—laughed!—at her!