The Enchantment (49 page)

As they ran across the commons, the door to the women's house swung open and Old Sith and Inga and Gudrun staggered forth, crying. But their shock and anguish was caught up in the general panic of the fire, and not even Aaren, running past in her breeches and boots, Jorund's tunic in her hands, could hear more than fire-fright in their calls and did not stop to listen. When flames were spotted on the roof of the smithy as well, the entire village was galvanized. Panic erupted and Jorund and Aaren and the Freeholder and Garth had to seize control and shake people to make them listen and obey.

“Buckets and pails and bowls—bring all you have!” Jorund shouted at one after another.

“Keep the children back—bring spades and shovels, rakes, blankets—anything to beat out the flames!” Aaren yelled, running for the smithy and seizing a pole from a corral fence to pry stacks of burning wood away from the walls.

They worked in shifts in the freezing cold, wetting blankets and braving the thick smoke to beat at the flames and pour buckets and pails of snow on them. The entire village, from the youngest child and lowliest thrall to the mightiest warrior and jarl, labored heroically to save the granary and the forge. The plentiful snow proved a blessing. Cold and wet, more accessible than water would have been, it gradually turned the tide as they scooped it up and threw it onto the flames. The fire at the smithy was beaten without heavy loss to the enclosed structures, the harness storage and armory. It was mostly the open shed over the great hearth and bellows that suffered.

But the fire in the granary was hotter and fiercer. The dusty grain itself had caught fire. Then the burning roof timbers collapsed on the interior, and all they could do was pour snow on the smoldering wreck and watch with heat-singed faces and frozen hands as much of their bountiful harvest turned into cinders and smoke.

As the frantic pace eased, someone spotted the granary clerk in a nearby snowbank, bleeding from a belly wound. The sight of blood on snow, in the light of early dawn, was a grisly shock to senses already reeling. Even as they called for help to carry the fellow, Aaren was discovering the half-smothered forms of Brun Cinder-hand and his helpers outside the armory door. She called for help to carry them to safety—then glimpsed the nearly empty armory and realized the blood on Brun's battered head was from a beating, not from the fire.

“Jorund!” She went running to find him, searching through the sooty, exhausted villagers who stood like crumpled stalks around the smoking granary. She found him standing before the blackened doors, his back rigid, his face scorched and glowering.

“It's ruined. A whole year's harvest . . . most of a year's grain,” he said bitterly, as if still trying to comprehend it. He looked around at the devastation in the faces of his people. “They worked so hard . . . even the children.” They had come together, had struggled side by side to snatch their harvest from the jaws of the Cold Reaper—only to see it go up in flames. In their faces he could already see fears for the winter ahead; there would be much hunger in the village before spring.

“Jorund . . .” She touched his gritty arm. “It was an attack,” she choked out, scarcely able to speak as the cold air seared her smoke-weakened lungs. “Brun and his helpers—they were beaten. Someone broke into the armory and stole most of the weapons—” The news produced such a look of loathing in him that she shivered.

“Gunnar,”
he said hoarsely. “He came back to finish his treachery.” A searing pain slashed through his consciousness. While he had talked peace and tried to convince his people to set aside old hatreds and lay down their arms, Gunnar and Leif had been talking of war and spurring their warriors to a raiding frenzy.

He shifted his gaze back to the smoldering wreck of the granary. It was a perfect lesson in the destructiveness of the fighting and bloodshed . . . but one that could only incite his people to new hatreds and deepen their desire to fight. Then the crowd that had gathered around him murmured and parted to admit four men carrying a body. He stared down at the limp form of the thrall man who had tended the grain . . . stained with garish, jarring crimson. And he felt something cold and brutal inside him beginning to loosen . . . to uncoil . . . and he tensed furiously, trying to fight it, clinging to reason.

Aaren looked up, her face filled with horror. “Jorund, something must be done.”

He wiped his eyes with both hands, as if trying to clear away that hideous red from his vision. “I have a treasury,” he ground out, looking into the faces of his people. “I will buy grain.” But even as he said it, he knew that finding surplus grain among the clans would be difficult. “No one will starve!”

“That is not what I meant. Jorund, this cannot go unredressed,” Aaren declared, drilling her meaning into his eyes with quiet force. His breath came harder and faster as he looked around him at the anger and expectation in the others' faces. They believed it, and now his Aaren believed it, too.

A commotion at the edge of the crowd disrupted that painful exchange. Oleg Forkbeard jostled people aside and ushered a weeping, wild-eyed Sith forward to Jorund. Between sobs, the old dairywoman choked out: “They come for . . . the women. An' took—” A shuddering gasp choked off the rest. Aaren wheeled to face Sith and felt a tremor of panic for the first time that night as the old woman's anguished eyes turned on her.

“Who?” she demanded, rushing to the old woman and seizing her shoulders. “Who did they take?”

“M-Miri and Marta . . . our little Miri and Marta!” Sith gasped out.

The news hit Aaren like a blow to the gut. She was unable to take a breath. Her senses contracted massively . . . she could scarcely hear Gudrun's tearful voice saying: “They broke in on us—snatchin' and grabbin' and shovin' us—sayin' old Gunnar would have the lot of us for flesh-sport. Then they spotted Miri's and Marta's yellow hair and took them . . . bound them up in blankets and carried 'em off . . . laughin' about how they would . . . would . . .” The shock and pain in Aaren's face stopped her from finishing it. But Aaren knew—they all knew—what fate the raiders had planned for her sisters.

“Nej! Nej!”
she wailed, making fists and stiffening against the pain erupting in the middle of her belly and slamming upward through her chest. “Not my Marta—my little Miri—
not them
!” She ran for the women's house.

“Aaren—” Jorund grabbed her, but she wrested from his grip and kept going.

He bolted after her, as did half the village. They raced to the women's house and he charged in after her to find her standing, staring at their empty pallets. She began furiously stripping the furs and blankets and straw from the bench, dragging them onto the floor piece by piece, as if searching for some shred of their presence. Anguish mounted in her.

“
Nej
—they cannot be gone—taken—” When there was nothing left to fling away, she stood heaving for breath, holding in sobs as she stared at the bare wooden benches. Suddenly their faces rose up inside her, as they had been that first night in the village . . . pale, frightened . . . filled with trust in her ability to protect them. But she
hadn't
been there to protect them . . . she had been lying safe in Jorund's arms in the hall. And they had been terrorized and abducted. Even now they might be lying beaten . . . or raped . . . or both.

Torn between anguish and rage, she fought Jorund's arms as they tried to encircle her. She dug in with her heels and managed to drag both of them out the door before Jorund finally halted her and seized both her wrists.

“Aaren—look at me! Dammit, look!” He jerked her arms and called to her until the sense of who was calling to her penetrated her reeling thoughts. The anguish in her face pierced him to the core. His pain equalled hers . . . was spawned by the same grief. His Aaren and her little sisters . . . he hadn't protected them, or the rest of the village . . . and it was a warrior's duty,
his
duty, to protect.

“Gunnar's men took Miri and Marta,” she said with a groan.

“Aaren, we'll get them back. Aaren—” He banded her with his arms and pulled her tight against him. She fought at first, struggling against his comfort even as she struggled against her pain. But slowly, as he talked to her and his warmth seeped through her shoulders, she began to still in his arms.

Then she reached for the one thing in her life that meant as much to her as what had just been stolen. Her arms wrapped frantically around him, and she buried her face in his shoulder as the dam of her emotions broke. He lifted her and carried her through the crowd to the hall and straight to their closet.

His head was spinning, his whole world suddenly turned upside down. As he sat holding Aaren, overwhelming waves of loss broke over him . . . the harvest, his people's safety, Miri and Marta . . . and his dream. Peace. He had wanted it so much . . . believed in it so strongly, and had convinced Aaren to believe, too.

Now, other beliefs, other values—long suppressed—roiled up in him, hot and potent.
A warrior's duty . . . might makes right . . . fear no man . . . protect your hall, your people, and your land.
Those beliefs were as much a part of him as his desire for peace.

Inside him was still the warrior, and the warrior was not the same as the beast.
Don't be afraid of your strength,
Aaren had said.
I had to find your strength to respect you . . . to make peace with you.
Now he understood . . . he needed the warrior part of him, and the courage and determination it lent him. Aaren and his people needed it.

And his enemies needed to respect it.

M
ORE THAN A
score of horses thundered down the forest paths, their hooves churning the ground, sending mud and snow flying. Dawn was an hour behind them, but their riders had driven them relentlessly onward, bearing the raid-spoils of Borger's village well beyond the reach of immediate retaliation. It was only when they reached the first river and crossed it that the leader slowed and raised a massive hand to halt them. He pulled the blanket-wrapped body lying across his knees into a sitting position on the saddle before him. And before the hard, eager stares of his warriors, he peeled back the blanket to bare a fair, tousled head and a pair of soft shoulders.

Marta could scarcely see or hear—her lungs burned and her whole body felt pummeled from being carried across a horse for an hour. Her first thought was to struggle—her second was that the voice that laughed, the arms that cradled her, seemed oddly familiar. And her third thought, as she stared up into a helmeted visage and slowly recognized Leif's beaming grin and glowing eyes, was that she was dead and this was Brother Godfrey's “Heaven.”

“No need to fight, Little Morsel,” Leif said warmly, subduing the last of her squirming by pulling her tightly against him. “I don't intend to eat you up right here.”

“Leif! It is you!” she cried, and she flung both arms around his neck with such force that he barely kept his balance in the saddle. Around them rose a number of husky male laughs and a whistle or two. When she released him and pulled back, her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were jewel bright.

“You came,” she said, glancing at the rough, armor-clad warriors around them, then returning her gaze to him. She smiled and lowered her lashes, embarrassed by the depths of her eagerness and pleasure.

“I promised,” he said.

“She is indeed a beauty, Leif,” a warrior in a mail shirt and helmet said from the horse beside them. “And she seems pleased to see your ugly hide. Is the other one as pretty as she?”

As the warrior spoke, Leif turned his mount so they could see the horse where Miri rode. The warrior who held her had just peeled the blanket from her head and they saw her gasp for breath and stare blearily at her surroundings. And when the sight of a dozen leering male grins turned on her registered in her mind, she sucked in air and screamed with all her might.

TWENTY-ONE

J
ORUND HAD
to act. He strode through his long hall, shouting orders at the sooty, grieving villagers who had collected there seeking reassurance from their new jarl. He seized the shipwright by the shoulders, giving the dazed fellow a shake that made him come to life. “Go for a sail hoist and rope . . . take your men and lift and drag the burned roof beams from the granary.” When the fellow took off at a run, he turned to a group of village craftsmen and charged them: “You, you, and you . . . get shovels and be ready to dig through the rubble to salvage what you can of the grain beneath.” He had still other duties for the chief women: “And Helga, Sith, Bedria—organize the women with baskets, anything that will hold grain, and carry what is saved to the main barn.”

The other villagers and a number of his men scrambled out the hall's main doors after him, and he turned to his warriors. “Thorkel—did they take any horses? Where are Brun and his helpers? How bad are their wounds? Oleg, Svein—gather up all the blades, spears, and shields in the village—see how many weapons we have—” With each question he laid hands on a warrior's shoulders, then gave him a turn and a shove, sending him off to find the answer.

As Jorund came to life beneath the pall of gray smoke that hung over the village, the folk saw their jarl in motion, clearly in control, and they came to life, too. Villagers came running with the reassuring news that no houses or huts had been stormed or torched, and no other women were missing. It was not much comfort, but it appeared that the granary and smithy and Miri and Marta Serricksdotter were the only victims of the raid.

But the storm of activity that surrounded Jorund could not drown out the voices echoing in his head and heart.
This cannot go unredressed. Some things are worth fighting for. Until all lay down their swords, we must defend ourselves.
It was true, both the warrior and the peace-weaver in him knew: Peace could never be bought at the cost of his people's safety.

Just then, Garth, Erik, and Hakon shoved into his vision like a grim wedge of trouble. They pushed aside the villagers and planted themselves directly before Jorund, their swords drawn and their faces swollen with anger.

“The village is secure. We rode about and posted watchers . . . none of the raiders lingered,” Garth declared bitterly. “They got what they came for and fled.” He paused and lifted his chin to a challenging angle. “We wait for battle orders, Jarl.” He raised and brandished his drawn blade. “Or do you still think to
talk
to our enemies . . . while they rip the food from our mouths and steal our women from their pallets? That is my woman, my bride they've taken!” He spat on the ground. “There's what I think of your peace, Brother. Peace and mercy are for the weak . . . and tonight's raid has proved it!”

“Listen to yourself, Garth!” Aaren's smoke-coarsened voice broke in on them before Jorund had time to respond. She shoved quickly through the villagers and halted a few paces away, facing both Jorund and Garth. Her jaw was set with pained determination and she wore her breastplate.

“Peace and mercy are gifts . . .
treasures.
” Her words were spoken with such intensity that they crackled on the air. “So precious that they are often bought with a great and terrible price. I grieve their loss as much as I grieve for my sisters.” She stalked closer, her eyes blazing, her body vibrating with tension. “Are you so filled with pride or hatred that you cannot begin to understand that?”

Her fiery words and the grief evident in her face caused Garth to lower his chin and move back stiffly. Then she turned to Jorund, her heart wringing inside her breast.

“And do you see it, Jorund? The price that must be paid?”

She moved closer to him, trapping his burning gaze in hers, knowing his desire to lead his people without leading them into battle . . . and knowing now, as he must, that battle was inevitable.

“I see it,” he said in deep, emotion-filled tones. He saw more clearly than anyone the price that must be paid. And he saw that he must be the one to pay it.

“It is no longer a fine, high-minded ideal or a belief to be argued, Jorund. It is my sisters,” she said hoarsely. “They have taken my family.”

“We will get Miri and Marta back, Aaren. I swear to you.” Jorund met her desperate plea with grave determination.

“Then do you lead the raid to rescue them, Jorund?” Garth demanded.

“Will you lead us in the fight, Jarl?” Hakon asked.

“Yea, I will lead you,” Jorund's voice rumbled forth, deep and pained, his eyes glowing like coals, his body quivering as he stalked forward. “I will fight with you . . . fight for you.” It was true, the warrior in him vowed fiercely; he would fight with all his heart, with all his might to return Aaren's sisters and to protect his people.

“Garth—take Erik and two others to the stables, prepare the horses,” Jorund ordered. “We will take every man we can mount and arm.” As Garth burst into action, Jorund searched the commons beyond the others' heads. “Where are Oleg and Young Svein? I sent them to search the village for blades— And Helga—we need provisions—”

“
Nej
—you'll not need Helga,” Aaren said, taking hold of his arm. “I'll see to that.”

He nodded. “We will need sleeping rolls and warm cloaks and linen binding.” When she jerked a nod and bolted for the storehouse, he turned to the others. “The rest of you fetch your armor, weapons, and shields. All men with arms . . . assemble on the commons when you are ready.”

Shortly the entire village was charged with the activity and tension of preparation. The warriors donned helmets and mail or leather breastplates, sharpened and oiled their blades, then ran to the stables and byres to saddle their horses and tie on their sleeping rolls. Aaren led a number of the women to the storehouse and began packing cloth bags with provisions and filling all the ale skins they could locate. Between the frantic pace of trying to salvage the grain and preparing to ride after Gunnar and his men, nearly every person in the village was pressed into service, even the children.

Confusion mounted alarmingly in Jorund's soul. He would lead them . . . but how long would they follow when they realized he carried no weapon into battle? How long could he hold the high seat bare-handed? Old Borger's words came back to haunt him:
You will have to fight to keep it.

And yet he had made a vow to the White Christ. To pick up a blade now would be to turn his back on the faith he had come to see as the way of truth . . . the way of the future for his people. But if he clung to his vow and honored it, he might lose everything . . . his wife, his people, his dream . . . his whole life. And more of his clansmen would die senseless battle-deaths. How could abandoning his people in their need and watching them march off to kill or be killed, serve his new Lord's will?

There had to be some way, some answer. And there was only one person who could help him find it . . . one person who loved both his Lord and his people as much as Jorund did. He looked up and spotted Helga's boy hurrying toward the granary with a water bucket in his hands. He called to the lad and grasped his young shoulders.

“Fetch Godfrey for me . . . tell him to meet me down by the fishing boats . . . quickly!”

G
ODFREY CAME RUNNING
down the snow-drifted path with his cassock hitched up around his knees and his beefy, heat-scorched face glowing like a beacon in the gray, wintery air. As he bounded from one of Jorund's huge footprints to another, he spotted Jorund by the prow of one of the large fishing boats and headed straight for him. As he halted, puffing, and stomped the snow from his feet, Jorund turned to him with a face so bleak it was painful to witness.

The priest's shoulders rounded. “My friend, you must not punish yourself for what has happened. This raid . . . the burning . . . you could not have stopped them. You must think of where to go from here. Only you can bring your people to peace in the days ahead.”

“I tried to uphold peace and reason . . . to prevent more fighting. But it was too late. There had already been too much conflict to avoid more. Then Gunnar burned our grain . . . and stole Miri and Marta . . .” The muscles in his face worked as he struggled for self-control. He turned on Godfrey with dark anguished eyes.

“My people don't need a peace-weaver now, Godfrey. They need a leader. They need a
warrior.
” He flung a finger toward the village. “Even now they prepare to ride into battle.”

Godfrey despaired, looking heavenward and making a sign upon his breast and again on his lips . . . asking his Lord to make his words come out right.

“Then there is only one man who can lead them . . . one man strong enough, determined enough . . . who loves them enough to pay the price required to lead them through these present battles and into peace. Jorund, that man is
you.
You are indeed both a peace-weaver and a warrior. And this day your people need both. There is no other with your strength and understanding. Can you not see? The task is yours, my friend. Your great size and power, your warm and generous heart . . . you were made for it from the beginning. And all that has happened has prepared you for it.

“You must go with Aaren and the others and lead them,” the priest urged. “If you go, you may find some way to halt or reduce the fighting . . . and if you do not go, they will flounder and many will die needlessly.”

“But . . . I don't know if I
can
lead them,” Jorund said desperately. “Not into battle . . . and if not there, then perhaps not anywhere.” He halted, scarcely able to say it. “They will not—cannot—follow a leader without a weapon.”

“A leader without? . . .” Godfrey scowled.

“Godfrey . . . I have taken a vow to the Christ that I will never again raise a blade to another man.” He watched Godfrey's eyes widen and his jaw go slack.

“A vow? But Jorund . . . such a vow is sacred . . .”

“As is my warrior's vow to defend my people . . . and my vow to love and protect my wife,” Jorund said hoarsely. “But how can I defend and protect and lead my people without a weapon? What am I to do, Godfrey? Which vow do I break?”

“Ohhh—” Godfrey groaned, seeing the full scope of Jorund's dilemma. “This is the very reason our Lord dislikes vows and swearing about things. They almost always cause more ill than good.”

Godfrey squeezed his eyes shut and began praying feverishly for inspiration. A
weapon
. . . he knew little of weapons. But he knew the hearts of men, and he knew that if Jorund picked up a blade again and fought, breaking his pledge to his new Lord, his heart would never be quite the same. And if Jorund's splendid heart was lost, then peace and love and his people's burgeoning faith in the White Christ would have no champion in Jorund's clan . . . and no chance to succeed among his people. A weapon . . . Jorund needed a weapon.

Suddenly the memory of Aaren's voice came to him . . . asking what sort of weapon his god wielded. His eyes flew wide. And what had been his answer? His heart began to hammer wildly in his breast as his thoughts raced. Could it be?

“But, my friend, you do have a weapon.” There was such emotion, such portent in Godfrey's voice that Jorund's heart paused, as if telling him to listen.

“What weapon is that?” Jorund said, tensing, his eyes burning into Godfrey.

“The same weapon our Lord had when he battled the powers of death and darkness—a most powerful weapon—a weapon of the heart. Jorund, you have
Love.
”

Godfrey watched the words lodge in Jorund and saw his massive fists clench and his jaw tighten. He hurried on, desperate to convince him.

“Our Lord was not a man of riches or power. He had no warriors, no long ships, no rank. Nor did he carry a blade. But he carried a powerful weapon within him . . . and he wielded it without fear. And when they took his life and thought they had defeated him . . . he made his greatest triumph. For he gave his life willingly for the good of others . . . his one life, sacrificed for many . . . so that he could share his heart-weapon, his Love, with other hearts.”