The Enchantment (5 page)

“She's our sister,” Marta answered, spotting the window at the front of the house and hurrying to throw back the wooden shutters. “She's a warrior and she's about to fight.”

A woman blade-fighting? The women stared at one another in dismay, then fled their pallets and scrambled to the window to see for themselves.

Aaren emerged from the women's house into a circle of yellow torchlight and a score of drink-coarsened faces. Planting her feet squarely, she set her fists on her hips and looked around that cordon of maleflesh, assessing them even as they did her. Stocky, stringy, burly, and gaunt . . . slit-eyed, long-nosed, pock-faced, and shaven . . . they did not seem a particularly fearsome lot . . . carousing and battle-scarred, with heads fogged by ale-mist and loins weighted with lust.

“Serricksdotter!” Borger hailed her, stepping forward. “The old man named you a warrior. And a warrior must be ever ready to fight.” He strode closer, appraising her with a hot stare. “Will you now defend your honor and Odin's enchantment?”

“Yea, Red Beard. Now and always.” She raked his burly form with an equally brazen look and broke into a smile that was both fierce and beguiling. “I will fight your warriors, one after another. Until I am defeated.
If
I am defeated.”

The old jarl stiffened. He was accustomed to such talk from warriors . . . but not from women. He stomped closer and shoved his face into hers, testing the steadiness of her nerve with his most threatening regard. But she faced him without quailing, letting strength of purpose rise into her eyes for him to see.

“Serrick taught me well,” she said with a hint of amusement.

He grunted skeptically and turned to his men, but she knew she had just held her own against the wily old chieftain. And she knew in that moment that she would hold her own against his men, as well. Beneath the preparatory pounding of blood in her veins, that assurance spawned a slide of tension in her.

Confident now, she laid her scabbard at her feet and spread her legs so that her toes touched both the hilt and blade point of her sword. Bending from the waist, she laid her palms on her blade to stretch the muscles in her legs as Serrick had instructed her. She could feel eyes hot upon her as she executed a series of slow lunges, then straightened and raised each arm straight above her, forcing her muscles taut until she felt the beginning of a pleasurable burn. Slow, drumming excitement invaded her limbs and intensified to a throb of expectation.

With half an ear, she listened to Borger's men contending for the right to face her. With a smile she made fists and flexed her arms, working the muscles against one another, feeling the blood rushing into them. Then she paused and collected her hip-length hair and began to weave it into a loose braid. It was the last part of her ritual . . . a putting away of the womanliness in her.

Her bold, provocative movements, the lithe power of her neatly tapered frame, and the confidence of her warrior's stance had galvanized Borger's men. Their eyes shone like polished stones as they clamored for the right to win her. Borger drew his blade in warning as he grappled with the decision.

There was a commotion at one edge of the circle and Borger craned his neck to see past the crush of warriors. A crafty grin spread over his broad face and Aaren, senses honed and wary, followed his gaze. At the far edge of the torchlight, the men were being jostled and parted by a muscular young giant with flaxen hair and a just-wakened look about him. He paused at the sight of her and stared with eyes that, even from a distance, were startlingly blue.

Aaren found herself looking at the largest man she'd ever seen. From the way he towered above the men around him, he was even taller than she, and from the breadth of his shoulders and the girth of his thighs, he was massively strong. Her eyes slid up his front-parted tunic, which bared a generous slice of sun-burnished chest, to his face. It was a clean, finely sculptured vision of a face, framed by wide cheekbones, a high forehead, and a sinewy, beardless jaw. Everything about him was eye-stealing . . . eye-pleasuring. The impact of him flooded through her senses until their gazes met in a glancing blow, and an odd, sobering chill raced through her. Of all the men in Borger's hall, she sensed this one alone posed her a threat. With a jerk of her head, she forced her concentration back to the coming fight.

Borger had watched the play of eyes between the battle-maiden and his eldest son with unabashed interest. But he knew better than to look to Jorund to challenge her, and so turned to his younger sons and warriors. He leveled his blade at young Svein Torkelson. A howl of outrage went up at the selection, but the young warrior bounded from the pack and unsheathed his blade, waving it in expectation of triumph over the warrior-maiden with the long, magnificent legs.

Aaren studied young Svein's form and movements as he came forward. He stood a half-span shorter than she, and was lean, energetic, and untempered; a green stripling of a warrior. The small, lingering knot in her gut uncoiled; she could easily take him. She grasped her smooth-edged blade with both hands, widened her stance, and curled into a familiar stalking posture. When a smile spread over her face, young Svein took it as a sign of encouragement and charged in with his blade swinging.

The battle was joined . . . almost. Aaren handily sidestepped the lad's overpowered swing, wheeled, and waited for him to recover. Svein swung heavily again, and again she swayed easily out of reach. The anticipation in his face turned to glowering determination as he felt his blade whirling off, unchecked, into nothingness and whirled back to find her waiting for him.

“She's afraid of a taste of steel!” he shouted, red-faced. As he came at her again, there were hisses and caws of derision from the warriors.

“Fight . . . unless you have the heart of a woman, as well as the shape!” “She's no warrior, she's a coward!” and “Use your blade, Valkyr's daughter, or be prepared to spread yourself for ours!” they taunted. When she feinted and escaped the lad's third swing without countering his steel, the comments turned uglier still.

Aaren was too focused on her opponent to hear much of their jeering. When Svein grew bolder and lunged to hack straight down at her, she deflected his blade and the force of the impact sent tremors up the young warrior's braced arms. Spurred by that jarring clash, he lunged and hacked again and again, and she met each blow with uncanny precision. She could read the direction of each coming blow in his eyes and in the shifts of his unseasoned frame, and turned them on him, sending him back a pace for every blow he struck. Within moments, he was panting and crimson-faced, while she breathed evenly and her face was alight with what could only have been called pleasure.

It was like the blade-meetings she'd had with Serrick in the early days of her training. She had been pure energy, unfocused and easily dissipated. Serrick had reined his skill with her, as she did with this lad . . . waiting for her to wear herself down. But as she glanced past her opponent and felt the volatile heat and anger roiling around her, she remembered she was not the young warrior's master. She had a point to prove here and a battle to
win.

She deliberately slipped the bonds of restraint, freeing her power at last. For the first time she swung her blade in attack, and the swiftness of its arc set it singing on the air before it struck . . . dead on target. Around her she heard shocked murmurs, which faded quickly in the rush of blood in her ears and the pounding of her heart. Feinting with her blade tip, she reversed her swing, catching him completely off guard. He hastily parried and stumbled back, and she swung again, scoring his leather jerkin with the tip of her blade.

Frantically, he lunged and hacked, only to have his blows shunted aside, then returned with relentless precision. Again and again her wrists flexed and her body snapped taut, darted, or swayed as her blade struck home. Then she began to use her feet as Serrick had taught her, twisting, throwing rounding kicks, forcing him to contend with her on two fronts. The strain showed in his face as he grimaced, jerked, and lurched off balance again and again. In desperation, he planted his feet to bolster the power of his blows. As he heaved and reared for a massive strike, she swung a foot forward, sweeping his knee just as her blade connected with his in opposing motion. He stumbled, flailed, then toppled, flinging his arms wide and sending his sword clattering as he crashed onto the hard-packed dirt.

In the space of a single heartbeat she pounced, slamming her foot down on his chest and pressing her blade tip to his throat. Her chest heaved and body trembled with unvented force as she raised her face to the jarl, demanding he acknowledge her victory and grant her the respect due a warrior. But amidst the grumbling of his men, he remained silent, studying her with undisguised calculation.

“Which of your warriors do you send to defeat next, Jarl?” She lifted her blade and removed her foot from Svein the Unready's chest. She turned a scornful eye on the surly, ale-bitten crew around them. “Are any still clearheaded enough to swing a blade?”

A clamor broke out as Borger's men assailed him, shaking fists and jabbing fingers, each hotly demanding the chance to teach the wench some respect.

“Not now—Hel take you!” Borger bashed them aside with a snarl, while keeping his gaze fixed upon her. She could feel his scrutiny like a brawny hand traveling up her legs, measuring her waist, sliding over her breastplate.

“The fighting is over this night!” he bellowed. “Go back to your ale horns, your furs, and your women.” When they protested, he raised the back of his fist threateningly, daring them to challenge his authority.

Only Aaren spoke up. “I am ready to fight again, Jarl,” she declared. “Give me an opponent.” He gave her a lidded look that was some part pleasure, some part warning.

“I said”—he roared at her as he had at his warriors—“there will be no more meeting of blades this night. Go to your rest, Serricksdotter. Spare your strength for tomorrow.” He turned to the others, who watched hawkishly. “Go—all of you!”

Borger's men argued among themselves as they turned away. Aaren watched them go with a steamy, unreasoning disappointment. She had prepared for a real test of her prowess and had been given only one green stripling to fight. Now her blood still coursed hard in her veins, her skin was aflame with battle-spawned heat, and her muscles and nerves fairly vibrated with the need for physical release.

She wheeled to retrieve her scabbard and found herself suddenly eye-to-eye with the great, flaxen-haired giant she had seen earlier. He lowered his gaze and studied her with thorough, assessing strokes that seemed to penetrate her garments and seek entrance through her skin. A provocative curl appeared at one corner of his mouth and Aaren felt the pounding in her blood escalate. He recognized the turmoil inside her, the need to spend the power and heat released in her by battle. And the way his smile broadened made it seem that he saw more . . . much more.

The chilled night breeze swirled over her hot, damp skin and she shivered, wishing she could pull her gaze from him and sensing that to do so would be to retreat. The very thought was abhorrent to her warrior's heart and she stiffened, narrowing her eyes at him. After a pride-saving pause, she turned on her heel and found herself facing the jarl, who stood several feet away in the light of the single remaining torch, watching her reaction to the big warrior.

She whirled and started for the door of the women's house, but halted at the sound of her name being called and turned to the open window.

“Aaren? Are you all right?” Miri and Marta were crowded into the opening with a number of other women. Their faces glowed with relief as she drew herself up straight and nodded. Embarrassed by her unsettled response to the big warrior and quaking with unspent tension, she stalked to the window and thrust her scabbard and blade into Marta's hands.

“Safe-keep my blade, Marta. I will return soon,” she declared.

“Wait—where are you going?” Miri called out to her retreating back.

“To run with the night wind.” Without looking back, she sprang into long, fluid strides that carried her to the moonlit path toward the great lake Vänern.

J
ORUND
B
ORGERSON TORE
his eyes from the path where the battle-maid had disappeared and dropped his gaze to his own hands, which were clenched and aching. His chest was heaving and he could feel a thickening in his blood. Never in his life, never in all his travels, had he seen such a woman. Astonishingly tall, lithe, and graceful . . . with curves that moved like a full-flowing stream and a face stolen from his most exotic night visions. The sight of her fighting was scored into his mind—her strong, fluid movements, her perfect control of the blade, her sensual pleasure as she pressed the attack. He was tantalized by the potent aura of both “woman” and “warrior” about her.

By the time she ran off in the moonlight, he stood staring after her, his heart beating faster, his skin warming, his loins stirring at the sight of her long, muscular legs stretching to cover distance. He would have bolted after her, but a grating chuckle nearby brought him back to his senses . . . back to the sight of Borger standing a few paces away with a pleased look on his face. Jorund frowned. Anything that gave Borger pleasure was usually a pox on the rest of mankind.