by Fabio
Viking
By Fabio & Eugenia Riley
PROLOGUE
Ivar the Invincible swung his broadsword, defending his beloved wife and his people from the barbarians who lived across the fjord.
The battle between the two Viking tribes had raged for hours on the frigid shores of Iceland. The mighty Norwegian Ivar blocked with his shield and hacked away at his mortal enemy, Grundar the Barbarian, leader of the rival Danish tribe. Ivar's tunic dripped with blood; his tall, magnificent body was covered by gouges and punctures. He felt weak, dizzy, close to death.
The huge, cross-eyed Grundar screamed curses and chopped at Ivar with his broadsword, knocking off his horned helmet. Even as the Viking struggled to retaliate, Grundar's blunt-edged weapon slammed Ivar's side, not penetrating the chain mail, but stunning him, robbing him of breath. Ivar watched Grundar raise his broadsword high overhead to rive him asunder. He heard his wife's scream of terror in the background.
Her cry mobilized him; he caught an excruciating breath, raised his own sword, and thrust powerfully at Grundar. With an agonized gasp, the huge Dane crashed, dead, to the beach.
A lull fell over the battle. Spotting their slain leader, the other Danes fled in the wake of arrows and spears cast by Ivar's men. At last dizziness staggered Ivar and he fell to the ground, tasting sand in his mouth.
"Ivar! No! No!"
Gentle hands rolled him over, and he looked up to see Gerda, his magnificent bride, hovering over him. With reality swimming in and out, he thought of how beautiful she was— imprinting on his memory her sleek blond hair, soulful dark brown eyes, and lovely, smooth features. He realized he was surely dying now; he could hear the voices of the Valkyries summoning him to the Hall of Odin. He felt a stab of sorrow that he would never know the wondrous fruit of his dear wife's body—that they would never have a child together, that his legacy would die in Midgard on this day.
By now Ivar's warriors had regrouped. They, as well as the women, sank to their knees around their fallen leader, all beseeching the gods to save him. Gerda drew her fingers through Ivar's long blond hair. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she grasped his battered hand and kissed the bruised knuckles.
"Ivar! I implore you, do not die!"
"Gerda, my love," he whispered back. "On this day I must leave you and my people—"
"Nay! Nay!" she pleaded.
"But take heart, my love. "It's a day of great victory for our clan. Our homeland has been saved from Grundar's treachery."
"Because of you, my lord. You cannot abandon us now!"
"My mission on Midgard has been completed," he assured her solemnly. "Now I must rise to greater glory in the hall of slain warriors."
Gerda clutched his hand to her heart. "Nay! Tell me 'tis not true."
"I must go, my love. A moment ago during the battle, I felt a heavenly Valkyrie maiden tapping me on the shoulder."
"But how can I live without you?" she cried. "You promised me a child—"
"I know, but mayhap we will meet again in another world," he said tenderly. "And you must promise me that tonight you and my people will launch me to Valhalla in my burning longship, in the tradition of the great Viking king, Viktor the Valiant."
"Ivar, please, I cannot—"
"But you must, my love. I am bound to fight and feast anew in the meetinghouse of the dead." He squeezed her hand and stared into her eyes in a poignant moment of love and communion. "Promise me."
She shuddered with exquisite sorrow. "Verily, I promise."
"We will meet again, my love," he vowed.
As he drew his final convulsive breaths, Ivor felt blessed by Bragi with a skaldic verse befitting a dying warrior, and in his failing voice he recited it for Gerda and his people:
Reign of my heart
Be ended.
Love of my life
Know peace.
I rise on wings of honor
To feast at Odin's table.
Gerda leaned over and tenderly, tearfully, kissed the lips of her dying husband ...
ONE
“Cut!” YELLED THE DIRECTOR.
The familiar voice propelled Marcello back to awareness, and he shook his head to gain his bearings. When he acted, he often worked himself into a trancelike state, totally integrating his own psyche into that of his character. Blinking, he saw the California beach, the towering dark cliffs, the blinding lights, the cameras on tracks and dollies, the production people scurrying about, securing equipment and moving cables.
Then he spotted Monica. Dressed in her Viking-woman costume, she knelt beside him, grinning, reaching out to wipe sandy grit from his chin. He winked back at her. She was the love of his life, both in reality and in this movie.
"Not a bad job of dying, big boy," she teased. "I noticed you had our newest production assistant in tears."
Marcello sat up eagerly. "You mean the blonde with the ponytail and the red halter top?"
"Beast!" she cried, showering him with a handful of sand.
"Hey, you two, cut it out!" called an imperious male voice. "We're too far into this production to lose our star to temporary blindness."
They glanced up to see the director, Irving Hartman, approaching with the cinematographer, Harold Schindle, at his heels. Both men were middle-aged, balding, bearded, and wore thick-lensed glasses. Privately the crew referred to them as "the Compulsive Clones."
Shaking off sand, Marcello popped to his feet and tugged. Monica up with him. "Well, Irving?"
The director's grin was broad. "We got a wrap this time."
'Thank God," said Marcello feelingly. "After twelve takes, it's high time."
"If you hadn't run into the Steadicam on the ninth take, we could have wrapped long before now," teased Harold.
"The Steadicam operator ran into me," Marcello said indignantly. "I was right on the mark, and he stepped into my frame."
'That's right, the mighty Marcello never makes mistakes," Monica put in drolly.
Marcello rubbed his side and grimaced. "I'm going to have to go home and soak this bruise in the hot tub."
"Shouldn't you have the doctor look at that?" Irving fretted.
"Naw."
"Superheroes like Marcello don't run to the doctor every time they stub a toe," Monica quipped.
Harold winked at her. "You'll help Marc work out the kinks, won't you, babe?"
Monica smirked.
"Are you sure you're ready for tomorrow's shoot?" Irving asked Marcello. "I'm still nervous because you won't allow a stuntman to do the burning-boat scene."
"Nothing to it," Marcello assured him. "Besides, it's the last scene in the movie, so if you lose me in the inferno, you'll still be ready for post-production, right?"
"I just don't know," the director muttered, scratching his head.
"Hey, Irv, why don't you worry about something of consequence, like whether the skies and the wind will cooperate tomorrow?" asked Harold.
Irving eyed the ominous heavens. "Lord, if we have to cancel the final shoot, the producer will have a stroke. We're already way over budget."
"Perhaps we should all beg Thor to hold his temper in check," said Marcello. He leaned over, picked up Ivar's helmet, and stared cynically at the horns. "You know, when we shoot the launch to Valhalla tomorrow, it will be the one time during the entire filming that these horns will be authentic."
Irving rolled his eyes. "Are we back to that again?'
Marcello frowned. "I take my craft very seriously."
Irving flung his hands wide. "So who cares whether or not Vikings actually wore horns, for heaven's sake?"
"I care," said Marcello earnestly. "Vikings wore only plain helmets, never horned ones, during battle. Horns were reserved for religious or ceremonial occasions—or for Valky
ries to wear. Now I ask you, do I look like a Valkyrie?"
"Whatever you are, sweetie," Monica remarked, looking him over greedily, "you sure as hell ain't no Valkyrie."
Marc grinned and plopped the helmet on her head at a jaunty angle; she saucily wrinkled her nose at him.
"Quit worrying about being so authentic," advised Irving. "It's too late now, and anyway, we wouldn't dream of depriving your adoring female audience of every possible embellishment."
"Besides, guys, I can testify that Marcello does have horns—and a tail," Monica teased.
As Irving and Harold laughed, Marc shook a finger at her. "You and I will deal with that at home, minx."
Monica feigned horror and pressed a hand to her ostensibly trembling bosom.
Irving laid a hand on Marcello's shoulder. "There are a few pointers I want to give you about tomorrow's shoot; then we can all meet back at the studio to see the dailies." He nodded toward Monica. "You coming to the studio, Monica?"
"Sorry, guys." She handed Marc back his helmet "I have an appointment I can't miss."
Marc winked at her. "See you at home, babe."
She in turn winked at Irving. "Keep him away from the red halter top."
Irving laughed. "Sure thing, Monica. See that Marc rests tonight, will you?"
She turned, tossing her smooth blond hair. "As soon as he works his kinks out," she quipped over her shoulder.
Four hours later, after stopping by the studio to review the rushes with Irving, then working out with his personal fitness trainer at his club, Marcello headed home. With the sun roof open on his gold Ferrari, he drove out of Hollywood and took scenic Laurel Canyon Boulevard up into the Hills. The spring breeze felt cool on his face, and the setting sun gilded the houses and trees with a pristine glow. After the brutal day he had put in, he felt tired but fulfilled. He was eager to get home, play with his dogs, and sink into the hot tub. / must be sure to pull Monica in for a little recreation—and retribution, he added to himself with a wicked grin.
As he rounded a curve, a trio of hitchhiking, teenage girls shouted and waved at him. Marcello wagged a finger at them and grinned as he drove past. They should know better than to be out on the highway hitching rides. The world had become so dangerous.
Marcello was a man who had always felt somewhat out of step with the modern world in which he lived, almost as if, through some quirk of destiny, he had been fated to exist in the wrong time. Born Marcello Lazaro thirty-two years ago in the ancient city of Venice, he had been raised in the northern Italian countryside, in a fifteenth-century villa that had once been a monastery. Just as he had always been enamored of the history, culture, and majesty of northern Italy, he had also felt as if he belonged in an earlier age. As a small boy, he remembered being fascinated when his mother told him tales of his Norwegian ancestors, of how he had acquired his blond hair and blue eyes from the Viking warriors who had invaded southern Italy in the ninth century. By the time Marc was in college, his fascination with ancient times prompted him to join a medieval reenactment society and spend many weekends at joists and war games.
How ironic that he was playing a Viking now. Even in his movie roles, he almost invariably played a man of another age.
Marcello had come to America ten years ago, seeking fame as a movie star. His background in construction and architecture had helped him there. A job as a grip on a movie set had led to roles as an extra, then a few bit parts, and finally his first big break: co-starring as a desert sheikh in a swashbuckling tale about British colonial days in Egypt. The role of the sheikh had catapulted Marcello to overnight stardom as "the new Valentino," and his subsequent roles—a Caribbean pirate, a medieval knight, a Byronic rogue—had reflected his qualities as an eternal hero. On every talk show on which he had appeared, the inevitable comment was, "You look as if you've stepped out of another time."
Perhaps he had. His feelings of being misplaced in the present age had increased five years ago, when he had lost his family. Marcello drew a heavy breath at the memory. He had been in the south of France shooting a film when his mother, father, and sister had chartered a small plane to come visit him on location. Tragically, their plane had gone down over the Alps.
Now his family consisted of his dogs, and more importantly, of Monica, whom he had met three years ago. He thought of the dream he kept having about them lately, a haunting, poignant, surreal vision. In it, he saw himself and Monica on the shores of Iceland. He was holding his just-born son in his arms, and he was weeping, as all the Viking peoples around them bowed in tribute. Marcello was convinced that he saw himself and Monica in Iceland because of the movie they were making. To him, the dream signified that it was high time for him and Monica to marry and start a family of their own.
They had lived together for over two years. A year ago, they'd had a terrible fight and had almost broken up after Marcello asked Monica to marry him. At twenty-three, she just wasn't ready to settle down, she had argued; her career wasn't as established as his. She had begged him to give her one more year, and he had agreed.
That year was up now, and Marcello was ready to collect on a solemn promise.
At a crest just off Mulholland Drive, he wheeled his car into the driveway of his one-story Mediterranean villa. He hopped out and strode toward the front door, passing pots filled with blooming geraniums. As soon as he put the key in the lock, the dogs began barking out on the patio. He smiled at the sound as he went through the deserted foyer and picked up his mail. His housekeeper, Mrs. Nowotny, had likely already gone for the day.
Marcello gave his mail a cursory glance and put it back on the credenza. He stepped down into the den, which had a brown, Saltillo tile floor, beamed ceiling, and stone fireplace.
He enjoyed this room with its accoutrements of earlier times. He and Monica frequently skied in Taos, and they had made numerous side trips to Santa Fe, where they had purchased many of the objects decorating this room—painted wooden figurines of tigers, birds, and dogs; Navajo rugs, pottery, and baskets; and Southwestern art.
Continuing to the kitchen, Marcello strode to the patio doors and unlocked them. His three huge Great Danes vaulted in and jumped on him, all but knocking him down.
"Beasts!" Marcello cried, affectionately petting Geronimo, Apache, and Blitz. The three followed him, yapping exuberantly as he went to the pantry and pulled out two cans of dog food. He filled the double dish Mrs. Nowotny had cleaned, added water to another bowl, and took both dishes out to the patio. The sleek dogs eagerly followed, barking with gleeful anticipation.
He set the dishes down, and as the dogs ate with relish, he strode toward the edge of the patio, flexed his sore muscles, took a deep breath, and looked out at the spectacular view of Los Angeles and the surrounding hills. Hummingbirds buzzed at the feeder hanging from the patio cover. The evening was clear and cool, without the usual smog. The nectar of blooming spring flowers laced the air.
Marcello enjoyed his property—the lot was large, providing a feeling of seclusion. Two sides were walled for privacy, and the back was outlined in wrought iron to afford a view of the canyon and the city. Here he could enjoy the panorama, yet feel safe from his sometimes overzealous female fans.
Feeling a throbbing of pain in his side, he went over to the hot tub beneath the patio cover and stripped off his jeans, T-shirt, and briefs. He settled into the hot, bubbly water with a sigh. Ah, that felt good ...
Having Monica here would make it heaven. He wondered what was keeping her. She had mentioned an appointment, but where, and with whom?
Marcello had planned to propose to Monica again the day after tomorrow, once production was completely wrapped up and the cast party was over. He had already made dinner reservations for their special, romantic evening. But now, sitting in the hot tub and missing her, he wasn't really sure he could wait two more days before speaking his heart. This appointment of hers—which was taking too damn long!—left him feeling threatened and off-balance ...
He knew she
had arrived the minute he heard the dogs squeal and race toward the patio doors. He grinned as he heard her belting out an intimidating expletive, then the dogs whimpering and scampering off.
She came to stand before him, looking very sexy in her white blouse and slacks and tinted sunglasses, her blond hair whipping around her shoulders. His gaze moved over the classical, angular lines of her face—the smooth brow and high cheekbones, the delicate nose, the wide mouth and strong chin.
He greeted her in mock-surly fashion. "Did you hurt my dogs, woman? If so, I'm going to beat you."
Looking down at Marcello, Monica whipped off her glasses and glowered, even though it was difficult for her not to smile. He appeared so sexy in the hot tub, with the golden muscles of his arms and chest gleaming with moisture, his bright blue eyes fixed on her intently, and his damp hair clinging to his corded neck.
"Hah!" she retorted. "You know I've never touched a hair on the head of those mangy mutts. When are you going to teach them to quit trying to sniff my crotch?"
Marcello threw back his head and laughed; "I must say I admire their taste. They only want to be your friends, Monica. But you won't give them a chance."
"I have no interest in getting friendly with those depraved beasts."
'Then why don't you come closer and get friendly with this depraved beast?" he suggested devilishly.
Now Monica had to smile, although inwardly she felt uncertain and a little sad. Despite Marc's teasing tone, she realized increasingly what his invitations to intimacy truly meant. Though he hadn't broached the subject yet, she was well aware that the year's reprieve he had granted her for her career had ended. She had been dreading the day when he would demand that she deliver on her part of their bargain. Monica feared that what Marc wanted from her at this juncture in her life might be more than she was prepared to give. Still, when he took her in his arms, she was too often tempted to surrender all of herself and more. The power this sexy, magnetic man held over her was both exciting and unnerving.
She stalled for time. "What are you doing languishing in the tub so long, anyway? Was the battle scene today really too much for you at your advanced age?"
