The Enchantment (18 page)

The harvest!

NINE

T
HE OLD
dairywoman's cow tails had been wrong. Late that very morning, the weather turned and the North Wind came riding down out of his mountain lair to darken the sky with his great cloud-cloak and chill the land with his breath. All the folk of Borger's village saw him come and they read in his fierce bluster the portent of crop-stripping gales and driving rain. Those villagers not already in the fields emptied their hands of tools and kettles and half-washed clothes and went running to help bring in the grain.

Aaren arrived at a run, alongside a number of others who dispersed into the fields to quicken the pace of cutting and bundling. She paused on the cart path, chest heaving, and scoured the patchwork of fields, looking for a place to start. Several workers were just standing at the edge of a nearby rye field, staring balefully at the sky and at one another.

“Here—you! Give me that and take one of the women's sickles!” She wrested a scythe from an old thrall man's hands, then turned to the women and young boys. “The rest of you with sickles start on the other side . . . cut and bundle as you go. Those without blades fall in behind me to gather and bundle.” Then, without a wasted moment, she laid to and began to cut.

Jorund found his way to the fields blocked by a muddle of carts, panicky horses, and a number of villagers staring at the sky and bemoaning the calamity about to befall them. He seized reins and calmed several of the sturdy fjord mares, sending them on their way. Then he turned to the trouble in his people's faces and seized their situation just as firmly as he had the horses.

“The North Wind is a coward,” he declared, lifting his face into the wind and pointing skyward toward the last bit of blue. “And he has not even fully defeated the Sky. It will be some time before he can turn his full fury on us . . . and by the time he does, we will have already taken our grain from the fields!” He shook a fist skyward.

The anxious villagers looked at Jorund's great fist, raised against their common enemy, and their faces thawed and their shoulders set with determination. They turned back to join the others in the fields, shouting encouragement to one another. Then, seeing them heading back to work, Jorund looked for a place to work himself.

He strode into a rye field and wrested a sickle from the hands of a harried young woman with a small babe tied on her back, sending her to the edge of the field. Pouncing to his knees at the head of the row, he began to swing the curved blade with determination. Halfway through the row, he felt a tapping on his back and turned to find Helga's boy holding out a long-handled scythe.

“My mother says you'll cut faster with this,” he said, panting.

“Your mother is a wise woman, Little Brother.” Jorund grinned, shoving to his feet, and traded blades with the boy. He arched his back and raised his elbows, swinging each arm in a circle to work the stiffness out of his shoulders . . . and found himself looking straight into Aaren Serricksdotter's steady gaze. She was cutting in the field across the way and had paused when she caught sight of him. When he searched her expression, she looked away and went back to cutting. He studied her wide shoulders and thick, swaying braid and his mouth turned up in a wry curl at the thought that she was just as sore and miserable as he was.

They worked at a frantic but steady pace. From field to field the villagers moved, like swarming bees, changing tools and places, spelling each other and stepping in to take up whatever task was required. Now and then, one would pause and lift a defiant fist to the old North Wind.

Aaren lost track of where her sisters were, of who gleaned and bundled behind her, even of which field she worked in. She was lost once again in a haze of numbed pain and determination . . . until someone clasped her by the shoulder and forced her around. She found herself facing a yellow-haired fellow whose features were a cleaner, more handsome version of old Borger's.

“Hold, Serricksdotter!” Garth Borgerson jerked his hand from her when he saw the glare on her face. “Leave something for the rest of us to cut,” he said with a nervous laugh. When she blinked and looked at him in confusion, he grinned and began to peel her cramped fingers from the scythe handle. “Even a Valkyr's daughter must rest sometime.”

Aaren staggered aside, then trudged to the edge of the field with the vision of his smile hanging in her mind. It was the first time anyone in Borger's village or his band of warriors had looked at her with anything other than mistrust or resentment. She collapsed in the dried weeds and closed her eyes, trying not to listen to her body's groanings, but a movement in the grass nearby made her pop her eyes open.

Looming above her was a thick-framed warrior with carrot-red hair and features coarser than old Borger's. Another of the old goat's offspring, she realized. But before she could scuttle back, the fellow thrust a bucket at her and declared in a gravelly voice, “You can't work if you don't drink, Serricksdotter.” When she looked dumbly at the bucket, trying to decipher his meaning, his raspy voice rumbled forth again. “Go on . . . you earned it.”

His broad mouth twisted into what looked like a wry smile. Rattled by the unexpected offer, she took the dipper and drank deeply of the foaming ale. The drink's warmth seeped quickly through her middle and spread along her limbs to deaden the ache. She watched the fellow stride back to his own work, with a sense of bewilderment. Two acknowledgements of her existence in the same day . . . she must be out of her head with fatigue and seeing things!

T
HE RAINS STARTED
just at dark: wind-driven sheets of huge, cold drops that flattened stalks and battered both humans and animals. But the harvest frenzy had already snatched most of the grain from the jaws of the storm, and the horses and carts lurched into motion and quickly trundled the last of their precious cargo toward the barns. The workers, cold, fatigued, and now soaked to the bone, were left to slog their way back to shelter. Once in the village, they scattered to their huts and houses, to warm and dry themselves and line their bellies with cold fare and sour ale.

Jorund dragged himself into the hall and headed for his sleeping closet, to change his sodden clothes and crawl into his furs for some rest. Borger entered the hall behind Jorund, heading toward his own sleeping quarters, and he caught sight of his son's destination.

“Firstborn!” the old boar called out. Jorund paused, then turned, his shoulders sagging with fatigue and irritation. Borger swaggered even with Jorund and stopped, wiping water from his ruddy face and rain-slicked beard.

“I see you slept in your own furs last night, boy.” He smirked. “Have the wenches in the thrall house lost their savor?”

Jorund met the crafty gleam in his father's eye and felt his blood heating precipitously. The old badger knew what had driven him back to his solitary pallet, curse his eyes! He had always had an extra sense for detecting smoldering lusts. And from the unholy pleasure in his face, Jorund guessed he'd already heard about the encounter with Aaren Serricksdotter in the women's house that morning.

“You sample the wenches often enough . . . you tell me,” Jorund ground out, turning away to push aside the heavy curtain.

“Jorund!”

He halted, but turned only his head, looking over his shoulder at his sire. As always, tension rose between them. After a moment, Borger relaxed his braced stance and his cagey eyes took on a lewd glint.

“They said you had her naked.” Borger narrowed one eye and licked his lower lip. “Are her breasts as full and toothsome as they seem, behind that armor?” Jorund was stung by the ill-concealed lust in the old man's face. The thought of the ranting old cur slavering over Aaren Serricksdotter brought Jorund's blood up. He made fists of his aching hands and leveled a vengeful look at Borger. Let the old hound stew in his own imaginings.

“More so.”

“I knew it! Curse me if I don't know a prime bit of fur-sport when I see it!” Borger crowed, slapping his sodden thigh, then sobering as Jorund turned away to his closet. “Hold, boy! I've not finished with you.”

“What now, old man?” Jorund demanded, staring straight ahead. He could feel his father's eyes measuring him in the long silence, and knew he was being compared once more to the old man's cursed standard of
the warrior.

“You did well this day in the fields.” Borger's voice came low and earnest, surprising Jorund. Fine praise and thank-words were not Borger's way; he was always one to bully more than persuade. “The folk saw the Harvest Stealer riding down on them and lost heart . . . until you came. You and the Valkyr's daughter. They saw you look straight into the jaws of the Cold Reaper and take up harvest blades to do battle. And they did the same.”

Jorund felt a familiar heat swelling his veins and setting fire to his belly. He made fists of his hands and clamped his jaw tight. It was true. But even the truth could seem tainted and misshapen when bent to Borger's purpose.

“You could lead them, Firstborn.” Borger stepped closer and the hushed urgency in his tone overwhelmed Jorund's resolve not to look at his father. Borger's face was grave and his eyes glowed with a fierce, compelling light.

“Yea, I could lead them,” Jorund declared, his voice like the knell of iron striking stone. “But never into
battle.
” He turned away.

“Jorund!” Borger's voice stopped him halfway through the curtain. The jarl stalked forward, his body tensed, his tone fraught with both command and dark persuasion. “Take a blade to the battle-wench, boy, and break her curse.” He edged closer. “Then with her at your side, take up your arms and lead your clan . . . claim the respect and loyalty of my warriors, and seize the high seat for your own, once and for all. My seat carries much power, Firstborn. . . .”

The words hissed and slithered along Jorund's nerves, seductively joining his two deepest desires: his longing to lead his people and his desire to conquer the battle-maiden and take her for his own. Borger was tempting him to take up the sword . . . to conform to the violent code of the warrior once more. Conflict rose in him like a sea squall, dark and tumid, heavy with unslaked desires and unvented angers. His body quivered, his throat tightened with need, and his eyes burned.

To have all he wanted, all he had to do was pick up a blade. And draw blood. Starting with Aaren Serricksdotter.

“Go to Hel, old man,” he gritted out. Then he stalked into his private closet and jerked the curtain shut behind him.

Borger stood for a moment, staring furiously at that heavy fabric. His cramped frame eased and his expression grew crafty once more as he recalled Jorund's trembling silence and realized that the whelp had actually been lured by his words.

“I may indeed go to Hel's cold, dark realm instead of the glorious Valhalla,” he said with a grin. “But not before I see you fight once more, Firstborn.”