Viking

by Fabio

  Two decidedly modern conveniences of the Viking village fascinated Viktor: the saunalike steam hut where the men bathed, and a separate bathing house that had been built over a natural hot spring. He spent many luxuriant moments basking in the hot spring, Jacuzzi-style, soaking out muscle kinks from the day's ride or combat practice. Sometimes he grew sad as he recalled such pleasurable moments spent with Monica back in the present. But more and more, he realized that his life with Monica was never meant to be—and now it was the prospect of having a warrior woman luxuriating beside him in the warm, bubbly water that stirred his senses.

  He repeatedly wondered when he would see Reyna again. Since the day she had disrupted combat practice, he had not spotted her spying on his village, although at times he had again sensed that he was being watched. Reyna was clearly a barbarian, yet the memory of her beauty and strength, even her savagery, continued to haunt him. She was Monica, yet she was reborn, all primal woman, and so intriguing. The thought of taming her ferociousness into spirited passion tantalized him.

  One cool spring morning he took a long ride on Sleipnir, traveling well above the village, up into the moors. At noontime, he paused on an outcropping of basalt to have his lunch of fish and bread, while his horse nibbled on nearby grasses. He was soon taken aback as he saw a woman ride into the meadow below him. It was Reyna, on a small black horse. So she had ventured once again into his territory! A certain perverse pleasure filled him as he realized that now he might spy on her just as she had previously snooped on him!

  Not wanting to alert her to his presence, Viktor tied his mount to a shrub and hid himself behind the abutment. He thanked the gods that his wolves had been off chasing rabbits when he had left this morning, or they certainly would have given him away now by charging after his enemy.

  Actually, he did not want to risk another encounter with Reyna until he better understood her and had planned an appropriate strategy—and greatly improved his own warrior skills, he thought ruefully. Even so, his greatest challenge would likely be protecting himself from her barbarism without hurting her.

  He studied her eagerly as she dismounted. As before, she was dressed like a man, in a tunic, short leggings, and soft leather boots. Like Monica in the present, she had magnificently long, shapely legs, and her partially bared arms were lovely as well. A headband restrained her long, thick blond hair.

  He wondered why she was here. Was she hoping to spy on his people again, or did she simply seek to be alone? His curiosity was soon assuaged as she knelt and whistled softly. A moment later, to his amazement, Viktor observed a small, snowy-white arctic fox creep out from behind a basalt boulder and rash to her side. An exuberant Reyna fell to the turf and petted the little fox affectionately; within seconds, the two were rolling about and cavorting among the wildflowers.

  Viktor watched, captivated, unable to believe his eyes. Reyna's tinkling laughter drifted up from the tundra, along with the lively, chirping barks of the little vixen. Reyna no longer seemed a savage, but was as gentle, carefree, and happy as a child.

  So this brutal warrior woman had a soft spot in her heart after all. How he wished they were not enemies, that he could join in her joy and laughter.

  After a moment, she got up, went to her horse, and rummaged inside a knapsack. She brought back several eggs for the fox to eat, and petted it as it happily devoured the treat.

  Viktor could only shake his head. Reyna was clearly much more than a brutal savage. Indeed, he was now deeply convinced that she was the woman of his dream, the woman of his destiny. She was all natural woman, and he wanted her. He felt stunned by the depth of his feelings toward a woman he had seen only three times and had never even touched—

  Or had he? Perhaps he had loved Reyna in another life—a life she hadn't even lived yet. Perhaps he was encountering her now at a point in her spiritual progression when she was truly ready for the type of relationship he so desired. The prospects were mind-boggling! Although Viktor didn't fully understand all the mysteries and complexities of space and time that had wrenched their souls apart, then brought them back together again, he did know he already felt a strong spiritual and physical bond with her. They had much in common, including their love of animals and the outdoors. He yearned to play with her and her fox on the wild, vibrant tundra. He wanted her laughter, her loyalty, and the love of her proud heart. Yes, that hard-won love would be more valuable than all the gold or jewels in the world. For here was a woman without career objectives who could give him the babies he so dearly wanted. The very thought of building a family with her in this raw, primitive setting excited him immensely. And if that was being retrograde, then so be it.

  He watched Reyna rise and return to her horse, grabbing a bow and throwing a sling with a quiverful of arrows over her shoulder. With her fox standing nearby, she began shooting the arrows into the trunk of a birch tree, aiming the swift missiles with deadly precision. Viktor grimaced as each sharp projectile thudded home. Obviously, before he could love this woman, he had to divest her of these troubling homicidal tendencies. When he had tamed this glorious wild creature without breaking her, and had unleashed the more gentle and feminine side of her nature, that would be the true victory.

  Once she finished her practice, she bade her fox an affectionate farewell, then mounted her pony and galloped off toward the north. Intrigued, Viktor mounted Sleipnir and followed her from a safe distance.

  The landscape grew increasingly craggy and bleak. Viktor spotted several steam geysers shooting into the air, and watched an eerie fog rise from a lava tube. Why was the girl venturing so high into the hills, so far away from civilization, when logic argued that she should be heading back home, toward Wolfgard's village?

  He soon had his answer as Reyna stopped beside a rushing stream—where a strange man was crouched, evidently praying, in the water. Viktor could tell little about the man other than that he seemed gaunt and heavily bearded, and knelt motionless, his hands laced before him as the water rushed over him. Viktor was flabbergasted by the sight Was Reyna acquainted with a madman? He quickly halted his horse, dismounted, and took refuge behind a stand of stunted willows.

  By now Reyna, too, had dismounted. Viktor watched her approach the bizarre man and frantically wave her arms. He heard the muffled sounds of her distraught pleas.

  A moment later, the man climbed out of the stream, shivering violently, water sluicing off his long beard and dark robe. Viktor saw Reyna rush to her horse, grab a blanket, and drape it around the man's shoulders. She handed him some sort of crude staff, and knelt at his feet—

  Viktor watched the man make the sign of the cross over

  Reyna as she bowed her head and pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer.

  Dio, the girl was a Christian! Viktor was stunned, and more intrigued than ever.

  Was the man a priest? he wondered. If so, what on earth was he doing here on a pagan Viking island, and what was Reyna's connection to him?

  Back at the village, during dinner with his blood brother, Viktor asked Svein about the priest, wisely leaving out any mention of Reyna.

  "While I was riding in the mountains today, I spotted this odd, bearded character praying in a stream," he remarked as the two shared a repast of mutton and ale.

  Svein snorted, wiping grease from his whiskery chin with the sleeve of his jerkin. "Mayhap you saw Pelagius."

  "Pelagius? Who is he?"

  "An Irish hermit monk who lives in the hills."

  Viktor scowled. "He is Irish? What is he doing here on Vanaheim?"

  Svein bit into a chunk of mutton. "Ever since St. Brendan made his curragh voyage to Iceland in the fifth century, Irish monks have come here to the North Country, hoping to convert pagan Vikings to Christianity."

  "How fascinating. Have they met with success?"

  Svein shook his head. "Verily, most go mad and become hermits—just as Pelagius has done."

  "Is that why his behavior is so outlandish?"

  "Yea.
You would be well advised to avoid him, jarl, as do the rest of our warriors. He is truly demented, that one, and the men fear his curses."

  With a bemused smile, Viktor sipped his ale. So Reyna the Ravisher had a partner in crime who was every bit as unique and potentially dangerous as she was.

  At sunset, Reyna the Ravisher sat leaning against the front wall of a small hut not far from her stepfather's village. In her arms was cuddled her special friend, one-year-old baby Hamar. Hamar's mother, Inga, was resting inside, as she oft did when Reyna offered to watch the baby. The young boy was cooing softly and playing with the iron bracelet on Reyna's wrist.

  Reyna felt content here with the child, away from the village, safe from curious eyes and the possible contempt of her stepfather^ warriors. She had felt relatively secure today on her enemy's moors as well, when she had played with her fox, Freya, and visited her good friend Pelagius.

  Yet a small frown puckered her brow. Oddly, while in Viktor's territory, she had not felt quite as protected from prying eyes as she did now. Indeed, she had experienced an uncanny feeling of being watched. Several times she had glanced behind her, only to find no one there. Still, she could not help but wonder if Viktor the Valiant might sometimes spy on her just as she had watched him. Was it possible she had roused his attention, his curiosity, after the day she had hurled a rock and invaded his combat practice?

  Reyna smiled at the memory of sending half a dozen Viking warriors crashing to the tundra like so many toppled toys. Yet on that occasion, as previously, she had been unable to harm Viktor directly—ultimately, her rock had struck another warrior's head, whether intentionally or by accident, she was not sure. She had told herself she simply wanted to toy with Viktor a while longer before slaying him, but in her heart she suspected otherwise. As for the Viking himself, he had just stood there intently watching her ride away, prompting a strange surge of confusion and perilous excitement within her.

  Why did the Viking invariably arouse such odd and disconcerting feelings? And what if he had seen her today? The possibility that Viktor might have glimpsed the more feminine, vulnerable side of her was unnerving and frightening, for Reyna had never dared to reveal her more gentle side to any man, save for her beloved half brother, Ragar.

  Surely Viktor had not seen her. Surely—

  Reyna yelped as baby Hamar yanked on her hair and crowed loudly, as if proud of his own mischief. Glancing down at him as she gently disengaged his strong little fingers from her locks, she found the round-faced cherub cooing up at her unrepentantly.

  "So you are impatient for my attention, are you, little one?"

  The baby gurgled in response. Reyna took his little hands between hers and clapped them together while chanting a made-up rhyme about pigs and roosters dancing around a barnyard. She and Hamar often played this little game, which delighted him. He laughed in glee and tried to mimic some of Reyna's sounds. When at last he tired of their game, she ruffled his hair, nestled him close, and kissed his soft cheek. He turned his adorable face up to hers and yawned contentedly, prompting another surge of tender feelings inside her.

  Would she ever have a beautiful child such as this—a baby of her own to love? The question saddened her, for Reyna knew that as long as she was trapped on this godless Viking island—where violence was a way of life and she considered all men her enemies—she could never take a husband.

  Still, observing the boy's blond hair and blue eyes, Reyna was reminded once again of Viktor. Her enemy might one day have a son much like Hamar, she mused, and the image of Viktor the Valiant as a father filled her with an unexpected primal excitement.

  She tugged her wayward thoughts to a screeching halt and scolded herself sternly. What was wrong with her, that she kept succumbing to tender fantasies of her enemy? Why could she not shake her fascination with the hated Viking? If she did not better guard her own thoughts, next she would be envisioning herself as the mother of Viktor's children! Not only was he her bitterest enemy, but any son of his would one day be impelled to become a warrior—just as poor little Hamar would someday be forced to take up arms against his Viking enemies.

  Reyna sighed. At least she could take heart from the fact that Hamar was happy now. Reyna had known such bliss once, when she was a tiny princess in her beloved homeland of Loire. She missed that existence and longed one day to escape Vanaheim to return to the country of her birth.

  She rocked the baby in her arms and hummed the poignant strains of a lullaby she recalled from her own early childhood. When she again kissed Hamar's soft cheek and felt his tiny fingers curl trustingly around her own, she found herself fighting an unexpected tear.

  Later, Reyna crept inside the hut and lay the child down beside his sleeping mother. Forcibly turning her thoughts away from all that was soft and gentle, she considered launching another spying mission across the fjord tonight More knowledge of Viktor might help her conquer her enemy—before he seized upon this troubling weakness in her to engineer her own defeat...

  NINE

  THAT NIGHT, THE LONG-ANTICIPATED FEAST TO HONOR VlKTOR's return from the dead was held at his hall. He and his retainers gathered at the long table, with Viktor sitting at the head in his throne-style chair, and his three wolves resting at his feet, chewing on the scraps the men tossed them.

  By now Viktor was aware that several of his retainers were married, but no wives had been allowed to join the men tonight. Helga was also absent, and a bent crone Viktor had never seen before was serving the men their bread and mutton stew. The pathetic, hunched creature wore a hooded mantle and ragged mittens; she mumbled to herself as she passed with her bowl and loaf of bread. The unfortunate thrall must also be near-blind, Viktor mused, since she kept missing the men's plates and spattering their hands or arms with stew, or tossing slices of bread into their laps.

  Aside from the female, Nevin, the stablehand, assisted his twin brother, Quigley, the skald, in replenishing the men's ox-horns with mead. Studying the two male thralls, Viktor thought he had never seen a more different set of twins: whereas Nevin was thin, sallow, and taciturn, Quigley was round, jovial, and effusive. Pouring the mead, the skald amused the warriors by extemporizing poems, spinning amusing yarns of Viking life, and improvising tales of the Norse gods.

  As the gathering grew rowdier, Viktor realized that his kinsmen much preferred their heady libation over the food, and that the word "feast" was actually a misnomer for a drunken brawl. At the same time, he had to wonder what was more harmful—the alcoholic beverages his warriors swilled so freely, or the diet so rich in fat and cholesterol that the Vikings consumed daily. He frowned. In addition to his other duties here, he would need to develop programs both for reforming drunkards and for unclogging their arteries through establishing more healthful diets.

  At least with the coming of milder weather, he had convinced Helga to air out the longhouse and to do most of her cooking outside; consequently, the chamber was no longer as smoky. Viktor had also spoken with Eurich about constructing a chimney, but he had quickly realized that the forging techniques necessary for manufacturing a large stovepipe were nonexistent here in the Dark Ages. Instead, he had focused his energies on designing a chimney made of stone and whatever style of mortar he could improvise. With Svein's help, he had already begun to gather rocks for the project.

  A roar of lewd laughter drew Viktor's attention back to his men. The talk had become loud and boisterous as several warriors tried to top each other with accounts of their sexual prowess.

  "When I did service with the Varangian guard in Constantinople," announced a grinning Canute, "I seduced three of the Emperor's wives in their beds at the harem—and none was the wiser."

  "Think you we are amused?" scoffed Orm. "Your feat is as naught. Remember when we all went a-Viking three summers past?"

  "You are telling of the time we raided the Irish monasteries, took the monks as slaves, and plundered the illuminated manuscripts?" asked Svein.

  "Yea, and that is far from all
'twas plundered," bragged Orm. "I had all four of the monks' embroideresses, I did! Before 'twas over, a few of their garments needed stitches."

  Amid howls of laughter, Rollo jeered, "Why, a boy could tame four embroideresses. Recollect you the time we raided the Shetlands? I fornicated with five hefty milkmaids—one after another, and all on the same stool."

  "Did the stool break?" asked Canute.

  "'Twas the wenches who were well broken," answered the arrogant Rollo.

  Bawdy laughter all but shook the walls.

  "Was their butter sweet?" called a voice down the table.

  Rollo grinned. "Yea, and their milk 'twas like honey."

  Amid new bellows of mirth, Ottar announced proudly, "Our jarl can best you all. Remember ye the time at market, when he single-handedly slew a band of six brigands who tried to rob us?"

  "Yea, and afterward celebrated by bedding six women all in the same night?" added Svein.

  The men rocked with laughter, while Viktor smiled wanly and wondered just how depraved his predecessor and namesake had truly been. He watched the old crone pass again, and as he smiled, she hurled a slice of bread at him. Catching the missile, he muttered a thank-you, and the woman grunted before moving on.

  As much as Viktor's ears had been scorched by his men's tall tales, his eyeballs were not spared. Soon several other servant women ventured in, listening to the exaggerated stories and tittering to one another. Rollo and Orm quickly grabbed the comeliest two females and bore them, giggling and squirming, to the benches along the wall. There, the warriors brazenly hiked up the wenches' skirts, unfastened then-own leggings, and copulated with the women openly, grunting with pleasure and wrenching earthy cries from the slaves. Their kinsmen cheered them on and the skald recited a bawdy verse.

  Viktor was horrified, and would have intervened on behalf of the women except that the wenches, far from appearing abused, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves, shrieking with delight and moaning with abandonment as they bounced on the laps of the lusty warriors. After Rollo and Orm finished with them, they handed the females over to Canute and Svein, who took over with huge grins, quickly unfastening their own leggings. Again the women, far from protesting, seemed to relish the public coupling. Viktor felt stunned that even his blood brother seemed to see nothing wrong with such reprehensible behavior.