Viking

by Fabio

  At the sudden sound of hoofbeats approaching, Reyna reined in her horse and quickly took refuge in a stand of birches. Then, as if her very musings had summoned him, she watched Viktor the Valiant appear over the horizon on his yellow horse and gallop into the valley beneath her. Unaccountably, Reyna's heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. Viktor appeared magnificent, his golden hair tangling behind him in the breeze, the muscles of his arms and legs rippling as he rode the stallion with total ease. He appeared as carefree and happy as she often felt when she rode here, and she experienced an unexpected twinge of affinity with him.

  That pang of feeling brought shame and anger in its wake. What was happening to her? By all rights, she should pull an arrow from its quiver and slay Viktor now, and yet ... Just as had occurred last night, Reyna felt uncertainty swamp her, and she could not bring herself to destroy such a magnificent creature. What if Viktor was indeed a god now? Would she be doomed to Hel for smiting him?

  Mayhap Viktor did possess supernatural powers. How else could she explain the feelings he aroused—this strange excitement, this throbbing in secret, forbidden places where a virgin should never feel such wicked yearnings—and never for an enemy!

  How could she want so badly to kill him ... yet long to get to know him better?

  SEVEN

  VIKTOR ENJOYED HIS RIDE ON THE TUNDRA, ALTHOUGH HE experienced a strange, nagging feeling of being watched. Before returning to the village, he spoke with the sentries stationed along the fjord, and felt relieved when they reported having seen no further hint of the enemy. One of the men mentioned that the attacks almost always came at night, or late in the day. Still, Viktor was well aware that Wolfgard might strike again at any moment, and he had no time to waste in preparing to lead his warriors. Of course it would be far preferable to convince the warring factions to lay down their arms, but he still had to keep himself and the others alive in the interim.

  He spent the next few hours exploring the village, feeling more of a sense of excitement, belonging, and, especially, challenge at being thrust back so far in time. His conviction deepened that he was meant to live at this moment in history. He thought frequently of Reyna the warrior woman and wondered when he would next encounter her—hopefully, when he was better prepared!

  That afternoon, Viktor joined half a dozen of his men in combat practice. The seven gathered on a rise above the village. As two of the company, Canute and Rollo, prepared to battle each other with iron shields and wooden practice swords, Viktor glanced around the landscape. They stood beyond the fields on the cool, windswept tundra; the ground was covered with soft, mossy grass, and a few white Balderblooms were beginning to peak upward in anticipation of summer. Overhead, a flock of plovers, trailed by a few awkward puffins, sailed across the clear blue sky.

  Although the scene appeared pastoral, reminders of the brutal times in which Viktor now lived loomed close at hand. Beneath them, closer to the village, stretched the cemetery— row after row of graves encircled by rocks, or marked with crude, lichen-covered stone tablets etched with runes. There, two thralls were digging a deep burial pit for a warrior, Sigfred, who had died from wounds inflicted in last night's battle. Svein had told Viktor that, since Sigfred had died in bed, he could not be launched to Valhalla in the tradition of warriors lost in battle—and that alone seemed all that aggrieved these people regarding their comrade's demise. Staring at the yawning pit, Viktor frowned. More and more, he sensed that part of his purpose in being flashed back in time was to teach these hostile tribes how to live together peaceably.

  Additional changes would be needed here as well, he thought. For instance, it troubled him greatly that slaves were being forced to dig the graves. So far, he had seen many in the village who were kept in human bondage. Even now, on a craggy abutment above, two thralls were digging up iron ore, while opposite them to the east, a third was attending a large outdoor smelter.

  All at once Viktor was needled by a prickle of anxiety. Why did he have the feeling that a fourth set of eyes was watching him covertly from somewhere in those nearby rocks? It was the same spooky sensation he'd known earlier while riding the tundra, as if he were being stalked by some unseen person. He pondered the odd intuition for a moment, scanning the rocks for any signs of life. Then the sounds of banging and striking returned his attention to the combat practice ...

  Up in the hills, from behind a basalt outcropping, Reyna the Ravisher was intently watching the combat practice. She had trailed Viktor for much of the day, her curiosity and fascination with the Viking only increasing. Now she would find out for certain how skilled a warrior he was after having returned from the dead. During their clash last night, he had seemed strangely disoriented, inept, not his usual savage self at all. Had his clumsiness been a ploy, or had his journey to Valhalla truly befuddled him?

  Reyna picked up a small rock and smiled. Mayhap she could have some fun here as well, disrupt the men's practice a bit, hit Viktor over the head and knock him to the ground. That might prove diverting, she mused with vindictive pleasure. Far safer to defeat her foe than to try to deal with the unsettling, intense feelings he continued to arouse.

  But first she would watch him and learn what she could ...

  Viktor watched Rollo crash his sword against Canute's shield. On Rollo's upswing, Canute raised his own mock weapon high and smashed Rollo's shield. The two men whacked and lunged at each other for long moments, until Rollo grew fatigued. Canute promptly seized the advantage, knocking the sword from Rollo's hand. The one-eyed giant howled with triumph, heaved his wooden broadsword high, men lowered it slowly on top of Rollo's head in a symbolic gesture of slaughter. While the other warriors cheered the victor, Rollo bowed on one knee in acknowledgment of his defeat.

  A huge grin splitting his scarred face, Canute turned to Viktor. "Jarl!" he called out arrogantly. "I challenge you next."

  Even as Viktor considered the dare, Svein hastened to protest. "Canute, you are not playing fairly. Our king lost his memory and forgot his warrior skills in Valhalla. We are all well aware that you are our fiercest fighter. For King Viktor to take up your challenge would result in an uneven match."

  Canute winked at Viktor. "Do not worry. I shall be gentle with our delicate lamb."

  The other warriors roared in laughter, while Viktor scowled. As King Viktor, he had all but established himself as a laughingstock with his men; he realized he must assume a role of leadership and work toward commanding the respect due his station. If he was to make changes on Vanaheim, he must convince his men to take him seriously.

  "I will accept the challenge," he said solemnly.

  As Viktor started forward, Svein touched his arm. "Jarl, I warn you to take care. Canute is ruthless."

  Viktor nodded and confided in low tones, "If I am to rule here, Svein, I must earn the fealty of my warriors. Even if I am defeated, there will be dignity in having tried. Moreover, I must learn to fight as well as the rest of you if our tribe is to successfully repel future attack by Wolfgard's forces!"

  Svein nodded resignedly.

  Viktor stepped forward. Ottar rushed up and handed his jarl the iron shield, wooden broadsword, and leather helmet that Rollo had just abandoned.

  "Make us proud, jarl," the lad said with a grin.

  Viktor was tempted to roll his eyes. He put on the leather helmet, lifted the broadsword with his right hand, and tried to balance the heavy, awkward shield with his left.

  Canute watched him, his shrewd eye gleaming. "Whenever you are prepared to begin, jarl."

  "In a moment," muttered Viktor.

  He had had little instruction in sword fighting, other than some brief fencing lessons to prepare for his swashbuckling movies—back in that already hazy, distant time when he had been Marcello Lazaro. Still, recalling his training, he held the shield braced against his chest while practicing striking and parrying motions. He danced about, lunging, then retreating, blocking the blows of an imaginary opponent.

  He stopped amid the
hooting and huzzahs of his men, then glanced around in perplexity to see them all holding their sides and rocking with amusement.

  "What is so funny?" he asked .the nearest one, Orm.

  "What are you doing, jarl?" the grinning man replied.

  "I am practicing swordplay."

  The warriors slapped their knees and split their sides with mirth.

  "Will you kindly let me in on this joke?" Viktor snapped.

  "We do not play with our swords, jarl," answered the insolent Canute. "We deliver thrusts, body strikes, hatchet strokes, and sideways hits to knock the shield from our opponent's hands."

  "I see," muttered Viktor. "Then you must depend on brute strength rather than dexterity, and on inflicting blunt, massive blows, causing your attackers to die of internal injuries rather than mortal cuts."

  The men glanced at one another, utterly bewildered.

  "We have wasted enough time, jarl," rejoined an impatient Canute, smiling with cruel relish. "Come give me your worst."

  Viktor gritted his teeth and, extending his sword and tightly holding his shield, lunged at Canute. The one-eyed warrior deftly sidestepped him, knocked him across the shoulders, and sent his weapon spinning out of his hands and him hurtling to the ground. Viktor spit out a mouthful of dirt and moss amid the loud jeers of his men ...

  Above the men, Reyna stifled her giggles with her hand. Viktor the Valiant truly was a clumsy ox, for the other warrior had knocked him to the tundra as if he were a helpless babe.

  Reyna had overhead one of the men say that Viktor had lost both his memory and his warrior skills in Valhalla, and such appeared to be the case. What a strange god he was, if he was indeed a deity now. His behavior was amusing, but this did not change Reyna's determination to defeat him— especially since she felt so threatened by much about him that she could not understand. She lifted the rock and waited for the best moment to strike ...

  On the ground, Viktor bravely bit back a groan, heaved himself to his feet, and retrieved his sword and shield. Canute stood mocking him silently, feet braced widely apart. Three more times Viktor attempted to attack the huge warrior; three more times Canute battered Viktor across his back or shoulders and sent him crashing to the tundra.

  After his third spill, Viktor rolled over to feel the tip of Canute's wooden sword pressed to his throat. "Are you prepared to admit defeat, jarl?"

  "It appears I must."

  "Were we on a battlefield," the warrior said gloatingly, "I would now be carrying your head on the tip of my sword."

  In the background, the warriors chuckled. His patience exhausted, Viktor shoved aside Canute's weapon and struggled to his feet. These barbarians knew much about savage force, he mused, but little about dexterity or strategy. Staring the grinning brute in his eye, he made a swift motion with his foot, locking his ankle around Canute's, yanking forward, and sending the unprepared giant crashing down on his stout buttocks. The stunned warrior glowered in befuddlement while Viktor's men stamped their feet and shouted their approval.

  "I suppose it's a good thing we aren't in battle now," Viktor replied with a cocky grin.

  Amid a bellow of rage, Canute surged to his feet. But again Svein intervened, stepping between Canute and Viktor before the one-eyed giant could retaliate.

  "Our jarl has had enough practice for today," Svein said decisively.

  "Sly trickster!" bellowed Canute.

  He was still glaring at Viktor when suddenly a rock came sailing over the small group and hit the one-eyed giant squarely on the forehead. With a shout of pain, Canute once again tumbled to the ground, while all the other warriors stared around them in astonishment

  '•What the hell—" muttered Viktor.

  His words were cut short by the sound of thundering hoof-beats. He and the others jerked around, only to watch in awe and horror as Reyna the Ravisher abruptly burst upon them astride her black pony. The Valkyrie screamed an exuberant battle yell while using the flat side of her sword to knock several warriors off their feet like so many felled ninepins, leaving a chorus of grunts and groans in her wake.

  Viktor was so taken aback by Reyna's sudden charge, he barely managed to leap out of range as her horse bounded past him. Beyond the group of disoriented men, she reined in her mount and turned to grin sadistically at Viktor.

  "Viking!" she cried. "Next time my aim will be better."

  With amazement, Viktor watched the hellion salute him, then gallop off. He almost grinned. He simply could not believe her audacity. Reyna was utterly magnificent—and equally ruthless!

  Then Viktor's attention became diverted as a furious Canute staggered forward, his arm yanked back as he prepared to hurl an ax into the girl's retreating back.

  "No!" Viktor cried, grabbing Canute's wrist to stay him.

  "Why say you nay?" demanded Canute, struggling with Viktor.

  "Because we do not kill women—nor do we slay anyone with an ax in their back. That is not the way of courageous warriors."

  Evidently Canute thought differently, for he wrenched his wrist away and hurled the ax into the ground. Spitting at Viktor's feet, he stalked off. Viktor heaved a sigh of relief as the men dispersed, frowning and muttering to one another about Reyna's bizarre attack.

  Looking concerned, Svein stepped up to Viktor. "Jarl, you are unharmed?"

  He nodded. "That was amazing. Has Reyna attempted this type of stunt before?"

  Svein stroked his beard. "Methinks she has previously spied on our village, but never has she behaved quite so brazenly." He nudged Viktor with his elbow and grinned. "Mayhap she is intrigued with you now that you have returned from the dead."

  "Hah!" scoffed Viktor. "Evidently, she meant her rock for my head and not Canute's."

  "Yea, so it appears. Nevertheless, Canute is not pleased that you stayed him from killing the Ravisher."

  "Then let him sulk—for I can think of no act more cowardly than to slay a woman in such a brutal manner," Viktor retorted passionately.

  Svein's expression grew grim. "Again you are right, jarl, but I must still warn you not to turn your back on Canute."

  A tingle of alarm pricked Viktor. "Are you saying the man's loyalty may be questionable?"

  "You spoke the truth earlier. You must earn Canute's respect anew, and that of all your warriors. Beyond that, jarl, I must warn you that Canute would hardly be aggrieved to assume your place."

  Viktor grew silent, lost in troubled thought. Could Canute be the traitor in their midst whom Svein had mentioned earlier?

  And was Reyna the unseen shadow that had stalked him all day? He grinned. There, at least, he already knew the answer. He could even hope that perhaps Svein had spoken the truth, that Reyna might well be as captivated with him as he already was with her.

  EIGHT

  Several days passed, and Viktor did not again encounter Reyna. He became better acclimated to life in the Viking world. It was a busy time for his people. Sheep and cattle were brought down from the uplands to graze near the village. Oats, barley, flax, and vegetables were planted in the fields by the thralls. Viktor's men busied themselves with various manly tasks, such as the critical gathering of food. They hunted for seals or fished; Viktor grew accustomed to seeing racks of cod drying in the sun. The men also gathered seabird eggs, and introduced Viktor to the daredevil ritual of puffin hunting, in which the men would stand on the high cliffs overlooking the ocean and hurl out nets on long tethers to catch the plump fowl as they swirled about their nests. The first time Viktor watched Rollo totter on a precipice and fling out his net at a passing bird, he was amazed that the man did not go sailing off the cliff to break his neck on the treacherous rocks below.

  Although Viktor demurred when his men offered to teach him the intricacies of catching puffins, he did welcome their instruction in ice fishing and in hunting with a bow and arrow. He particularly enjoyed riding his shaggy horse, Sleipnir, across the tundra. Frequently his wolves trailed behind him, howling exuberantly in the crisp spring air. At moment
s such as this, Viktor was increasingly convinced he really was meant to be here—at a time when he could connect with the primitive man in himself, lead his people to a better life, exist in harmony with the elements ... and find the woman of his dreams!

  While the men attended to their duties, the Viking women occupied themselves spinning, weaving, sewing, processing dairy products, cooking, and minding children. Viktor suspected they also gossiped, and they seemed especially fascinated with him now that he had returned from Valhalla. Whenever he passed a group of wenches working in the long-house, or a gathering of wives enjoying the mild weather in the village, the females inevitably tittered and stared at him.

  As time passed, Viktor wondered why Wolfgard did not attack again. When questioned, Svein explained that their enemy was likely occupied with the same arduous tasks of sowing crops, driving cattle down from the moors, repairing buildings ravaged by winter, and preparing for lamb-shearing time. Nonetheless, the village remained alert to the potential danger, and Viktor kept sentries posted along the fjord.

  He practiced self-defense daily with his men, readying himself for his next encounter with Wolfgard and company. More than ever, he realized he had journeyed back in time ill-prepared for the rigors of Viking combat. During the sessions, the other warriors, particularly Canute, continued to hurl him to the ground and batter his pride. At first, trying to land a kick or engineer an over-the-hip throw against a Viking warrior was like practicing ballet against a bulldozer: Viktor met with an occasional success; but more often, given the brute strength of his warriors, he became intimately acquainted with the wildflowers on the tundra. Still, as the days went on, Viktor's skills did improve slowly but surely, just as his men laughed at him less often. Over time, he was even able to teach his warriors a few of the self-defense techniques he remembered from his movie career.