by Betina Krahn
“I . . . I will go to bathe,” Jorund announced, rising. “If the snow is deep, it may drift in and block the door. It may be a while before we can get out.” He grabbed up his warm tunic and glanced at Aaren, who nodded and focused her interest on feeding the cat.
Later, she banked the fire and transferred the dozing cat baby to a nest of hay lined with a marten pelt. More than once she went to the door, intending to join Jorund in the bathing house and dispel the tension between them. But each time she halted and drew back, thinking that he needed time to sort out his thoughts. So did she. It was well into the night hours when she donned her warm tunic to make her final trip for the night down the slope into the woods.
Instead of going straight into the trees nearest the cabin, she climbed up the slope toward the bathing house and stood for a moment, studying the smoky glow from the hole in the roof. She wanted to bang on the door, to tell Jorund she understood his decision never to fight again . . . except that she still hadn’t fully accepted it.
All evening she had come back again and again to the uncertainty it cast over their future. Without a weapon, how could Jorund ever hope to take the high seat? How could he expect to lead his people without ever wielding a blade? And what would his decision mean to their place in the village and to their future children?
Sending a cold hand beneath her fur-lined tunic to her belly, she drew a long, troubled breath. Then she turned aside and climbed around the slope and into the trees beyond the bathing house for her nightly duties. She had finished and was just starting back to the lodge when a movement in the undergrowth nearby startled her. She froze, her mind racing from one possibility to another as she slowly turned.
Against the snow-whitened ground, despite the dimness, she glimpsed a dark, crouching blur of movement. An animal—large, but not deer- or elk-sized—she determined as she began to run for all she was worth, back through the trees and around the slope. She could hear its panting as it gained on her, and she knew instantly: It was a wolf.
“Jorund!” she called out, racing for the nearest shelter—the bathing house. “Jorund—wolf—wolf!”
The door was flung open and he burst outside in a billow of steam, his body taut. He spotted her just as she called his name again, and without hesitation he bolted around the hillside, straight for her. But when he reached for her hand and turned to run back to the bathing house, his bare foot slipped on a loose rock and slid from beneath him. He scrambled on the rocky slope as he went down, and shoved Aaren ahead of him.
“Go—go on!” he yelled. The next instant the wolf sprang through the air and pounced on him, pinning him on his back and barking wildly.
“Jorund!” Aaren screamed, stumbling to a halt and reversing to rush back and help him. For a heart-stopping moment she saw it all in stark relief: Jorund’s big, naked body sprawled on the snow-dusted slope, the dark, bowed shape of the wolf atop him. As she reached them, she sensed something odd happening . . . and it slowed her frantic response. Jorund wasn’t struggling and the beast wasn’t growling or twisting! She charged in and seized the beast’s fur, and it yiped and clawed before lunging from her grip, terrified.
“Aaren—look!” Jorund’s voice penetrated her confusion. “It’s Rika!”
It was some time later that Jorund and Rika poked their heads through the lodge door and located Aaren kneeling before a fire she had stoked so high the flames almost singed the roof beams. She turned a dark glare on the pair of them, then gave them a shoulder and continued feeding the blaze. Jorund bent near Rika’s head and whispered, “I think I’d better go in first.”
“Aaren,” he said coaxingly, slipping through the door and closing it partway behind him. He didn’t see Rika’s ears perk up . . . or her nose thrust into the opening, quivering with excitement. “I know you are angry. But when you think about it . . . it was enough to make the Devil himself laugh . . . Rika cowering, you chasing her . . .”
She cast a very narrow look at him.
“And the way your feet slipped and your arms kept flailing—” His mouth began to quiver again and he had to stop and get control of himself. “I’m sorry I laughed so hard.” He felt the door banging at his back as Rika tried to squeeze her way in, and he shoved against it with his shoulders to prevent her from entering. “Aaren,” he said, leaning forward, “how is your hip?”
But just as the sincerity in his voice melted Aaren’s resistance and she turned, Rika lunged at the door and knocked him forward, bounding in. She charged to the middle of the floor with her nose up, sniffing, her wolf eyes bright and her ears standing on end. Then before Jorund could grab her, she lunged straight for Aaren, who toppled straight over onto the floor and choked out a sound that was half scream, half growl. Rika leaped over her and was suddenly upon her intended prey at the corner of the hearth.
The cat baby arched and hissed at Rika’s great nose and countered the expected attack with its claws. Rika yelped and scrambled back, shaking her head—just long enough for the little cat to dart away.
“My cat!” Aaren shouted as Rika went diving beneath the bed shelf after it. And Jorund dove after the wolf.
There was pure chaos for several minutes: the little cat darting like a blur from pillar to post, Rika barking and blundering after it, and Aaren chasing Rika—intent on doing her in. Jorund didn’t know who to grab first. In pure desperation, he grabbed Aaren by the waist and hauled her off Rika. An instant later, he released her to dive after Rika, who had just reached the little cat. He managed to grab a furry tail . . . which jerked and twisted from his grasp . . . while he was trying to shield it from Aaren’s righteous anger.
When the panicked cat finally found footing in the logs, climbed the wall, and raced up into the roof beams, Rika leaped and barked below, which allowed Jorund to seize her by the neck and haul her outside into the snow. When he returned, Aaren was trying to coax the cat down. He rescued the little beast and placed it in her arms.
“I will not lose this little cat.” Aaren laid down an ultimatum: “Rika has to go.” But it was the tears in her eyes that worked on Jorund.
He looked a little sick as he dragged himself outside. Aaren could hear him scolding, then talking . . . and after a while the door opened and two noses appeared in the opening.
“Now, before you get angry . . . at least give her a chance,” Jorund entreated. And before she could object, the door swung open and the two of them entered.
“Jorund—are you daft?” Aaren thrust to her feet and lifted the cat baby above her shoulders, bracing for the attack. None came. Rika’s eyes shone as she looked at Aaren and the kitten, but at Jorund’s hand motion, she sat down beside him. Aaren knew instantly what was afoot.
“Nej. Jorund, I won’t allow it!”
“Just listen, Aaren. Rika has been around forest cats before. She was raised with one and I don’t think she meant it any harm. She was just taken by surprise and got . . . a bit excited.” He moved forward, one step and then another, and Rika moved with him, dutifully sitting by his feet each time. “Will you trust me with the little beast? . . . I won’t let any harm come to it, I promise.”
She finally handed over her pet, but her clouded eyes said it was a measure of her trust in him . . . not any belief in his wretched wolf. She stiffened and held her breath as Jorund lowered the cat for Rika to sniff. But, despite a panicky swipe or two of the cat’s sharp claws at her nose, Rika remained merely fascinated . . . her tail sweeping the floor behind her. Then came the real test, when Jorund placed the cat baby on the floor and held it, while Rika sniffed and nudged it, then hopped aside and whined, as if eager to play.
“There . . . no harm done,” Jorund said, bringing the little cat back to Aaren’s lap. “The worst she would do is tire it out . . . playing. The snow will keep us both inside for a while, and we can keep watch. Now, can she stay, Long-legs?”
Aaren looked between him and Rika, who lay exactly where he had ordered her to stay . . . in the corner near the door. He appar
ently knew the secret of making Rika obey . . . just as he knew how to make her want to cooperate, in spite of her better judgment. Those bluer-than-summer-sky eyes, that bold, mischief-filled mouth . . . how could she resist? She nodded, and got up to settle the kitten in its nest for the night.
When she turned back, Jorund had settled onto the hearth and was motioning to Rika. The wolf crept over to lay her head on his lap for a stroking. Aaren sighed, watching them, knowing exactly how it felt to yearn for the touch of Jorund’s hand. Both of them, it seemed, would do anything for him.
The full impact of that realization struck her. What an extraordinary man he was. He fought with stunning power and courage, tamed she-wolves with his bare hands, and held fast his convictions even in the face of great opposition . . . even temptation. There was such largeness of spirit, such depth of strength, such intensity of honor in him. Then it came to her: if any mortal man could lead a Viking clan with only his bare hands, that man was Jorund Borgerson.
Her eyes misting and her heart soaring, she went to Jorund and sank onto her knees beside him. He sat straighter, looking at her moist eyes and laughing mouth with alarm.
“What is wrong, Aaren?”
“Nothing, Jorund. Everything is right . . . perfectly right.” All evening she’d been searching for a way to make peace with his decision and dissolve the tension between them. And insight had come bounding in on four boisterous legs. It was an omen, she was sure.
“I believe you can do it. You can take the high seat somehow and lead your people into a better lifeway. I don’t know how . . . I only know there must be a way . . . and that you will find it, without wielding a blade.” When he blinked, then grinned, she laughed and threw her arms around him.
“A man who tames two she-wolves with only his bare hands can surely handle a few fat old jarls the same way,” she declared. He slid his arms around her and began to laugh, too.
Then he ordered one she-wolf to the corner . . . and carried the other to his furs.
JORUND PAUSED IN the doorway and gave one last look around the lodge. The storage box, the sleeping shelf, the hearth: all was tidy, swept clean of everything but memories. He ducked back out into a sunlight so brilliant on the snow that it hurt his eyes, and pulled his fur hood up around his head. When he mounted his horse and looked at Aaren, she wore a pensive expression.
“You don’t want to leave either, do you?” she asked.
He shook his head and glanced around the white-garbed meadow and the ice-rimmed trees that sparkled in the sun. “But we cannot stay the winter. We don’t have enough food . . . and people and duties await us.”
She cast a last look around the little meadow, recalling with a heart-pang her first glimpse of it . . . and the anger and dread she had felt. Much had changed in the month and more they had spent here. She reached out a hand to Jorund and he squeezed it briefly before calling to Rika and setting off into the woods toward home.
EIGHTEEN
FOR THE last fortnight, things had been either monstrously dull or blessedly peaceful in Borger’s village—depending on one’s point of view. The coastal traders had come and gone, most of the harvest work was completed, the skalds and itinerant craftsmen had journeyed on to warmer climes, and the additional month Old Gunnar had claimed to raise the ransom was not yet past. There hadn’t been a blade-fight or a domestic brawl in weeks, and the next batch of feast-draught hadn’t finished brewing—so there wasn’t enough ale for a prolonged drinking rout to liven things up. Borger was at his wit’s end with all this peace. But the women and the common folk, while not all happy, were at least content with the lack of excitement.
Into the quiet and drowsing village, one cold, sunny afternoon, rode two fur-swathed figures on horseback accompanied by a great, rangy wolf. Two young boys spotted them first, on the edge of the stone-walled home-fields, and went running ahead of them, announcing their presence. The village folk poured out into the paths to ogle the shaggy strangers and were stunned to recognize them. From one to another, the word spread like wildfire, and the young boys went running to the smithy, the granary, and the women’s house with news that Jorund and the battle-maiden had returned.
By the time Aaren and Jorund reached the commons, they had collected quite a following of folk, who waved and called greetings and scrutinized their odd garments. Jorund smiled as he answered their questions about the game and the snow-cover in the mountains, while Aaren searched the crowd for Miri and Marta. She spotted them and swung her leg over the horse to dismount.
“Aaren—it is you!” Miri cried, throwing herself into Aaren’s outstretched arms.
“We were so worried!” Marta declared, wrapping both her sisters in a tight hug. For a long moment they embraced, then Marta pulled back and ran frantic hands down Aaren’s face and shoulders. “Are you all right? Nothing hurt—nothing missing?”
“I am fine, Marta . . . and so is Jorund,” she said, wiping tears from her sisters’ faces. Jorund came around the horses just then and put his arm around Aaren, drawing her tight against his side. When she blushed and made no move to rebuff him, her sisters’ eyes widened and a murmur of surprise raced through the crowd.
Rika nosed into their midst, prancing and sniffing, demanding her share of attention. “In fact, we’re all fine . . . Rika, too.” Aaren laughed, giving the wolf a fond petting, until a mewing came from a cloth bag hanging from her saddle. Aaren pulled out a large gray-and-black ball of fur, announcing: “And look who we’ve brought with us. My little pet . . . Jorund found him for me in the mountains. You’ll have to help me think of a name.” Miri took the cat baby from Aaren and laughed and cuddled it, while Aaren sought Jorund’s arm again.
At that moment, Borger sat huddled on a stool before his sleeping closet in the hall, his shoulders wrapped in a length of linen. His countenance was glowering as he submitted to the twice-yearly trimming of his hair and beard. At the sound of the great doors banging open and an explosion of voices, he bashed his beleaguered bondsman aside to charge out to his high seat, demanding to know what was afoot.
“Jorund . . . and the battle-maiden!” Hrolf the Elder called out over his shoulder. “They’re back!”
“What?” Borger started at the news. “Both of them?” He tore the linen from his neck and flung it aside, barreling toward the door. But he was quickly met by a stream of his own men who were hurrying back into the hall before a crowd of villagers. He fell back toward his seat, turned, and planted himself before his great chair with his feet spread and his fists at his waist.
Jorund and Aaren removed their makeshift wolf-skin cloaks as they entered the hall and entrusted them to Miri and Marta. Then they strode toward the center of the hall, where Borger awaited them. They halted halfway between hearth and high seat, as if caught and held by the shaft of hazy sunlight coming through the smoke hole. Borger’s gaze slid over them, assessing their bulky fur-lined garments and the way they stood shoulder to shoulder before him.
“So, Firstborn,” Borger’s voice boomed out across the hall, “you have returned!”
“I have,” Jorund answered resoundingly.
Borger’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his son, noting the determined glint in his eye and the power that emanated from him. There had been a change in Jorund . . . but to what extent and to what end? He cast a calculating look at the warriors and villagers who crowded eagerly around both them and the high seat in a circle.
“When last you left this hall, you vowed not to return unless you had defeated and mated yon battle-maid. Now I ask you—did you fulfill that vow?”
All held their breaths as Jorund flicked a look at Aaren, then raised his chin.
“I did.”
A clamor broke out: laughter, cheers, muttering, and one or two desultory calls for proof. Borger snorted a laugh at the spark he witnessed when Jorund’s eyes struck Aaren’s. He stepped down from his seat onto the hard-packed floor, scratching his belly and striding back and forth, savoring his moment of drama.
Then he jerked to a halt before Aaren.
“Is it true? On your honor as a warrior . . . did he take his blade to you and defeat you in honest battle?”
“He did,” she answered, without hesitation.
“Ho, ho! And did he also mate you, as he vowed to do, Valkyr’s daughter?” Borger grinned, sending a speculative gaze over her, as if searching for some lingering trace of either the violence or the pleasure.
Aaren’s face heated, but she had expected a public airing of the matter; her enchantment and Jorund’s rash vow had both made an issue of her maiden state.
“He did that also,” she declared, with a dart of her eyes toward Jorund’s broadening grin.
Laughter, raucous shouts of congratulations, and inevitable questions of whether the pleasure had been worth the fight, filled the hall. Borger’s lusty expectation deepened as he eyed the stunning pair and the subtle, speaking looks they exchanged. There could be no doubt that something momentous had occurred to bring about such a reckoned air between them. How perfectly foul of the gods to deprive him of the pleasure of witnessing their fight with his own two eyes . . . when it was exactly the sort of excitement he’d been pining for! He stumped back up to his high seat and threw himself into it, his crafty mind searching for a way to still wring a bit of pleasurable commotion from the situation.
“You have never been known to speak falsely, Firstborn,” he declared, stroking his brushy beard. “But neither have you been known to fight, in recent years. What proof have you that you fought her, as well as won her?” Contention arose in the onlookers, some agreeing with the jarl, and some declaring that proof was no concern of theirs—since it was Odin’s and Freya’s enchantment to begin with.
