The Enchantment (48 page)

As his spirits rose, his passions soared with them, and in a single, deft move, he rolled onto his back and pulled her atop his chest. “Ah, She-wolf . . . you are a wise and wily one. Truly, I am honored to be a prisoner in your lair.”

“‘A prisoner'?” she said, smiling, relieved to hear the playful tone in his voice once again. “You are hardly . . .” She stopped as she recognized the sensual vibrato in his voice. Then she seized his wrists and slid her bare body over his to sit astride his belly. “I believe I owe you, Wolf-tamer, for the time I spent as your prisoner.”

“And what revenge will you take on me, She-wolf?” he said, sucking in a breath as she began to move. Above him her rounded breasts jiggled and swayed, their dark tips hardened by the chilled air, and against him her honeyed heat rubbed and writhed, blazing a searing trail of sensation down his belly.

“You kept me cold and naked in your lair,” she purred. “I intend to keep you hot and naked in mine.”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
as yet another snow fell, Jorund called the assembly of warriors and prominent villagers together before his high seat and laid forth his plan to send an emissary to Gunnar Haraldson. He braced as he finished, expecting a storm of protest, and was not disappointed.

“Talk?” someone from the back shouted. “I say we make 'em scream for mercy!”

“Talk?” Garth bellowed in a voice reminiscent of his father. “They rob and bleed us and you would have us
talk
?” And behind his complaint there welled a fist-shaking, finger-jabbing clamor of agreement.

“They wouldn't have attacked if Borger hadn't been so eager to bleed them . . . of both blood and silver,” Jorund answered, boldly engaging one pair of eyes after another among the warriors, pouring the oil of new reasoning on the troubled waters of their thinking. “Ask yourselves: What would you have done if it was your son held captive, your last mark of silver demanded to free him? I say Borger would have done the same to Gunnar . . . and more so.”

“That be truth!” Old Oleg Forkbeard cried, thumping his knee. “Borger wouldn't rest till he carved the blood-eagle on old Gunnar's back . . . if it was Jorund held for ransom.”

“That be truth, old warrior,” Hakon Freeholder declared, rising. “The old jarl—he knew how to answer force.” He raised a brawny fist and shook it. “With greater force!”

There was more commotion around the assembly as Jorund's attempt to get them to think of more than one side faltered. He tried again.

“Who among you would not defend his home, his flocks, his harvest? Perhaps Gunnar believed that was what he was doing when Borger attacked on the first raid. It could be he wishes peace, as well. I want to end this feud before there is more killing.”

“We'll end it,” Freeholder proclaimed. “When the last son of Gunnar goes to ninth Hel!”

“It seems to me you don't mind killing, Brother Jarl,” Garth snarled, just loud enough for a number of others to hear, “as long as your opponent has four legs.”

Jorund's fists clenched as he confronted the surly Freeholder and his backers, then swung his gaze to an equally hostile Garth and his comrades. He had tried talking with them, tried reasoning, and they were too stubborn or too stupid to see. All they understood was force. . . . Well, then—by Godfrey's Hell—he would give them
force.
He took a deep breath and stalked toward them, his eyes narrowing, his shoulders swelling.

“I have tried to reason with you, but you stop your ears and harden your hearts. So be it,” he declared, his voice deepening to a raw, angry scrape. “I need no counsel or blessing from you. I am jarl here and if I wish to send someone to talk to Gunnar and his son Leif, I shall!” He raked a challenging stare through the ranks of his warriors. “I need but two warriors to carry my words . . . two men of courage willing to risk much . . . to gain much for all our clan.”

“It'll be ridin' to a useless slaughter,” Garth proclaimed sullenly, crossing his arms and glaring at Jorund. “No warrior of any sense will go.”

“Someone of courage will,” Jorund decreed. “Who?” He searched the faces of his men, looking for that spark of belief, or that trace of loyalty that would yield to persuasion. One by one they lowered their eyes or turned their faces away, squirming under the challenge he had laid upon them.

“I . . . I will go. I will speak to Jarl Gunnar for you.”

Shock rippled through the hall and eyes widened on the source of that clear, feminine voice. Marta Serricksdotter stood at the edge of the high seat, clutching a fur wrap to her breast. Her face was pale and her clear blue eyes were wide and utterly sincere.

“I am not afraid to go, Jorund. I will carry your words . . . and speak of peace.”

With the first stunned moment past, a gasp, a stammer, and a choked laugh of surprise were heard, but quickly died. She came to Jorund, squaring her shoulders under the weight of their collective disbelief. It took every bit of her courage and her hidden love for Leif to speak out so in public. This was her chance . . . her
one
chance. She managed a tentative smile at Jorund, then turned her earnest eyes on the others.

“Who will go with me?” Her words dealt them all a stunning blow.

“Marta . . .” Jorund smiled wanly at her, then shook his head and made a gesture of exasperation. “I cannot send you, Little Sister.”

“I am not afraid, Jorund,” she responded, wincing at the way the men glowered at her. She did not mean to shame them . . . only to find a way to be with Leif and to stop the feuding. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Send me.”

A shocked hush fell on the assembly. A mere girl was making cowardly fools of them!

“I will go with her,” Aaren said, shoving to her feet and hurrying to put her arm around Marta. “I believe in your desire for peace, Jorund.” She turned a fiery look on her fellow warriors. “Perhaps it does take a woman's heart to yearn for peace. But most certainly it takes a warrior's courage to seek it out.” This time even Jorund was dumbstruck . . . and scrambling for a way to deny them.

“Nej,”
came a seasoned male voice from the side, “you must not go, Fair Warrior. You are needed here with the jarl. And you, Little Maid . . . your heart is bold, but it is a warrior's task.” It was Hrolf the Elder who spoke. He stepped forward and turned to search the hall for another. When he found the face he sought with an inquiring look, he received a nod in response. “You have two now. My son and I will go.”

“But Young Hrolf was injured.” Jorund shot a look through the assembly to the young warrior who stood with his arm still in a sling. Young Hrolf promptly removed his arm and showed it to be hale enough to travel.

“You have your peace-speakers, Jarl,” Hrolf said solemnly. “Now grant us a boon in payment for our hard task.” Jorund jerked a nod, admitting his petition. “While we are gone, sharpen your spears, swords, and axes. Strengthen your shields and prepare well for the fight . . . if we should fail.”

Jorund searched Hrolf's leathered face, understanding the warrior's message. So it was. Speak of peace and prepare for battle. It was the price of his vision. He looked around him at the proud and stubborn faces of his warriors and kinsmen. Without their cooperation, there would never be real peace. He would have to give them this, to let them have their weapon-strength, and to pray their preparations would prove unnecessary.

“So be it,” Jorund declared. “Hrolf will go to speak. And we will prepare ourselves for battle . . . if the talking fails.”

The next day, Jorund sent a rider carrying a colored arrow to all the outlying farms, alerting the freeholders to their defenses and summoning them to armed duty at the first major thaw. After much consultation with Jorund, Hrolf and his son set off for the farmstead of a prosperous farmer, nestled in the oft-disputed borderlands between Borger's and Gunnar's holdings. From there they would send word to Gunnar's village of their mission and await reply: admittance or refusal. The entire village turned out in the fresh snow to bid them farewell and a new blessing that had nothing to do with the gods of Asgard: peace-luck.

After all the others, even the Hrolfs' wives, had returned to the warmth of the hall, Aaren and Jorund stood together in the pristine cold, watching the two figures growing more distant. It was the launching of a dream. With a sigh, Aaren threaded her fingers through his and strode with him to the smithy . . . to prepare weapons for battle.

T
HE NIGHT WAS
moonless and the trees loomed black and spidery at the edges of the village. Great patches of night-blue shadows veiled all movement, cloaked all presence from the few dozing watchers still posted along the routes to the village. The snow-blanket cushioned the sounds of feet and hooves, and only the occasional creak of harness and the motion of limbs against leather bore witness to the ominous gathering in the trees along the eastern edge of the village, between the dwellings and the silent lake.

Stealthily, a dark tide of human forms flowed along the edge of the houses surrounding the commons, wrapping past the smithy, extending like an uncoiling serpent to loop the granary . . . then gliding through the snow-laden huts . . . inching toward the women's house. An arm flashed as a signal, and a well-tended coal ignited a torch, which lighted another, then another. A ring of fierce yellow flames soon circled the granary, and with another signal the serpent struck, sinking those searing yellow fangs into the low-hanging roof.

Soon the cedar roof was burning and the thrall who slept on a pallet inside awakened to the flames and came tumbling out the door—straight into the invaders' hands. They allowed no sound as they dragged him away and silenced him.

“Fire!”
One of the night-watchers by the shore spotted the flames and came running toward the village, banging on doors and calling out the alarm. This time, the invaders let him run and call and bang. Soon the hall itself was being alerted with cries of “The granary—fire!”

A horde of invaders burst through the unbarred door of the women's house with weapons drawn and torches raised. They pulled the shocked women from their pallets and muffled their screams. Snarling threats and shoving them back against the walls and down on the floor, they groped the women's frantic, writhing bodies with coarse pleasure. Then the raiders' attention focused on two of the thrashing, protesting forms, and they seized them, stuffed cloths into their mouths, and wrapped them in blankets snatched from nearby pallets. With ugly laughter and talk of taking their rewards in their captives' flesh, they slung the two over their shoulders and carried them out into the frigid night.

At the same moment, the doors of the smithy were breached and the thralls who slept there were knocked asunder. Brun tried valiantly to prevent them from gaining access to the armory, blocking the door with his thick body and flailing fists—for, ironically, he seldom wielded a blade and thus never kept one near at hand. The attackers soon overpowered him and bashed him senseless, and poured into the armory to seize newly struck blades and spears and set flame to the new wooden shields stored in the smithy's open shed. Then with their arms full of weapons, they raced for the nearby trees. And in the burgeoning confusion of fire and shouting and running, they were not even noticed.

Fire!
Aaren and Jorund sprang up in their furs at the first shout in the hall and in a heartbeat were frantically donning their garments. Jorund only bothered with breeches and boots before racing out into the hall and seizing the sentry to rattle the news from him.

“F-fire—the granary's afire!” the man gasped. It might have meant a hundred things . . . Around Jorund, warriors were lurching from the benches to their feet, instantly awake and reaching for their blades.

“Garth!” Jorund shouted, and his younger brother appeared at his shoulder in a bare tunic, his boots half laced. “Take a dozen men through the village—find out what's happening. The rest of you—follow me!”