Viking

by Fabio

  Thus her knowledge gleaned tonight, far from helping her defeat Viktor, only made him seem all the more mysterious and appealing. The frightening bond, the mystifying pull she felt from him, had grown even stronger. If she did not take greater care, she might soon be enticed to like her enemy!

  Enough! she thought with a surge of righteous anger at herself. No matter how pretty, no matter how seemingly gentle, Viktor was a Viking, and no Viking could ever be trusted. It was high time to slay her enemy, before she became hopelessly entrapped in her own reckless, foolish game. And this time, by Loki, she would not let her weaker, feminine instincts get in her way.

  TEN

  VIKTOR HAD FINALLY DRIFTED OFF TO SLEEP WHEN STRONG Fingers gripped his arm and shook him. He jerked awake to see Svein hovering over him, holding a lighted whale-oil lamp. His kinsman's features were fraught with alarm.

  Beside Viktor, the wolves sensed the tension, and Geri and Thor growled. Viktor automatically petted the animals, murmured soothingly to them, and sat up.

  "What is wrong?" he asked Svein.

  " Tis Wolfgard!" Svein cried. "The sentries have spotted our enemy and his company making their way down the fjord in their dragon ship."

  "Damnation, he really is a pest, isn't he?" Viktor muttered, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. "What shall we do?"

  "If we hurry, jarl, there is still time to man our longship and stay him in the fjord before he can land and attack."

  Viktor scowled. "Is such a move preferable to mounting a land assault? We could hide out along the cliffs and ambush him and his company as they come ashore."

  Svein scowled in obvious disapproval. "A Viking warrior does not hide from his enemy like a woman, jarl."

  Viktor groaned, again realizing that these men had little, if any, knowledge of modern battle strategy. He had been cast back to ancient times, when a man lived by brute strength alone. Here, again, he might be able to effect some changes, but for now, what mattered was protecting his people.

  "Very well, Svein," he conceded, heaving himself to his feet. "We will sail out and prevent Wolfgard from landing. Rouse the other warriors."

  "I have already set Ottar to the task."

  "Good. Saddle our horses, and I will meet you at the stable."

  Viktor hastily prepared for battle. He donned a jerkin, leggings, and boots, threw on his chain-mail tunic and iron helmet, grabbed his broadsword and shield, and rushed out into the frigid night.

  Moments later he and Svein were galloping their horses across the tundra toward the fjord, navigating through the windy night by moonlight. By the time they descended to the wharf, Viktor could already spot lighted torches on the long-ship and his men preparing to set sail. The dark ship appeared about eighty feet in length, and was magnificently curved from stem to bow; a delicate frieze, pattern-welded in gold, climbed its high prow, culminating in a figurehead of Tyr, god of the sword. Several smaller craft were moored nearby, from sailing vessels to sleek rowboats.

  The two men dismounted, then hurried down the wharf and up the gangplank. They boarded, joining Canute and Rollo at midships.

  "Are you prepared to defeat Wolfgard's forces, jarl?" asked Rollo.

  Viktor nodded grimly. "We shall defend our own, and see to it that Wolfgard and his men do not set foot on our land."

  "Jarl, are you truly prepared to lead us?" asked a clearly skeptical Canute. "This is no time for false pride, and I would be pleased to volunteer to serve in your stead until your skills improve."

  Viktor and Svein exchanged a quick, meaningful glance; then Viktor shook his head firmly. "I shall lead." He cupped a hand around his mouth and called out, "All hands, prepare to set sail!"

  The oarsmen took their places, and at Viktor's signal, the men dipped their oars into the icy, rushing water. The ship glided away from the dock with only a token groan of timbers. At midships, several stout warriors raised the heavy mast, snapped it into its housing, and then unfurled the glorious blue-and-white square sail. The mighty longship tacked into the wind and, with the help of the oarsmen, made its way slowly against the current, up the swiftly running fjord.

  Viktor stood at midships overseeing the various activities and scanning the water ahead of them. In the darkness, with the wind howling and the deep forge flanked by high cliffs of black, craggy basalt, he felt almost as if they were sailing into hell.

  "Do you see it, jarl?" asked a tense Svein at Viktor's side.

  Wishing he had a pair of binoculars, Viktor squinted into the distance and spotted wan lights blinking to the north of them. "Wolfgard?"

  "Yea."

  "What do we do when he maneuvers closer?"

  "Our custom is to shoot burning arrows, to retard the advance of an enemy. But do not be surprised if Wolfgard grapples onto us and we are forced to fight at close quarters."

  "Damn—you would think he enjoys such barbaric mayhem!"

  Svein appeared astonished, raising an eyebrow at Viktor. "But he does, jarl."

  Viktor ground his jaw, his sense of apprehension increasing as the two ships moved into close range. Sizing up the approaching vessel, he realized Wolfgard's drakar, or dragon ship, was much larger and heavier than his own longship; Wolfgard had the advantage of size and power, but Viktor would excel in maneuverability and speed.

  At his order, a half-dozen archers moved to the bow. They lit arrows that had been dipped in tar, and began shooting the flaming missiles toward the approaching vessel. Soon Wolfgard's forces were returning the barrage, leaving Viktor and the others to dodge the razor-sharp slivers of fire, to pull arrows from the mast and bulwark to prevent the ship or sail from catching on fire.

  Viktor grimly watched the drakar glide closer, on a collision course with his own longship. The decks of Wolfgard's vessel were filled with howling, arrow-shooting, spear-waving barbarians, while their leader stood near the mast, his arrogant visage held high, his silver hair whipping about his face, and his arms proudly crossed over his chest. Viktor searched the decks for Reyna. He did not »pot her, although he realized she could be hidden behind the bulk of dozens of warriors.

  Anticipating the imminent melee, he was left with a sick feeling in his stomach. He hated the thought of bloodshed, but knew he must protect his people.

  The two vessels continued toward the inevitable impact, almost as if they were all playing a tenth-century game of chicken, Viktor mused. Finally, he was the first one to yield. At the last moment, he shouted an order to the helmsman to tack to the east. The vessel veered hard to starboard, compelling Viktor to grab the mast to keep from being hurled to the deck. Although a head-on collision was avoided, seconds later, the two vessels crashed alongside each other with a mighty bang and a screech of scraping timbers.

  Clinging to the mast on the tilting deck, Viktor heard the battle yells, watched the wicked tentacles of grappling irons sail through the air to lock his vessel with Wolfgard's—and then the battle began. Dozens of Wolfgard's shrieking warriors swarmed onto his ship, hurling spears, shooting arrows, and chopping powerfully with axes and swords.

  Quickly recovering his equilibrium, Viktor unsheathed his weapon, lifted his shield, and began to fight alongside his men. At once he encountered a huge, bearded warrior with a frightful ax. The man roared a battle cry and chopped at Viktor's shield. Viktor managed to block the blow, and was amazed that the shield did not buckle beneath the heavy, sharp ax. He retaliated with his broadsword, striking his opponent's ax and shield, although not managing to wrench either implement from the warrior's hands.

  The giant heaved a cry of anger, raised his ax, and charged Viktor again. Shielding another blow, Viktor heard his men fighting in close quarters around him—the crashing and striking, the screams of pain and bellows of rage. Even in the coldness, the metallic, sickening smell of blood was already heavy in the air.

  Viktor managed to sidestep his opponent as the warrior again lunged with his ax. Narrowly escaping the lethal blade, Viktor knocked the man hard across the shoulder
s with his shield and sent the attacker, groaning, to the deck.

  Viktor had no chance to catch his breath. A new warrior lunged in front of him, dancing about like a lunatic, crying out like a demented animal, and swinging his broadsword crazily. The man's eyes were rolling wildly in his gyrating head. With alarm, Viktor realized he must be confronting one of the dreaded berserkers, madmen who went into homicidal rampages during battle. He managed to dodge or parry the ferocious blows, even though his opponent's frenzy, feral eyes, and deranged screams were horrible to behold. At last, with a mighty heave, Viktor knocked the broadsword from the berserker's hand. When the man bayed his animal yell, then fled back toward Wolfgard's ship, Viktor wisely chose not to pursue him.

  Catching his breath and looking around him, he spotted Wolfgard in the distance, clashing with Rollo. Watching Wolfgard strike the side of Rollo's head with his broadsword and Rollo stagger, Viktor started to go to the warrior's aid. But before he could proceed three steps, Reyna, the Valkyrie woman, abruptly leaped into his path with her broadsword raised.

  Her smile was cruel, her body taut and ready for the charge. "We meet again, Viking," she sneered. "And so soon."

  Viktor had no time to respond as she prepared to lunge with her broadsword. For a moment he couldn't decide what to do. It went against all his principles to hurt a woman— assuming he could even gain the upper hand over this demon from hell. He was left with the sole choice of defending himself as best he could without hurting her.

  At her powerful thrust toward his midsection, he blocked with his shield. His successful foil only enraged the Valkyrie, and she struck and banged at him with greater wrath. During the tense seconds that followed, Viktor shielded himself again and again from Reyna's savage blows. But as much as she provoked him, he would not raise his sword against her.

  The Valkyrie soon caught on to Viktor's unusual strategy and became more maddened than ever. "Fight, son of Nidhogg!" she screamed, advancing, magnificent in her fury, striking and charging at him with murderous resolve and staggering strength. Still Viktor refused to do more than obstruct her vicious blows.

  Even as Viktor was weakening beneath her relentless assault, Wolfgard bellowed out the call to retreat. In a rush, the enemy warriors began to flee for their own vessel, ungrappling as they clambered over the linked railings of the ships.

  At Wolfgard's command, the Valkyrie paused to stare at Viktor with an odd intensity—as if she were contemplating how best to slay him. Then, before he could react, she brought the blunt side of her sword crashing down on top of his head. Tottering from the blow, Viktor realized that she was toying with him—telling him in no uncertain terms that she could kill him anytime she chose.

  "Farewell for now, Viking!" she shouted with ill temper, and turned to flee with the others.

  At first, still reeling dizzily, Viktor could only watch her. Then anger mobilized him. He chased after her, caught up with her just as she was trying to clamber over the railing, and managed to grab a shapely ankle. Even as she yelled and kicked, struggling to shake free of his grip, the warmth, the softness, of her bare skin excited him. She soon managed to extricate herself, but not before Viktor had pulled off her ankle a copper bracelet fashioned in the image of two coiled, spitting serpents.

  Wolfgard and his company cut the remaining lines and drifted away up the fjord. At the railing, Viktor watched them in silent fury and slipped the Valkyrie's bracelet onto his wrist. Then he spotted her on the deck of the other vessel. She was standing there proud as Loki's daughter, staring at him with contempt. Outrage prompted him to respond with equal disdain. He grinned, held up the wrist sporting her ankle circlet, and blew her a kiss. For Viktor, watching the ire flare on the Valkyrie's face when she saw the stolen bracelet was worth all the hell he had just endured. Satisfaction filled him at the thought that another of Wolfgard's harass-and-retreat raids had been repelled.

  But his sense of victory was short-lived as Svein called out behind him, "Jarl! Come quickly!"

  Viktor rushed to midships to find his men gathered around two fallen, blood-covered warriors who lay ominously still on the deck. Viktor glanced with alarm at Svein.

  "Jarl, Sigurd and Magnus are dead," he confirmed grimly.

  "Dammit!" Viktor exploded. He glanced from the corpses to his other warriors, most of whom appeared bruised or wounded. "Is anyone else badly hurt?"

  "Nay, jarl," Svein answered. "The rest of us were battered, but will recover—"

  "That will be scant comfort for the families of Sigurd and Magnus," Viktor cut in. "What a terrible waste. What in Hel started this feud anyway?"

  The men glanced at one another in uncertainty.

  Then Canute mused aloud, "Was it not the result of the dispute five summers past, when Wolfgard stole the beached whale that washed up on our side of the fjord?"

  "Methinks the feud began after Wolfgard's warriors kidnapped three of our female thralls," said Orm.

  "Nay, you both speak falsely," interjected Rollo, rubbing his battered head. "The feud ensued after Wolfgard's warriors desecrated our graveyard and broke several memorial stones."

  "Nay, nay, you are all in error," contradicted Ottar. "My father informed me the feud started out at sea, when Wolfgard and his men slipped up beside our longship, then cut loose our nets and stole our fish."

  "Well, which version is true?" demanded an exasperated Viktor.

  Following another awkward silence, in which the warriors glanced at one another in obvious puzzlement, Svein answered sheepishly, "Jarl, no one can remember."

  Viktor was incredulous, his hand slicing through the air as he spoke with barely repressed fury. "You mean to tell me you have been fighting Wolfgard's tribe for five years, yet you can't even remember what started this war?" He gestured toward the corpses. "These men are dead, and you do not even know why? What kind of fools are you, to sacrifice husbands and fathers over an insult no one can recall?"

  At Viktor's diatribe, the warriors grew shamefaced and sullen. They went off to nurse their wounds or attend to duties on deck. Svein remained by his jarl's side.

  Viktor's blood brother nodded toward the corpses. "Jarl, we must have a proper funeral for Sigurd and Magnus at the wharf."

  Viktor was bemused. "You are suggesting we launch them to Valhalla in a burning boat along the fjord, instead of in a flaming pit?"

  "According to the custom of our tribe, a burial on water is the only fitting tribute for a warrior slain in battle," Svein explained. " 'Twas how we sent you to the afterlife, as you will recall."

  "Right," Viktor muttered, too preoccupied to appreciate this bizarre custom that so closely paralleled the one in the movie he'd starred in. "Very well, then. We'll launch them on the fjord."

  Farther up the fjord in Wolfgard's drakar, Reyna stood trembling near the bow, staring grimly at the cliffs ahead, furious with herself. Behind her, Wolfgard and his warriors were cheering one another over the purported victory against Viktor, but Reyna hardly felt in a celebratory mood. She had just been afforded the perfect opportunity to slay her enemy ... yet at the last moment, she had gone soft and again spared his life!

  Equally strange, even as she had attacked Viktor with her broadsword, he had refused to strike back. Was it his seeming inability to hurt her that had compelled her to spare him? What was this bewildering power he held over her?

  And what was even more unnerving was that when she had fled, Viktor had touched her for the first time, grabbing her ankle and seizing her circlet... His thievery had left Reyna enraged, but also deeply jarred and daunted, as if Viktor had stolen her independence and now claimed that inner essence of her for himself. And that was not all that had been plundered, for his warm touch had seared her flesh, causing heat to streak up between her thighs and penetrate that secret, virginal part of her.

  The memory all but blinded her with rage and confusion. Was the Viking a god or a demon, her savior or her tormentor? Whatever Viktor the Valiant was, he threatened her on every level. She
was involved in a struggle not just for her life, but for her very soul ...

  Following the funeral rite of Sigurd and Magnus, Viktor stood on the wharf with Svein, both men silently watching the blazing funeral boat drift down the fjord, tacking southward toward the cold Atlantic.

  Viktor reflected on the purposelessness of the two men's deaths, and struggled against his feelings of anger and frustration. Something had to be done, he mused; this insane war could not continue. If he didn't act soon, women and children were bound to die, as well as warriors.

  Adamantly, he muttered to Svein, "This feud must end."

  "What course of action do you propose, jarl?" asked a skeptical Svein.

  Viktor's expression was resolute and unyielding. "I shall go to Wolfgard's village and reason with him, man to man, to end the conflict."

  Svein appeared horrified. "Jarl, you have lost your mind! Such a move will mean certain death for you! You will be slaughtered if you venture so foolishly among Wolfgard's clan."

  "Do not try to dissuade me," Viktor snapped. "My mind is made up."

  ELEVEN

  Jarl, this is madness! You must not go to Wolfgard's village alone!" Svein declared.

  "It is the only way," Viktor replied.

  That afternoon, after all the warriors had been refreshed by a much-needed nap, Svein was still arguing with Viktor as the two men, followed by half a dozen warriors, strode down the wharf toward the longship on which they had battled Wolfgard during the night.

  "Jarl, Wolfgard has no conscience," Svein asserted. "The man is ruthless, without honor. He is a renegade and an outlaw. Last summer, he refused to attend the Thing—"

  "Not the 'Thing' again?" Viktor inquired with a scowl.

  " 'Tis an assembly of all Vanaheim held each summer, in the tradition of the Icelandic Althing. There, misdeeds are aired and grievances settled. During the gathering at Haymaking Month, Wolfgard and his clan refused to appear to hear your charges of continued, unwarranted attacks on our people. The council declared Wolfgard a fuller outlaw—not that it has made any difference. His people shelter him, and he goes on raiding, terrorizing, and killing our people at will."