With each claim, old Borger's jaw loosened and his shoulder muscles tightened. He stared, seeming unsettled by the glowing eyes beneath that flat, broad-brimmed hat.
“The Serrick I recall had far less word-skill than you, old man. If you are Serrick, what brings you from the very threshold of the gods to the hall of Borger Red Beard after all these years?”
“A debt.”
There was a rumble of consternation among Borger's men and he snarled an order for silence.
“What debt, old man?” he demanded, glowering. “Do you now come to claim a share of spoils long spent from a voyage long past?”
Again a rusty chuckle came from that hoary head.
“
Nej,
Jarl. I have not come to collect a debt, but to pay one. I had no silver to pay the freeman's tax. And through the years the debt has mounted. A score of years . . . still owing.”
Borger's combativeness melted, replaced by a crafty, wide-growing grin.
“This is a grave matter, Sword-stealer.” Borger covered his eagerness with a frown. “No man may take sustenance from my land, drink my water, hunt my game, and cut my timber without paying just tribute.”
“Ahhh, but I have done you service, Jarl. Guarding the north reaches of your realm . . . remembering your name to the North Wind in winter and the Singing Brook in summer,” Serrick responded, watching Borger closely.
“The North Wind owns no silver and spins no silk. Nor do mountain brooks run full of Frankish wine.” Borger had always been one to honor the gods and the forces of nature, but never at the expense of profitable human commerce. “If all of Midgard sighed my name,” he declared, “there would still be mouths to feed and backs to clothe . . . swords to forge and sailcloth to buy.”
“You have not changed, Red Beard.” Serrick gave Borger a calculating look. “Except that now there is hoarfrost in your beard and in your welcome. You do not even offer a stranger a horn of ale in hospitality.”
Borger stiffened. Lack of hospitality toward a stranger was a most serious charge among the clans of the Norsemen. The gods were believed to assume mortal shape now and then, to walk among men and test the generosity of jarls and chieftains. Borger fidgeted on his seat as he scrutinized that felt hat and the unusual eyes beneath it. The Allfather, Odin himself, was known to wear a wide-brimmed hat as a disguise among men . . .
. . . a fact Serrick had considered in choosing his raiment for this occasion. Aaren's mouth quirked up on one side. Father Serrick was a clever one. Seeing him match wits so effectively with the jarl bolstered her confidence in his decision to bring them here. Father Serrick knew what he was about.
“Ale!” Borger bellowed. “Bring a mead-foaming horn for an old warrior, a comrade in battles past.”
Serrick's face creased with a gap-toothed smile as he took the horn and downed it in the fashion of a true warrior: all in one breath. Then he shoved the empty horn back at the thrall who had served him.
“Now about this debt I have come to pay,” Serrick said. “Twenty years of tribute, Jarl. And though I have no silver, you will be well paid.” He turned and walked back through the hall to fetch Aaren's sisters. Aaren lowered her head as she trailed them through the press of revelers and stopped in the shadow of one of the great pillars that stood on either side of the high seat.
All craned their necks to watch as Serrick ushered little Miri and Marta before the high seat and pulled the hoods from their heads. Sounds of astonishment rippled through the gathering.
Aaren's little sisters were twins . . . young and flaxen-haired and fair as summer. When Father Serrick dragged their cloaks from them, there were gasps of delight at the sight of their willowy curves and slender white arms. They were robed in linen tunics with fine pleated sleeves and soft woolen kirtles fastened by handsome carved brooches. Their garments were expertly stitched and bound with red woven braid that bore testimony to their skill with the loom, dye-pot, and needle. But it was their faces that drew the eyes of every man in the hall. Such fresh and comely faces: delicate ovals of pale cream inset with eyes as blue as summer sky and lips the color of ripe berries.
Borger thrust to his feet and slammed his drinking horn to the floor.
“What is this, old man? A trick of some kind?”
“No trick, Red Beard. It is your payment. Made in womanflesh.” Old Serrick's tone bore a hint of pleasure that caused Borger to tear his gaze from the twin vision and look at him. Serrick smiled. “These are my daughters . . . maidens, untried by men. I bring them in payment of my tribute. They will be yours, to do with as you please.” He paused, then added with a canny smile: “Upon two conditions.”
Borger swallowed hard, sending a hot eye over the lush swell of the maidens' breasts and the promising curves of their hips. His face flamed as his frame went taut with lustful anticipation. He could only manage one half-growled word.
“Mine?”
“Yea, Red Beard . . . if you accept the terms.” Serrick watched the old jarl closely as he laid forth his conditions. “Though given in payment, they are to be freewomen. Will you agree?”
Borger nodded, swallowing hard. His gaze was hungry; his mouth was watering as he surveyed the lines of their nubile young bodies.
“And you, Red Beard, will not take them to your own furs . . . nor ever pierce them with the spear of your flesh. Do you agree?”
That stopped Borger short. He sputtered and glowered while raucous excitement broke out in the hall. If Borger himself could not mate them, his men realized, the maids would be available for his sons and warriors! Around him a drunken howl went up, demanding he agree.
Borger hitched about and lumbered back to his chair, throwing himself into it with a scowl while his men crowded closer, shouting at him. He glared and muttered and fumed, knowing that in the end he would have to consent to the old man's terms. His sons needed women, and from the fierce looks and words they were hurling at him, there was a good possibility they would slit his throat if he refused. He finally bashed his haranguers aside and rose, glowering at Serrick.
“These be
your
daughters, you say? What proof have you?”
All quieted and strained closer to hear.
“No proof but their loyalty to me . . . and the story of their making. They were sired upon a Valkyr, whose swan plumage I stole as she bathed in a mountain pool. I compelled her to stay with me a while and she gave birth and set them upon my knee.”
Mutters raced through the hall at that. It was widely known that Odin's warrior-maidens, Valkyrs, assumed the guise of swans in the sky and that they sometimes cast off their plumage and returned to human form as they bathed in isolated pools. A mortal man who stole that plumage while a Valkyr bathed could compel her to mate with him.
Borger stared at Serrick, comparing the Serrick of old with the crafty new creature before him. The warrior he had known years ago had stolen the legendary jeweled sword of Ibn Hassadanâthe very sword they had used to barter their freedom from the sea-raiders of Alexandria. A man who could steal such a sword could probably steal a Valkyr's plumes, as well. But the most convincing proof of the old man's brazen tale was standing before them with flaxen hair, and faces and curves worthy of an immortal mother.
“They are mine to give, Red Beard. Never fear,” Serrick assured him. Both maids nodded, verifying his story and casting respectful looks at him.
“Then . . . I agree, old man,” Borger snarled, unleashing a tumult of reaction in the hall. He stepped down from the dais of the high seat, staring hungrily at the heavenly pair. “I accept your two daughters in payment ofâ”
“
Three
,” Serrick declared.
“Three?” Borger frowned. “But I see onlyâ” He jerked his head up as he caught sight of Serrick holding out a hand behind him.
Aaren took a deep breath and strode forward, pushing her way through the throng to her father's and sisters' sides. Borger exchanged looks of consternation with his men . . . which became stares of astonishment as she halted before him.
“My third daughter,” Serrick announced. “My eldest. Aaren, by name. Sired on a rare raven-haired Valkyr some years before the others.” He had to stretch to reach the hood that cloaked her head.
As the covering slid, Borger Volungson instinctively held his breath. He was stunned to behold a mass of dark, burnished hair, held in place by a leather headband of the sort worn by most of the men in Borger's hall. Within that swirl of flame-kissed hair was a sleek, sun-polished face, the likes of which had never been seen in Borger's village. Prominent cheekbones and a high forehead framed unusual features set in perfect balance: a long straight nose with gently flared nostrils, thickly lashed eyes the color of Baltic amber, and a broad, sensually carved mouth the color of red sea coral. It was a stunning and undeniably womanly face, but what was most remarkable about it was the sense of power and light, the force of spirit within that countenance. It was indeed a face that could have been birthed by a rare raven Valkyr. Or sired by a god.
Borger felt fingers of dread teasing the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. The bewitching creature stood slightly taller than him . . . taller than most of the men in his hall.
“This is
your
daughter, old man?”
“She is mine.” Serrick chuckled and reached for the ties of her cloak. When he dragged away her heavy mantle, Borger sucked a breath unexpectedly and choked on his own juices. Gasps and murmurs of amazement rattled throughout the hall, then all fell deathly silent.
Over her linen tunic Aaren Serricksdotter wore a molded leather breastplate that was fitted with shocking faithfulness to her womanly attributes, and she wore a warrior's breeches, leggings, and wristbands. It took a moment for their eyes to overcome the shock of her raiment and realize that the frame beneath those garments was just as amazing. She had long, shapely legs; broad, smooth shoulders that framed high, full breasts; and arms that were both sleek and muscular. Above her left shoulder rose the polished horn and silver handle of a sword, and on her tapered hands were calluses that spoke of her use of it.
Around the hall, eyes burned and mouths drooped.
Aaren Serricksdotter was a warrior . . . a battle-maiden . . . the very essence of a Valkyr in human form.
“My three daughters, Red Beard.” Serrick swept his offering with a trembling hand. “Do you accept my payment?”
“Yea, Old Sword-stealer,” Borger said thickly, unable to tear his gaze from the battle-maiden's provocative breastplate and what obviously lay beneath it. His conflicting passions shocked his voice to a whisper. “I accept.”
“Then by your own word you have made them yours.” Serrick heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away. But after two steps he stopped and turned back to find Borger's eyes still bulging and his mouth still agape.
“Oh . . . and did I forget me to say . . . they're under an enchantment?”
A wasp nest stuffed into his breeches couldn't have had more of an impact on Borger than those fateful words.
“En-chantment?”
he roared, ripping his gaze from Serrick's daughters to spear the wily warrior with it. “Hel's gate, old man! What have you saddled me with?”
“Nothing too terrible.” Serrick's withered mouth drew up into a crafty smile. “The enchantment was laid upon them by the goddess Freya herself, at Odin's command. That I captured and compelled one of his Valkyrs to warm my furs, the Allfather might have understood, for a warrior should have rightful spoils of conquest. But to capture and plant my seed in
two
. . . Odin was angered mightily that a mere mortal owned such cunning craft. He demanded reparation.”
“And?”
Borger jolted forward, his fists clenched and his neck veins at full swell. The battle-maiden stepped deftly in front of her father, stopping the jarl short. He had to tilt his head slightly to meet her fierce golden stare, and the sight of her looming slightly above him sent a draft of cold caution through him.
“By Freya's decree,” Serrick continued, “none of Serrick Sword-stealer's daughters can be mounted and bred until the eldest, the warrior-maiden Aaren, is vanquished in honest blade-battle
by one lone man.
Until that time, Red Beard, they are given into your hands to enrich your hall with their beauty and their labors. And to enrich you with the bride-price they will bring . . .
if
the warrior-maiden is ever defeated.”
Borger stood eye-to-eye with Old Serrick's Aaren, confounded by her size and the unblinking way she confronted him. In all his wide-wandering life, in all of the uncommon adventures of his many voyages, he couldn't recall ever seeing a female like this one. Daughter of a Valkyr. A battle-maiden.
An enchanted warrior.
Enchantments were serious and worrisome things. The gods of Asgard used them to test humankind and woe befell those found wanting. Poor harvests, lost battles, swamped ships, plagues of illness . . . the possible penalties for defying an enchantment were too many to contemplate. Not even Borger Red Beard would tempt the Fates and Furies so.
“Do the women still sleep in the same women's house?” Serrick asked. Borger seemed incapable of answering, so some of his sons nodded mutely in his stead. “Come,” he ordered his daughters, “I will show you the way.”
The younger ones followed Serrick out, and finally the warrior-maiden disengaged from the jarl's burning stare and stooped to pick up their discarded cloaks. Every eye in the hall fastened on the graceful flexing of her long, tapered legs, on the bend of her sleek shoulders, and on the fine curve of her buttocks beneath her snugly stretched breeches. As she turned to follow her father and sisters, all eyes warmed on the sway of her bottom and the flow of her thick, burnished hair down her back. Every tongue was cloven to the roof of every mouth for a long moment after she was gone.