The Enchantment (50 page)

The priest paused, his throat tight, his heart afire, and he grasped Jorund's big fists. “You have that heart-weapon in you, Jorund. Your love for your wife and for your people is all you need. You are given great size and strength . . . you have much power in these hands. Go and wield that power for them . . . and let our Lord's love strengthen your heart and bring you victory.”

The storm raging in Jorund's soul set his whole frame quaking. Godfrey watched, clinging to Jorund's fists, praying that his words would find fertile soil in Jorund's heart. He could not have known that of all the words he might have chosen, those were the perfect ones to seize and move Jorund . . . for they were almost the very ones Aaren had used before their fight up on the mountain.

“Your god's heart-weapon will steady your arm . . .”
she had said.
“Let your White Christ shield your heart and mine with his Love.”
And the Christ had shielded them both . . . even when the battle-madness came upon him. How had she known?

A heart-weapon;
he turned it over and over in his mind, wondering at it. It was a fitting armament for a man who was both warrior and peace-weaver. How could Godfrey have known what she said to him?
Someone to match your strength . . . someone to free it. A man who tames she-wolves with his bare hands can surely handle fat old jarls the same way. One life for many. A sacrifice. The price to pay for peace.
He heard Aaren's voice again in his mind and heart, speaking those words and more, joining with Godfrey's voice. . . .

The spirit-storm in him began to pass. He had to fight . . . bare-handed . . . and trust for the victory. Fight . . . with all the love he possessed. The turbulent waters of his soul began to calm. A strength, a sense of purpose slowly permeated his tension-wracked body. It was a warm tide of surety, a certainty he could not explain.

With stunning clarity, he suddenly understood what he had to do. He closed his eyes and relaxed his fists and his rigidly held shoulders. With a great breath, he accepted it wholly, embraced it, letting its warmth curl through him. A moment later, he seized Godfrey's shoulders with a bittersweet smile.

“A heart-weapon. Yea . . . I have that, my friend. And now I know how it must be used. Now . . . go to my closet and get my cloak and warm tunic off the pegs, and bring them to the stable. Hurry!”

Godfrey's eyes glistened as he clasped Jorund's big arms and gave him a beaming smile. Then he turned and ran as fast as his thick little legs would carry him toward the hall.

J
ORUND STRODE BACK
into the village to find that the charred ruins of the granary roof beams had been removed and the process of digging through the rubble to salvage the unburned grain was well under way. He went from there to the stables, where he spotted Aaren among the warriors packing and preparing their mounts. The sight of her in her warrior's garb, her hair braided, her wrists banded with leather, and her body encased in leather armor, caused his stride to falter.

She was a warrior, he told himself. But he still had to fight a consuming urge to seize her and haul her back to the hall and tie her up to keep her from riding into battle. He smiled bitterly at the realization that she would probably be insulted and outraged by his protective impulses toward her. If she had set her head on fighting—he had learned too well—there was little he could do to stop her.

Aaren turned into his gaze as he approached and his eyes fell on the sword strapped against her left shoulder. He halted not far from her, his attention fixed on her blade, his fists curling as his face became a shield around his thoughts.

But Aaren knew what turmoil lay behind his flinty mask . . . the conflict within his deepest soul, the dread of battle and of seeing his people slain, the sorrow for a broken vow and a dying dream. She pulled her sword from its cradle and carried it to him . . . offering him her love and pride with her eyes, as she offered him the hilt of her precious blade.

He stood searching her face and made no move to take it from her.

“Jorund, take it,” she said, her throat tightening as she thrust the hilt closer to him.

Around them several warriors paused, watching the odd exchange. They frowned and glanced at one another.

“It is your weapon, Aaren,” he said, staring at the silver pommel, the graceful, blue-streaked blade. “You will need it.”

Aaren felt a small trickle of panic and turned to Young Svein, snatching his blade from its cradle and offering it to Jorund instead. “Svein will find another,” she insisted, and when she gave him a scowl, Young Svein jerked a nod and hurried off to take a blade from one of the unmounted men who would stay behind.

When Jorund took the blade from her, her knees almost buckled with relief.

Jorund led his mount to the commons where the rest of the men were already assembling. He separated out those with weapons but no horses, and set a captain over them, charging them with defending the village. He spent a few moments checking provisions and laying orders with Helga, then donned the fur-lined tunic Aaren had made for him in the mountains.

His heart was pounding as he mounted his horse so that he could be seen and speak to his band of more than twoscore mounted warriors.

“We will ride fast and hard . . . to catch up with Gunnar's force before they reach his village. Our best chance to get Miri and Marta back is to catch them while they are still in the open.” He took a deep breath and gave the final order: “Say your farewells . . . and mount up.”

As the last of the warriors disappeared down the path leading along the frozen shore of the lake, Borger burst from the doors of the hall, bellowing like a gored ox. Clad only in a tunic and breeches, and barefooted, he lurched along by leaning on a wooden staff with one arm . . . alternately fending off Helga and holding his injured side with the other.

“Why didn't you say something, Woman?” he roared, battling Helga for possession of his own arm. “My firstborn leads his first raid . . . and you hold word of it from me?”

“I feared you would fly into a fury and do yourself damage,” Helga argued. “And now just look at you. Turn back to the hall, you old fool . . . or at least put on your boots.” She brandished the footgear she held in her hands, but he batted it aside with a growl.

“I have to see him leading them!” he insisted, craning his neck as he hobbled after them, searching through the trees for a glimpse of Jorund. “I swore I'd see him fight!”

“Godfrey!” Helga called and beckoned to the priest across the commons. “Come help me get him back to his pallet before he pulls something loose and bleeds again!”

“By Odin's Aching Arse—I've missed him!” Borger bashed a fist against the air and winced as the movement sent pain shooting through his shoulder and back. Then he fixed his sight on Godfrey hurrying toward them.

When Godfrey started to take Borger's arm to help, the old jarl grabbed him by the front of the cassock and hauled him nose-to-nose with a red-eyed request.

“You—Holy-worm—I've a
good deed
for you to do.”

Godfrey's eyes widened by the same measure as Borger's narrowed.

“I'm going to the fight,” the old bear growled. “And you're going to take me!”

F
OR ALMOST TWO
days they had ridden hard; eating on the move, taking snow for water, stopping only when the horses were spent, then remounting before either men or beasts had quite recovered. The tracks of the mounted force they followed had grown steadily sharper and clearer as they gradually closed the distance between them and the raiding party. Garth argued everytime they stopped, insisting they were wasting precious time, despite the fact that their horses showed dangerous signs of fatigue. Jorund grew short-tempered with Garth's surly harangue and finally sent him and Erik ahead as foreriders, to search out how far ahead the raiding party was. With the irritant of Garth's impatience gone, the men were better able to endure.

It was all so familiar: the tension he wore like a second skin, the long silences where the creak of saddle leather and the thud of hooves provided counterpart to the beating of his own heart, the quick speaking looks between men, the constant and exhausting search of the terrain for signs of movement. It was as if he had experienced it all just yesterday.

Then he caught a glimpse of Aaren riding beside him, her cheeks wind-blushed and her body taut with readiness, and he was reminded of all the ways this was not like the old raids. The warriors looked to him as leader, now. It was his orders, his experience they counted on to see them through. And his wife rode beside him . . . on a mission to reclaim that which had been stolen, not to plunder or steal from others.

When they encountered increasingly frequent farmsteads, a clear indication that they were closing in on Gunnar's stronghold, Jorund passed word to his warriors to be prepared to attack or to defend themselves at any time. Aaren and the others gritted their teeth against the cold and fatigue, donned their helmets, and shifted their blades to their front shoulders instead of their backs. Only Jorund left his head uncovered . . . and his light hair, shining and waving as he rode at their head, became their banner.

All rode in readiness, but it was still something of a shock when Garth and Erik came charging down the path toward them, shouting that they'd spotted the raiding party—not far ahead. Their relentless riding had bought them precious time. Now they had to catch the party in the open, before they reached Gunnar's fortified village, or all their frantic effort was in vain.

Blades rang as they cleared sheaths, and the horses danced nervously as men jerked their feet from the stirrups to prepare for a quick dismount, and tightened their knee-grip to compensate. Jorund left his borrowed blade in its sheath, but untied his great ironclad shield and slid it onto his arm, glancing at Aaren. It would be her first taste of battle, he thought. There was time only for a quick, speaking look of reassurance as she adjusted her borrowed helmet and rolled her tense shoulders. She flashed back a small, determined smile and he grinned. Giving his mount the spur, he jolted into motion with a cry of:
“She-wolf!”

“Serricksdotters!” the men echoed as they bolted down the path after him.

Cold wind whipped the horses' manes, snow and mud flew from the churning hooves, and blood roared in the warriors' heads as they raced forward to do battle. Patches of light and dark blurred by trees, overhanging limbs, snow, and windswept bare ground careened wildly through their senses. The frantic race toward battle fired their blood, and from deep in a nameless warrior's belly, a savage cry was born. It was picked up by the others—until they roared, and rode, and thought as one. Aaren was suddenly one with them, her fierce anger blending with theirs . . . their savage cry becoming hers, torn from her soul, filled with her pain.

Suddenly they glimpsed open ground ahead—grain fields—and knew they were close to the village. Just before they broke from the trees, a hailstorm of arrows rained down on them from the barren treetops, sending them ducking and scrambling for their shields—and two of their number toppling from their mounts. But there was no attack from the side or front, and Jorund called out for them to ride and spurred his horse to lead them on.

The surprise attack had cost them precious moments. Old Gunnar's lead was widening as they broke from the trees, and far ahead they glimpsed the regular lines of rooftops and the smoke-plumes of hearths. Both the raiding party and the village were in full view now. The raiders were fewer in number, but riding fast and with safety in sight. There was no time to scan the raiders for Miri and Marta; there were suddenly tumbled stone walls and boulders hidden beneath the snow to dodge. Ahead, they recognized the mounded earthen fortifications at the edge of the village . . . the protective barrier Jorund had warned they must not let their enemy reach.