by Betina Krahn
A small miracle was worked in his expression as he melted to the offer of warmth in her face. He edged closer, then took a tentative step, then another. She sat down and patted the edge of the platform beside her and when he settled there with a shy grin, the other children began to come forward, too. Aaren flushed with pleasure and looked up to find Jorund watching her with shining eyes.
Then, seated among the children at the feet of Borger’s great, empty chair, she began to spin a tale of a foot-chase through a forest . . . of three wolves and one man . . . of a great fight and a great victory.
The warriors and women drew closer and closer, listening, watching her eyes glowing brightly as she portrayed the stalking wolves, the heroic warrior, and the furious battle. Her arms spread wide, her hands flew—claws one instant, a dagger the next—and her body writhed expressively as she related the events. Her face filled with passion, then pleasure, then pride as her tale climaxed.
“And do you know who that great warrior was?” she asked the children. With their mouths agape and their eyes as big as goose eggs, they shook their shaggy heads. She looked up to find Jorund standing nearby, in the ring of adults surrounding the children.
“It was him.” She pointed to Jorund. “Jorund Borgerson is the wolf-slayer of my tale. These three great skins are the proof. And if you ask kindly . . . perhaps he will show you the marks the wolves left on his hands.”
Not a breath was expelled as all eyes turned on Jorund. He stood, red-faced, both awed and embarrassed by her glowing portrayal of his deed. She had made a veritable tapestry of the truth . . . delicately spun and masterfully woven . . . brilliantly colored with love.
“Can we see, Big Brother?” Helga’s boy asked in the hush. “Your hands?”
Jorund met Aaren’s glowing eyes, filled with conflicting urges to shake her and embrace her. He hadn’t sought deed-fame in fighting those wolves—he had sought only to protect her, his eyes said.
Take the tale and the honor it brings you, as my gift of gratitude, her eyes responded.
He stretched out his hands and the children flocked to him with oohs and squeals of excitement. And when the children were done and were dragged away by their equally wide-eyed mothers, the warriors crowded in to inspect the great pelts and to clasp his wrists and congratulate him on his great deed.
The music resumed and the evening floated by as Aaren and Jorund resumed their seats, holding hands and exchanging private smiles as they presided over the merriment in the hall.
AAREN’S WOLF-TALE was told and retold throughout the next day—sometimes faithfully, sometimes with bigger, bolder strokes—until every man, woman, and child in the village had heard it. Everywhere he went, Jorund was congratulated and heralded for his courage and fighting prowess. He realized with amazement that the story had worked a change toward him in the eyes of his clansmen. He was torn between savoring their renewed regard for him and despairing of it—since it was based on the very thing he wished to lead them away from: fighting.
But, in truth, the wolf-slaying was only partly responsible for his new esteem. Among the folk of Borger’s hall and village, there was but one byname used with “Jorund” now, and that was “Wolf-tamer.” And the wolf they referred to him taming was none other than Odin’s She-wolf, Aaren. They had seen her fierceness, watched her struggle to uphold her honor, and witnessed her courage in the face of great odds . . . and they respected her. Now, as they watched the way she honored Jorund, they transferred their respect for her to him, as well.
To claim a heart so fierce and proud was truly an achievement, they realized. And Jorund, it seemed, had found a way to gentle the she-wolf without diminishing her remarkable strength. She was still very much the warrior-heart . . . only now she was much more: a strikingly beautiful woman, a calming presence in the hall, a devoted wife, a tantalizing blend of power and grace. And in taming the she-wolf, Jorund had apparently found a piece of himself that had been lost . . . his warrior’s strength, his will to fight. The wolf-slaying was witness to that.
Each word, each kiss, each quiet exchange made with their eyes told eloquently of the regard each held for the other, and of the passion they bore like glowing embers in their breasts. Between them was a bond of such depth and intensity that all wagged their heads in wonder, tantalized by thoughts of what had passed between them up in the mountains. With traded nods and whispers, they recalled Aaren’s first volatile days among them . . . and the warriors speculated on the methods Jorund had employed in claiming her warrior’s heart.
Godfrey laughed when he heard the men’s talk in the smithy. “I told you how he did it, and your thick ears would not listen,” he said. “No mystery and no magic . . . just kindness, pure and simple.” As an afterthought he added with a twinkle in his eye, “And perhaps kisses had some part. Kindness and kisses . . . the surest way to conquer a woman’s heart.”
As Godfrey carried the basket of hearth-irons Brun had repaired back to the hall, the warriors watched him go, musing on his words and on the great relish Aaren Serricksdotter had displayed for those deep and shocking mouth-meetings with Jorund. They had been oddly stirring to witness. How much more rousing would they be for those who participated? They recalled Garth’s adoption of Jorund’s pleasure-habit, and its effect on pretty little Miri.
And kindness; if Jorund was any example, that wasn’t so hard to manage. Carrying a basket or a pail of water . . . smiling and listening to a woman’s prattle . . . offering a word of praise for a tasty bit of hearth-work. Their faces heated and their eyes narrowed to hide the glint of calculation as they each found excuses to hurry off toward the hall and the granary, the dairy, and the small hearth.
By dusk there was a veritable epidemic of kindness abroad in Borger’s village. Oleg Forkbeard was seen carrying pails of whey from the dairy out to the pigs for salty-tongued Sith. Young Svein helped plump Una, the hearth thrall, with her fish-cleaning and water-hauling, and thick-fisted Brun dropped everything to help Marta carry two bales of wool from the barn to the women’s house for spinning. All over the village men could be seen in the company of women, carrying and lifting and holding and assisting . . . and, more important, talking and listening. A line formed midafternoon before the freeman woodcarver’s hut, and that fellow’s trade in combs, carved picks, and needle boxes was remarkably brisk for the balance of the day.
The sharing of tasks and the awkward words of appreciation soon led to exchanges of smiles and jests—and by nightfall, occasional touches of hand and body. With each bit of kindness and each bit of warmth that responded to it, a new possibility was glimpsed, a new way of being together was explored. By the time the torches sputtered in the hall, a still different kind of exploration had begun . . . of the pleasures of kissing. And by morning there were a number of fur burns on knees and elbows, and quite a number of smiles in the houses and huts of Borger’s village.
The second day of Borger’s absence proved every bit as remarkable. Noteworthy in the morning’s events was the reappearance of Thorkel and Hakon Freeholder in the hall . . . freshly bathed and garbed in clean tunics and boots. They scrutinized the jesting and teasing and the frequent physical exchanges between warriors and women, and demanded to know what had happened while they were out fishing. Brun took them discreetly aside and horrified them with the truth.
But as they lurked around the village and home-fields, they too were influenced. By dusk, the lusty and pragmatic Freeholder had begun to pay rough but kindly court to the plump, rosy-cheeked Gudrun. And, feeling Hakon’s defection keenly, Thorkel reluctantly began to try to smile at the frisky little Alys.
By the morning of the third day, Hakon swaggered into the hall and stood with his thumbs tucked in his belt and a satisfied look on his face. When Aaren appeared, he nodded solemnly to her and took a seat at a table with his feet stowed properly on the floor. In moments, he was served by a very bright-eyed Gudrun. He smiled and gave her a playful but possessive pat on the buttocks.
Aa
ren and Jorund watched the burgeoning kindness in the village with nothing short of wonder. “I never imagined anything like it,” she said, shaking her head as she sank down beside Jorund on a bench outside the stables that afternoon. “Did you see the Freeholder? Smiled, he did. And that sour Thorkel . . . I saw him repairing an ox harness just now and he was whistling. Whistling!”
Jorund laughed and pulled her into his arms for a warm kiss in the frosty air.
“You’re probably to blame. It’s all this love you inspire . . . we cannot hold it all in our heart-wells and it overfills and spills out onto others.” He laughed as she shivered and snuggled against him, using their public embrace to cover the private wanderings of her fingers across his belly and below.
He jolted as she touched him, and again, an instant later, as a voice broke in on them.
“Jorund!” Helga’s boy stood before them with his cheeks red and his chest heaving from a run. “There’s a rider come. My mother said to get you.”
“I’ll be along shortly, Little Brother. Run and tell your mother for me.” The boy jerked a nod and ran off, leaving Jorund to groan softly and writhe pleasantly under Aaren’s questing fingers. “Not yet, my hungry she-wolf.” He snatched up her hand, giving it a kiss. “Somewhere more private.” He pulled her up with him and took a deep breath, adjusting his tunic. “Come—I’ll race you back to my closet.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered hotly, “The last one there has to undress the other . . . with her teeth.”
He bolted into a run, Aaren at his heels. Through the village they raced, laughing, cutting corners, dodging villagers, and drawing hounds and children into motion with them. They rounded the women’s house and raced across the common toward the hall . . .
And they jerked to a dead halt.
Standing before the doors of the hall was a knot of women and warriors . . . and a horse that was so lathered and winded it looked ready to collapse. As the group parted, Jorund saw that on the ground beside the horse was Hrolf the Younger . . . blood on his face and covering half his tunic.
The sense of it exploded in Jorund’s head as he ran forward, and he knew what he would hear before a word was spoken.
“The jarl at the exchange . . . it was a trap . . . attacked in numbers,” Hrolf rasped out as Jorund crouched beside him to check his wounds. “Harald killed . . . the jarl hurt bad . . . near dead. Several wounded . . . I came for help.”
“Is Gunnar riding to attack the village?” Jorund demanded urgently. When Hrolf gritted this teeth and shook his head, Jorund cursed softly and sent Helga’s boy for a blanket with which to carry the injured warrior into the hall. “Where are Borger and the rest?”
“Where bog meets the forest . . . and just across th’ river . . . in trees . . .”
“A strong half-day’s ride,” Jorund said, nodding. “You’ve done well, Hrolf. Save your strength now. It is a clean shoulder wound—Dagmar and Helga will see you mend.” He pushed to his feet and turned to Hakon and Thorkel, who stood glowering nearby. “Take a dozen villagers . . . even younger lads will do . . . and set them out along the river and the lake and the forest paths as watchers. Gunnar may yet decide to strike here, if he knows how badly Borger is wounded.”
He stalked aside, running his hands through his hair, then squaring his shoulders. “Curse the old fool—he brought it upon himself—upon us all!” He turned back and found Aaren standing taut, watching him. Her eyes were bright and fierce with anger . . . and expectation. He did not disappoint her.
“Aaren, you will keep half the men here in the village and make them and the village battle-ready. Brun keeps our store of weapons in the smithy. I’ll take the rest and ride out to get Borger and the others,” he ordered. She nodded curtly.
When he looked up, Hakon and Thorkel were still standing flatfooted, watching between him and Aaren . . . as if evaluating the pair of them . . . and his orders. He leveled a fierce scowl at them, and roared, “Go!”
They took off at a dead run.
TWENTY
JORUND LED nearly a score of armed men through the gray, skeletal forests, riding as quickly and defensively as possible. Borger’s and Gunnar’s villages were separated by a two-day ride and Borger had craftily demanded a meeting site that was closer to his village than Gunnar’s . . . at a series of cliffs, well-known to him and strategically defensible. Once again, facing an adversary, Borger’s cunning had served him well. The casualties from the surprise attack would have been much higher if they had been on level ground and had had to watch their backs as well as their flanks. When it was clear they would be defeated, Borger had used his only route of escape—through a crag in the cliffs into the forest. Now Jorund could only hope that Gunnar and his men would not linger in territory so far from home to press the cause of revenge even further.
When they reached the river and forded the shallows, they were greeted by Garth, who had rallied the less injured men and set up a defense for their small camp. Jorund found Borger lying on the ground, covered with the men’s winter fleeces. The old jarl had taken two deep wounds, one in his shoulder and another in his side, but he was awake—and in unspeakable agony. When Jorund knelt beside him, he managed to raise a hand and grip Jorund’s arm with desperate force. A flame in his gray eyes flared at the sight of his son, and his mouth worked silently. The pain-filled combination of pleading gaze and soundless speech worked on Jorund the way no words or exhortations could. “Do not strain,” Jorund said hoarsely.
The effort taxed Borger’s already depleted strength and he surrendered to the mercy of oblivion. When Jorund tucked his father’s arm beneath the fleeces and rose, he found Garth beside him, staring at him with clouded eyes.
“He would not let himself sleep until you came. He said you would come,” Garth said thickly. “I was not so sure.”
Jorund’s jaw flexed and his hands curled into fists as he resisted the pain Garth’s words inflicted on him. The warrior-pride he had believed long buried flared and crackled at his brother’s lack of faith in him. He glanced around at the faces of warriors he had journeyed with, fought with, and shed blood with. It had been three years since he had sailed with them, and in that time they had forgotten the strength that had carried a number of them from the battlefield, forgotten the honor that would not allow a comrade to be abandoned on a foreign shore—even when the jarl ordered it so. And then he realized that, for a while, he had forgotten it, too.
“I am here, Brother,” Jorund declared. “And that is what matters.” He looked around the camp, breathing in the smoky green-wood fire, the tang of leather and oiled steel on the air, and the scents of blood and damp earth . . . and suddenly it was as if he had never left. This was a warrior’s world. This sacrifice. He looked up into the eyes that studied him, the eyes that questioned him, and the eyes that welcomed him back. This kinship.
For a moment, he could not speak. Then he turned away to order the horses unloaded, and several of Borger’s warriors hurried to obey.
The food, blankets, wound-bindings, and extra horses Jorund’s party had brought were put to quick use. Of the wounded, only Borger was too injured to ride; a pallet of blankets was stretched between two horses to carry him back to the village. Jorund ordered the others onto horses and told the men he had brought with him to spread out and form a retreating wedge behind and around them, to guard their rear against further attack. Even as he did so, he realized it was the first time they had used that tactic on their home-soil in many years.
He led them as swiftly as they could travel, through a damp forest, beneath a glowering sky. It was dark when they approached the village, but Hakon’s sentries spotted them and relayed word of their coming. Aaren, Helga, and the other women waited in torchlight outside the hall doors as they rode up. Aaren flew to hold Jorund’s horse as he dismounted, and she caught his hand in a brief grasp before he moved back through the horses with the warriors and distraught women. Together they helped the wounded down and sent them into the hall for tendin
g.
Helga spotted the blankets strung between the horses and ran to them with a cry, calling for someone to bring a torch. She covered her mouth to keep back a sob at the sight of Borger’s ruddy face, now gray and bloodless beneath his great beard. “Hurry—we must get him inside!”
Jorund and Garth and some of the villagers carried the wounded jarl into the hall . . . then, at Helga’s insistence, into his sleeping closet. She had water and wound-bindings prepared, and with Garth’s and Jorund’s help she stripped her old-husband and began the task of stanching the bleeding. But try as she might, his wounds would not cease their grim weeping. In desperation, she called for Jorund and Garth and asked their help to sear the wound.
Aaren had never seen such a wound. She sat on one of Borger’s arms as they laid the red-glowing blade into his side and shoulder. But for her stern warrior’s training and her experience slaughtering animals, she might have lost either her stomach or her senses.
As quickly as it happened, it was over, and soon Helga announced with tearful relief that the burning had stopped the bleeding. She packed his wounds with moss and covered them, then sent everyone out to wait for word while she sat with Borger alone.
In the hall, benches had been drawn near the hearth and spread with straw and fleeces to make pallets for the injured, who were tended by their women and by Old Sith, who was knowledgeable of wounds. Brother Godfrey moved among them bringing words of comfort, offering healing blessings, and lending his strength to those whose hearts were bleak.
A grave mood settled on the hall as the warriors filled their stomachs and drank the new ale that had been intended for celebration. There was no talk of the glory of Valhalla, of the great honor of the fighting or the dying . . . only of the attack and the wounded and the long-standing blood-feud that had blazed to life again between the two peoples.
