The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  Jorund nodded, confirming her order as he watched her striding out onto that cold plain. It was the woman-softness in her that would not let even an enemy die cold and alone. She was intent on redeeming some of the destruction she had wrought with her blade.

  Four were yet alive and Aaren helped carry them back to camp and tend their wounds. One of the wounds seemed oddly familiar . . . a deep shoulder wound that had cleaved a bone . . . though she did not understand why. Mercifully, she had little recollection of the throes of battle until later that night, when she settled into a fleece to sleep and saw it all again in dreams.

  WHEN THE RAIDING party had reached the village, Leif had carried Marta into his long hall and set her on her feet by the glowing central hearth . . . in the midst of a noisy, curious crowd.

  “Here she is. My bride,” he announced in a booming voice, ripping the helm from his head and tossing it to a young lad to hold. Marta took a step back, closer to him, and stood straighter under their probing eyes, returning their scrutiny. A moment later Miri was carried in, wriggling and protesting, and Marta quickly embraced her distraught sister to reassure her.

  “Two of ’em!” came a loud male voice. The crowd parted to admit a tall, gaunt and graying man leaning heavily on a wooden staff. As he came forward, staring hotly at Marta and Miri, a wolfish grin spread over his face. “By the gods, boy—you never were one to do things by halves!” He limped closer and inspected Marta boldly, surveying her cream-smooth skin, bright blue eyes, and curvy shape. He gave Miri a similar appraisal, which made her shrink and bury her head in Marta’s shoulder. He laughed at the way Marta bristled and scowled at him, and he turned back to Leif. “Beauties, both. You mean to take both to wife?”

  “Nej,” Leif said with a chuckle at the spark that suggestion struck in Marta’s eyes. “One will be enough, old man.” He put his hand on Marta’s shoulder. “This is the one I went back for. Her name is Marta Serricksdotter . . . her sister is called Miri.” He glanced down at Marta’s upturned face and explained: “This is my father, Gunnar Haraldson.”

  “Jarl.” She looked back at Gunnar and nodded gravely.

  “Nej.” The old man sobered instantly. “I am no longer jarl. The one you will call ‘husband’ is jarl here now.”

  Marta looked up at Leif in surprise, and he smiled and put his arm around her. “And this is my mother, Ida Eriksdotter.” He directed her attention to a large, square-boned woman whose features were very like his own. Marta nodded respectfully and was relieved to see a softening in the woman’s strong face as she gazed at her son’s new wife. “She will help you meet the other women and learn the duties of the jarl’s wife. She is also a fine midwife. . . .” He grinned at the blush that produced in her fair cheeks.

  “Leif has spoken well of you,” Ida said, coming closer. “I must thank you, Little One, for your kindness to him. You saved his life in Borger’s hall . . . and you will find many here grateful for that.”

  “Enough of this—tell me of the raid!” Gunnar demanded, stalking closer. “How much damage did you do?”

  “We burned the granary, took much of their store of weapons, and set their forge ablaze,” Leif answered with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

  “Is that all? You didn’t fire the old cur’s hall or stable or the houses?” Gunnar exclaimed.

  “You burned the granary?” Marta started and looked up at Leif in disbelief.

  “Well, at least you got the food stores.” Gunnar comforted himself with the thought. “That means there will be plenty of hunger in Old Red Beard’s village by spring.”

  “Leif?” Marta said, searching him with wide, wounded eyes.

  “It was necessary, Marta,” he declared tightly, “to halt Borger’s greed and blood-lust. Hungry men make poor warriors. And Old Red Beard cannot lead his men against us if they are too weak to lift a blade.”

  “But it is not Jarl Borger who leads our clan now, it is Jorund. And he is a man of peace,” Marta said, setting Miri from her and turning to Leif. “He would not lead his men against you. . . . He hates fighting.”

  Leif stared at her, searching her eyes for truth and finding it in their clear depths. It supported both his care for her and his own perceptions. He had kept his mouth closed and his ears open during his captivity, watching and learning from what occurred in Borger’s hall. He had heard Jorund’s angry words on the night Aaren Serricksdotter engaged him in a flyting . . . and had listened to Borger’s men both laughing and complaining about Jorund’s peacable leanings.

  “But Jorund or someone has led a force to our doors,” he said.

  “My sister, perhaps . . . or Garth Borgerson, to whom Miri was promised. Jorund wants peace with your people, Leif. Why else would he send two men to seek a meeting with you and speak to you of peace? I said I would come, but he said it was a warrior’s task and sent Hrolf the Elder and his son instead.”

  “We received no such messenger,” Leif said, scowling and glancing at Gunnar, who reddened and looked disgusted with her words.

  “Get your head out from under the wench’s kirtle, Leif. How can you believe such a tale?” Gunnar chided. “Look to my fate for wisdom in dealing with Old Red Beard and his treacherous spawn.” He thumped his damaged leg. “She could have been intended by Borger to soften you up—”

  “Enough!” Leif declared with a cut of his hand. “I’ll hear no more against my wife, old man.” He paused and looked down at Marta, whose huge eyes were unclouded windows on a pained and truthful heart. And he spoke to Marta as well as to his family and clansmen. “I will speak to the men who fought at our rear, and learn what I can. If it is Jorund, I will see how badly he wants peace. He will prove himself . . . one way or another.”

  DAYLIGHT CAME TOO quickly and the camp roused slowly to a sense of expectation. Jorund sent out scouts to survey the village’s defenses and set watchers up in the trees to report on movements inside the earthen wall. But the Sky-Traveler seemed to drag his heels as he crossed the sky-vault, making the morning seem unending as they waited for reports to trickle in. There was little to do but tend their mounts and weapons, worry about the captives they had come to rescue, and think of the battle that lay ahead.

  Their situation was not promising, Jorund learned from his watchers at midday. The village was well fortified on all approaches except the lake shore. And there was a large force of warriors and villagers—perhaps fourscore—in armed readiness just beyond the fortifications. Garth argued hotly for a night raid, like the one Gunnar had sprung on them. But without the element of surprise and not knowing where the captives were being held, their chances of success were small indeed. Jorund left his warriors and stood for a while, staring out across the snowy field, turning it over and over in his mind and feeling the time approaching.

  Well into the afternoon, he strode through camp, rousing the men, and with some relief they donned their arms and battle gear. Shortly, they were crossing the field toward Gunnar’s wall, arrayed behind Jorund and Aaren in a stout wedge. Jorund called to Gunnar, knowing that the old jarl had watchers along that wall who would carry his words. He waited, then called again. On the third call, there came a rattling of swords and a thumping of shields from over the rise.

  Aaren braced and unsheathed her blade, noticing for the first time that Jorund was not wearing or carrying a blade . . . only a shield. But the force of armed men that appeared on the wall pulled her thoughts from Jorund to the peril at hand.

  A tall, broad-shouldered form appeared . . . richly garbed in silver-trimmed armor and crimson wool. His head was bare and they knew instantly it was Leif Gunnarson.

  “I would speak with Jarl Gunnar,” Jorund declared in a booming voice.

  “I am jarl here now,” Leif answered. “You will speak only with me, Jorund Borgerson.”

  Jorund glanced at Aaren, scowling, fearing that Leif, with his fresh memories of Borger’s brutal hospitality, might prove even more difficult to deal with than Gunnar.

  “We have co
me for the women . . . the twin daughters of Old Serrick,” Jorund shouted. “Hand them over to us and we will leave in peace. There will be no more bloodshed.”

  There was a silence. Then Leif raised his deep voice.

  “The women are taken in payment . . . for the pain and humiliation I suffered in your hall.”

  Aaren had no reason to hope, but still she strode forth and called out: “I am Aaren Serricksdotter . . . sister to the women you hold. You have no reason to trust me, Leif Gunnarson . . . but I speak truly when I say that even now your wounded lie in my camp, well tended. And I would know that my sisters are—” Her voice cracked and she paused to mend it. “That my sisters are alive . . . and not abused.”

  There was a long silence in which Leif seemed to study her and her proud stance . . . and the truth of her words. Then, miraculously, he gave her that which she asked.

  “They are well, Valkyr’s daughter. They sleep in my hall.”

  Aaren closed her eyes briefly, then pressed her luck once more. “I would see them with my own eyes, Leif Gunnarson.” There was another long silence before Leif spoke again.

  “They stay by choice, Valkyr’s daughter. One will wed a warrior this very night. The other will wed soon.”

  Jorund heard Aaren’s intake of breath and Garth’s cursing behind him. His gut tightened. Leif Gunnarson lied. And all who knew Miri Serricksdotter knew it.

  “I do not believe the young Serricksdotters stay or wed willingly,” he shouted back to Leif. “I will not leave until I have them back!”

  “You will not have them back,” Leif declared, “until you sit upon the high seat in my hall!”

  To sit upon that seat, Jorund understood, he would have to kill every man, woman, and child in the village. For such was the way of the Norse clans; each warrior and villager pledged his life to defend the jarl and the honor of his high seat. It amounted to a total declaration of war. Final. Implacable.

  The talking had failed and there was no turning back. All that lay ahead was fighting and bloodletting between their people. And Jorund could not let it happen. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath as Leif turned to go, calling to him one last time.

  “Leif Gunnarson!” he roared from the bottom of his being. “I challenge you to fight.”

  Leif froze on the top of the wall and slowly turned back. “It appears we will indeed fight, Son of Borger. No doubt I will find you on the battlefield somewhere,” came Leif’s reply.

  “You mistake me, Son of Gunnar. I mean just the two of us. We may save the blood of our kinsmen and end the strife between our clans . . . you and I. With a holmgang. I hereby challenge you.”

  Wild confusion broke out on both sides at his words. Holmgang. It was a kind of fight much fabled and often sung, but seldom witnessed in the clans. And with reason. It was a fight between two sworn enemies . . . to the death.

  Jorund had issued a bold challenge to Leif Gunnarson’s honor, which could not be retracted . . . or refused. He was offering up his life for his people. And he was challenging Leif Gunnarson to do the same.

  “Jorund . . . nej!” Aaren choked out, feeling as if she’d been dealt a blow to the chest. She made a step toward Jorund, but he put out a hand to halt her and she stopped, staring in horror at his proudly braced frame and glowing eyes.

  “Hear and know my conditions, Leif Gunnarson, the terms of this challenge.” Jorund raised his voice once more. “If you accept, one of us will certainly die. Your father and your people must swear that there will be no retribution for your death, ever . . . and my father and my people will swear the same. Our fight will end the fighting and bloodletting between our people. And your captives, my wife’s sisters, will be set free . . . no matter what the outcome.” He allowed a moment for his words to be examined, then demanded, “Do you accept?”

  The air itself stilled, as if waiting for Leif’s reply. But the bold and public nature of Jorund’s challenge left no grounds for refusal. Leif had to accept or show cowardice, and dishonor both himself and his fighting men. When the reply came, all could hear the grit of anger in Leif’s voice.

  “I accept, Jorund Borgerson. The fight and your conditions . . . all but one. If you survive, the Serricksdotters will be freed. If I survive, they stay here and marry among my people. And there will be no recourse or retribution for that, either.”

  There was another pause, while Jorund considered it.

  “Done!” he shouted. Then there was only one thing left to settle. “I give you until sunset to put your hall in order and say your farewells, Gunnarson. Then I will meet you here, on this very spot. And we will finish the blood-feud that should never have been started.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN JORUND turned to his men, he was met with shocked silence. They had never imagined he would do such a thing . . . and had no idea how to react to it. He seized Aaren’s wrist and drew her along with him through their ranks, heading back to their camp to prepare for battle. Garth and the others slowly followed, casting bewildered, then increasingly irritable looks at one another. By the time they reached the middle of their camp, they had formed a firm opinion on what Jorund was about to do . . . and it was summed up in Garth’s brash but honest blast.

  “A holmgang? Have you gone thick-witted?” he shouted, stalking to the side, then back. “We came to fight, not sit on our hands and watch you! And—worse—you would hobble us so that if you lose we will have no recourse, no way to punish Leif or get Miri and Marta back!”

  “If we fight . . . take up our weapons and our luck . . . at least we have a chance!” Hakon insisted, drawing a chorus of agreement from the others.

  “The same chance I will have,” Jorund countered. “To fight and to win freedom for Miri and Marta and an end to fighting between our people.” He looked around him at their scowls and scarcely cloaked disapproval, and felt steam rising through his blood. They had always scorned his refusal to fight . . . and now that he was willing to fight, they were outraged!

  “Listen to me, and mark what I say.” He stalked toward them angrily. “I am jarl of this clan now and it is my word, my honor, my desires that will shape your future. My desire is for the safe return of my wife’s sisters and for peace with Leif’s clan . . . and it is my right to decide how they will be secured. It was Borger’s way to shed blood; it is mine to spare it. It was Borger’s way to bully and bash and threaten; it is mine to reason and talk and persuade. It was Borger’s way to wield an axe . . . mine to fight bare-handed. If you have grown so accustomed to Old Red Beard’s ways that you cannot accept my way of being jarl, so be it. You are free to leave.”

  Never in all his life had he so resembled fractious, hard-nosed Old Borger as in that moment. He trapped their gazes in his, one by one, and after each painful encounter a warrior dropped his gaze and shifted feet or fidgeted with his sword or spear. No one made a move toward the horses. Then he turned to Aaren and found her watching him with eyes filled with both pride and pain.

  “But, Jorund, it is to the death,” she said.

  “Yea, it is to the death. Nothing less would end this blood-feud.” Jorund’s voice grew husky as he glanced away from the painful sight of her to his men’s faces. “I said I would fight for you. And I will. And whatever happens . . . you must uphold my honor and abide by the terms I have set for the fight. There will be no blood vengeance taken after the battle. Whatever happens, you will decamp and go home.”

  “Jorund—” Aaren’s throat swelled with emotion, choking off her words. But the turmoil in her heart rose into her face, as plain to him as words . . . and twice as hard to bear. “I cannot bear it . . . to lose both you and my sisters.”

  “And I . . . I cannot leave Miri in Gunnar’s village,” Garth declared, looking agonized by the prospect.

  They had begun to accept his decision and with it his unique leadership, Jorund realized, and despite the grave trial he faced, a tide of joyous relief began to swell in him.

  “I don’t believe it will
be necessary for you to leave her, Brother,” Jorund said. “Nor will you lose a husband, Wife.” He shook his head at them . . . then his face took on a cagey, Borger-like grin.

  “You see, I intend to win.”

  His words wound through them like a breath of warm spring. One by one, the warriors began to grin back at him, and shortly he and Aaren were engulfed in a boisterous crowd of jostling, cheering warriors.

  After a while Jorund pried free and led Aaren out into the woods where he could spend a few moments alone with her. They found a quiet spot among venerable birches and she slid into his arms. He sank into the welcoming heat of her mouth again and let the joy of kissing her melt away his concerns. For the moment, there would be only her . . . only them . . . only love.

  His wind-whipped hair, his soft tunic and the wide, hard chest beneath, his lightly stubbled chin . . . all that and more stormed her senses as he wrapped around her like a cloak. She drank him in, holding him fiercely, renewing the well-springs of her memories with the feel of his hard, sinewy frame, the smoky scent of his hair and cloak, the salty-sweet taste of his mouth. She grew breathless and her lungs ached, yet she would not end that sweet possession.

  It was Jorund who finally ended their kiss . . . so that he could look at her . . . absorb every bit of her he could.

  “I will do my best to get your sisters back for you, Long-legs.” He held her face between his hands and stroked her cold, silky cheeks with his thumbs. “But if something should happen . . .” His voice snagged on those rough words and he had to pause and free it. “Safe-keep my dream. Uphold the peace . . . and see that my men obey it.”

  She put her fingers over his mouth and he seized them and kissed their tips, smiling. There was something more he had to say.

  “You gave me back my strength, my warrior-heart, Aaren. And when I thought my dream was dead, you helped me see that it could still live. For that I will always be grateful.” He kissed her tenderly and whispered, “I have loved you well, Long-legs. And that is enough.”